The Runaway Heiress by Anne O'Brien Page A

would probably improve her. It could turn out to be not the worst
decision he had made in his life. She dropped her eyes in some confusion under
his considered scrutiny.
    'Look at me,' he demanded
and when she automatically obeyed he wound his hand into her hair and his lips
sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, but when Aldeborough lifted his head
there was an arrested expression on his face. Frances had steeled herself
against his kiss, but was now aware that his grasp showed no intention of
loosening. She drew in a breath to object, but before she could do so
Aldeborough placed his hand gently across her lips and shook his head.
    'I must request your
pardon if you are displeased. Are you displeased, Frances Rosalind? It seemed
to me that we should seal our agreement in a more...ah...intimate manner, even
if it is to be a marriage of convenience. What do you say?'
    Frances was unable to say
anything coherent or sensible and was overcome with a sudden anger both at
Aldeborough's presumption and her own inability to respond with a satisfactory
reply that would leave him in no doubt of her opinion of men who forced
themselves on defenceless women, even if they had just agreed to marry them.
    'Let me go!' was all that
she could manage and thrust at his shoulders with her hands as she remembered
the humiliation of his embrace in the coach. It was to no avail. Her confusion
obviously amused Aldeborough for he laughed, tightened his hold further and
bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. Aldeborough's
mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the resistance in Frances's blood
whether she wished it or not. It was as if he was determined to extract some
reaction from her beyond her previous reluctant acceptance. And she was
horrified at his success. Her instinct was to resist him with all her strength,
but she was far too aware of the lean hardness of his body against hers beneath
the thin lawn of his shirt. His hands caressed her hair, her shoulders, sweeping
down her back to her waist. Her lips opened beneath the insistent pressure of
his and she found herself responding to a surge of emotion, a lick of flame
that warmed her skin and spread through every limb. Her hands seemed to move of
their own accord, to grasp his shoulders more tightly rather than to push
against them... when suddenly she was free. As quickly as Aldeborough had taken
possession of her he released her and stepped away.
    Frances
was left standing alone in a space, feeling strangely bereft and unsure of what
to say or do next. Her mind was overwhelmed by the enormity of what she had
just done. Could she really have agreed to marry this man against all her
previous intentions and heart searching? She felt a chill tremor touch her spine
at the prospect. Of course there would be advantages—she knew that. It would
remove her finally and irrevocably from her uncle's authority and without a
stain on her reputation. Comfort and luxury would be hers for the asking with a
guaranteed entree into fashionable society. But Marchioness of Aldeborough?
She pressed a hand to her lips to suppress a bubble of hysterical laughter that
threatened to erupt at the unlikely prospect. And what on earth would his
family think? It was all very well for him to deny any difficulty, with typical
male arrogance, but she would have to face a mother-in-law who would doubtless
see her as a common upstart who had wilfully trapped her son into a disastrous
marriage.
    A
marriage of convenience, he had implied. Very well. He was driven by an
impeccable impulse to protect her—as well as the desire for an heir. But she
could not quite banish from her mind the leap of fire in her blood when he had
kissed her, touched her. It might be a mere legal formality for him, but she
was suddenly afraid of her own response. It would be better if she never
allowed him to see the effect of his devastating smile on her heart or his
elegant hands on her skin. She must never forget that it