A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  Frances exchanged a look with Olivia, handed Flora to her, and hurried after him. “I know this has been a shock…”

  “A shock? That my dear wife is too paltry a word!” His voice was so harsh she shivered. “Try bowled over, ambushed, dumfounded and so angry I can barely stand to speak to you. How could you keep this from me?”

  Along with the fury in his eyes she saw such a depth of betrayal that anguish seized her heart.

  “I am so very sorry,” she whispered. “I never thought you…”

  “Apparently you had no thought of anyone but yourself,” he said, and she flinched.

  He stared intently at her, and then raised his hand and with exaggerated gentleness moved her aside. “I cannot talk to you now, Frances. When I am more accustomed to fatherhood and having my wife return from the dead, I will contact you.”

  He meant it, she realized. He was close to losing control, and she moved back without any protest. After all, what right had she to impose on him? She was in the wrong here, and it was she who deserved to suffer for it. She watched him walk away, and then gently closed the door behind him, praying Summerton was still waiting.

  ***

  The earl sucked a shuddering breath into his lungs and on feet that felt sodden with treacle, made his way downstairs. He had Summerton to face yet and was not sure of his ability to speak any sense at all, but with his usual tact, the viscount had but to hear his one bewildered comment, “I have a daughter,” before he, without a word, led Halcombe out to the cab and took him to his home.

  Numbly, Halcombe followed Colin into his study, picked up the offered glass of brandy with a surprisingly steady hand, and watched as he lit the fire. Perhaps it might ease the chill encasing his bones, but he feared it would take more than a fire to warm him.

  Her words echoed over and over in his head. “I thought you would be glad to be free.” Why? Why did she believe that?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Summerton questioned after a long silence.

  “Yes…no.” Halcombe shrugged and shook his head to clear it. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I am not prying. You don’t need to tell me a thing, but sometimes it helps to share a problem with a friend.”

  There was no pity or sympathy in Colin’s expression, just a patient look that said he was ready to listen impartially. It was one of the things Halcombe most valued about the man, this deep-rooted belief he was no one’s judge, and the strength to hold to it.

  “Frances has been living in Portugal with her aunt—Nesbitt’s sister. After, she claims, a long stay in France.” He repeated what Frances had told him, which was not much now he thought about it. “She has a child with her; a little girl who she claims is my daughter.”

  “Do you think Frances is lying?”

  “No, I believe her,” Halcombe replied with a short, mirthless laugh. “It seems I am an instant father.”

  “Do you feel it a bad thing?”

  Summerton’s soft-voiced question jerked a vehement, instant denial from Halcombe. “No! I want children, have for years.” The thought of all he had missed, that tiny person in his arms, the first faltering steps—Frances swelling with their child. It hurt, unbearably so, and underneath the mingled pain and anger, a sense of bewilderment that had left him adrift. Was she pretending all the while, that she cared for you? He quickly dismissed the idea. It was not possible he had been deceived by her sweet response to him, her delight in his caresses. Whatever had turned her against him, he knew at least the physical part of their marriage was real.

  “Will you keep the child, then?”

  Halcombe started, drawn back to his surroundings with a disconcerting rush. He tossed back the contents of his glass and set it aside with a force that threatened to crack the delicate crystal. He raised his brows in mock surprise. “Of course. She is my daughter.”

  “And Frances?”

  The earl stood and smiled grimly at his friend. “Why, I’ll have her as well. She is mine, after all, and it pleases me to keep her—for now.”

  Chapter Seven

  Frances accepted the letter from the footman and stared at the neatly folded paper with something approaching terror. Richard’s bold, distinctive handwriting was unmistakable. He was going to reject her, take Flora from her. How he must hate her. The pain in his eyes when he saw his daughter—dear, sweet heaven, he was never going to forgive her for keeping Flora from him. The fact that he had not loved her was no reason to believe he would not love his child. She should have known.

  Frances brushed away the threatening tears. The truth of it was she had scarcely known him at all. She thought she did, after those precious hours spent together at her father’s house, walking along the cliffs, discussing books, history, and politics; she had even begun to teach him to sail.

