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Frances insight into why so many misguided members
of her sex were willing to be beguiled by the Marquis of Aldeborough. She
chose to ignore the fact that it made her own heart beat just a little more
quickly and put it down to the effects of her aunt's harsh destruction of her
character.
    'What I do not
understand,' mused Frances, 'is why she was so determined to take me back. At
best I was treated as a poor relation, at worst as the lowest of the servants.
There was never any love in my upbringing. Only duty. And why should Charles
consider marrying me if my reputation is so besmirched?' A slight frown marred
the smoothness of her brow. Aldeborough was moved by a sudden inclination to
smooth it away with his fingers. He resisted the temptation. Matters were
difficult enough.
    'That is not something for
you to worry about. It is no longer necessary.'
    'You are very kind. And,
indeed, I am honoured, but you need not marry me. The mistakes of a night—my
mistakes— should not be allowed to blight the rest of your life.'
    'I was thinking of the
rest of your life, Miss Hanwell.'
    Frances raised her eyes to
search his fine-featured face, touched by the compassion in his voice, but
seeing little evidence of it in his expression. No man had the right to have such splendid eyes , she thought
inconsequentially. Dark grey and thickly fringed with black lashes. But they
held no emotion, certainly no warmth or sympathy, merely a cold, calculating
strength of will.
    She shook her head. Before
she could reply, Rivers entered the drawing room again on silent feet and
coughed gently.
    'Sir Ambrose Dutton, my
lord.'
    Aldeborough turned to
greet his friend, instantly recognised by Frances as one of her uncle's guests
from the previous night. Her heart sank even further, if that were possible.
    She
could not face such an embarrassing encounter yet with someone who had
witnessed her shame.
    'Excuse
me, my lord. Sir Ambrose.' She dropped a curtsy and followed Rivers from the
room with as much dignity as she could muster, the enormity of her situation
finally hitting home as she became uncomfortably aware of the cynical and
knowing amusement curling Sir Ambrose's lips at the very moment he saw her unmistakably
in deep and intimate conversation with his host.
    'Well,
Ambrose? Was I expecting you to drop by this morning?' Aldeborough's expression
was a hard-won study in guilelessness.
    Ambrose's
brows rose. So that was how he wished to play the scene. So be it. 'Yes, you
were. How's your head, Hugh?' He cast his riding whip and gloves on to a side
table. 'You don't deserve to be on your feet yet after Torrington's inferior
claret.'
    'If
it's any consolation, my head is probably worse than yours.' He grimaced and
threw himself down into one of the armchairs. 'I hope I don't look as destroyed
as you do!'
    'You
do, Hugh, you do!' He paused for a moment—and then plunged. 'Forgive me for
touching on a delicate subject. But why is Miss Hanwell apparently in residence
at the Priory? It would appear that you had a more interesting night than I
had appreciated.'
    'You
do not know the half of it!'
    'So
are you going to tell me?' Exasperation won. 'Or do I have to wring it out of
you?'
    'Why
not?' Aldeborough took a deep breath, rubbed his hands over his face as if to
erase the unwelcome images, and proceeded to enlighten Sir Ambrose on the
events of the night.
    'And
so,' he finished, 'I brought her here, too drunk to think of the consequences.
Although I am not sure of the alternatives since we were halfway to the Priory
before I discovered her. I suppose I could have turned round and taken her
straight back to Torrington. Still...' There was more than a little
self-disgust in his voice as he glanced up and frowned at Ambrose. 'It was not
well done, was it?'
    'No.'
Ambrose, as ever, was brutally frank. 'It is always the same—too much alcohol
and you can be completely irrational. And as for the girl, throwing herself in
your way so obviously. Was she