  During that time, Papa was already sliding into an illness from which he would not recover, but on days when he was well enough, they joined him for a meal and those long discussions they all so enjoyed. It was an idyllic time—and completely spoiled by marriage. Sometimes she wished they had never wed and she had only those wonderful memories. Which is a remarkably stupid thought, since you would not have Flora or the wonderful memories of those nights in Richard’s arms.

  She sank into a chair and scanned the note, aware of Livvy’s watchful eyes, so full of worry.

  “It’s from Richard,” she said, quite unnecessarily, since no one else knew she was here, except Summerton, and judging from the expression on his face this morning, the viscount wanted nothing to do with her. “He wants me to meet him this evening. Summerton has offered us the use of his home so we can speak privately.”

  “Does he? And you are agreeable to this?”

  There was a world of speculation in her aunt’s voice. Frances glanced at her and gave her a resigned smile.

  “I don’t believe it to be a request, Aunt Livvy. He says he will call for me at seven, which is only a bit more than an hour from now.” She tipped her head. “Perhaps you and Charles can dine here at the hotel. Nancy will be here with Flora, and it saves you from eating alone.”

  Olivia stared at her, brows raised. “A thoughtful suggestion, my dear, although I’ve eaten alone many times and managed quite well.”

  There was a distinct twinkle in her aunt’s eyes. Frances smiled sheepishly. “Of course you have. This whole business has driven every bit of common sense out of my head.” She rose, laid the message aside, and glanced down at her gown. “I must change and see to my daughter.”

  Olivia stood and put her hand on Frances’ shoulder, a grave expression replacing the earlier humour. “You do not have to go. There is no reason why he can’t meet with you here if it will be more comfortable for you. Frances, he cannot force you to do anything.”

  “Oh, Aunt Livvy, you know as well as I do a wife has no standing in the law. He can force me to do almost anything he chooses. I’d prefer not to antagonize him unnecessarily. This meeting is so important and better done where there is no chance of interruption.” She took her aunt’s hand in hers and pressed it gently. “Richard is a good man, Aunt. He will do me no harm.” She moved away, ignoring Livvy’s soft-voiced comment.

  “Not physically, perhaps, but hurt, nevertheless.”

  Frances shivered and hurried into her bedchamber. She did not believe anything could be much worse than it was now. She had to know what he planned to do, if there was any chance at all to salvage something of their marriage. She sank down on the bed and buried her face in her hands.

  It had all begun so wonderfully.

  ***

  Sussex, 1807

  To Frances, it had almost seemed that one of the gods had stepped out of the pages of her mythology book. Not one of the oversize blond warriors, but an arresting, mysterious Poseidon or Dionysus, with hair black as midnight and eyes as piercingly blue as a summer sky. His smile flashed white across a lightly tanned face when he saw her staring at him through the window, and she saw the amusement in his eyes. Fra
nces felt heat creep up her neck and face and hurriedly averted her head. The heavy thump of her heart almost drowned out the voice of the housekeeper greeting the stranger, and she pressed her hands to her breast.

  Who was he? They had few visitors and Papa always informed her when someone was coming. Why had he not this time? She sat still until she heard the study door open, the distant voice of her father, and the snick of the door closing before pushing back her chair. The urge to see the stranger again, to speak to him, drove her to her feet in a rush. Surely Papa would send for her and here she was, with her hair loose and clad in a schoolgirl’s dress she’d had for years.

  Frances flew from the room and up the back stairs to her bedchamber, calling for her maid to come help her change. She ran her fingers though her hair, grimaced, and picked up a brush. A simple twist had to do, and after a few strokes, she swept it up and secured the knot, finishing just as her maid appeared.

  “You wanted me, Miss Frances?”

  “Yes, Peg. I need to change immediately. We have a guest.” Frances turned her back and waited impatiently while the buttons were undone, then slipped out of her dress. “I think the blue muslin, please.” She poured some water into her bowl and washed her face and hands while Peg laid her dress and petticoat on the bed. A simple round gown, but Frances thought it becoming. Truth to tell, she did not have all that many gowns. She fastened a simple chain and the locket that held her mother’s picture around her neck, frowned at her reflection in the mirror, and blew out a resigned huff.

  “You look very nice, miss,” Peg assured her. Frances wrinkled her nose. She’d prefer to look beautiful, enchanting, stunning, anything other than ‘very nice’, but she did not and that was that.

  “Thank you.” She picked up a shawl and hurried downstairs. The door to the study was closed. Her stomach wobbled with nerves, anticipation—she was not sure what the fluttery feeling signified. She wandered into the small parlour where she had her books and desk, too unsettled to sit, but it was no more than a few minutes before she heard her father’s voice.

  “Frances?”

  “Coming.” She took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her skirt, and set her expression into one of mild friendliness. A quick peek in the mirror assured her that her face reflected none of her inner turmoil, and she walked confidently across the hall.

  “Lord Halcombe, if I may introduce my daughter, Frances. Frances, Lord Halcombe. His lordship has had some rare books come into his possession he thought might interest me,” Mr. Nesbitt said, waving her forward.

  Smiling, Lord Halcombe rose and bowed. “Miss Nesbitt, a pleasure.”

  “My lord. I am pleased to meet you.” Goodness, he was even more comely close up! Somehow she managed to curtsey and take the few steps to the chair beside the desk without stumbling, stuttering or otherwise making a fool of herself. She studied him surreptitiously from under her lashes, hardly attending to the conversation that would normally hold her attention. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and enjoyed nothing better than to discuss books.

  Lord Halcombe seemed truly interested in what her father was telling him. He was not just being polite, and spoke his own opinions in a firm, deep voice that made her feel all shivery.

  You are being quite silly, mooning over a man you just met, who will have no interest in an unsophisticated country girl. You would do better to listen and contribute to the conversation.

  He glanced over at her, and she felt the beginnings of a blush creep up her neck. Embarrassed, she turned her head and concentrated on what her father was saying.

  “I know of several collectors who will be interested in the books you have mentioned, my lord. Depending on their condition, they may bring you a tidy sum. You mentioned maps, as well, that your father collected, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  The terse answer surprised her, when up to now he had been so agreeable; as did the hard look that appeared so fleetingly on his face she almost thought she imagined it.

  “I am not as well versed in the value of antique maps, but I can give you the names of a few gentlemen who may be interested.”

  “Thank you. That would be most helpful. If it is convenient, I will call again later in the week and bring those volumes you mentioned as being of particular value.”

  “Of course, of course. Whenever it suits you. I am seldom from home.” Lawrence Nesbitt beamed at the earl and gestured to his daughter. “Frances, call for tea. The man surely wants some sustenance before he starts home. We’ll have it in here. Afterwards you can show him your garden; give him a chance to stretch his legs.”

  “Certainly,” Frances murmured. She rose, all too aware of the burn in her cheeks, and hurried from the room. Heavens above! What was wrong with her? It was not as if she had never conversed with Father’s guests before. No, but they were not young, handsome and amused by your discomfort, either. Frances halted her headlong dash to the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and fanned her heated face with her hand. The humour in Halcombe’s eyes was not at her expense. That hint of self-mockery made her feel he was aware of his effect on women, and he wanted her to join him in his enjoyment of the situation. At least she hoped that was the case. Sighing, she straightened and went to order tea.

  The familiar routine of serving allowed Frances to regain her composure, and she was able to join in the discussion between her father and Lord Halcombe. The surprised admiration he showed at her occasional comment was gratifying, and by the time they left her father she was confident enough to talk to the man without blushing.

  “You sound quite knowledgeable, Miss Nesbitt. Do you share your father’s interest in rare books?”

  Frances glanced over at him and smiled. “Fortunately I do, my lord, since it is Father’s obsession. He has taught me so much. I enjoy helping him.” She led the way through the front door, around the side of the house, and stopped at the wrought iron gate that opened into the walled garden.

  “It is not very large, but quite pretty, I think,” Frances said as she lifted the latch.

  It was a beautiful garden. Roses climbed the walls, not yet in bloom, but promising an abundance of colour in a few months. Pinks, Sweet William, and daffodils lined the stone path meandering gracefully to the gnarled apple tree that stood in one corner. It was dappled with fat buds that would blossom and send petals drifting like snow over the tiny patch of grass that held a wooden bench. Bluebells and snowdrops nodded in corners, spread in profusion around the tree, and a small pond gleamed to one side.

  Lord Halcombe followed her through the gate and halted abruptly, with the same appearance of amazement on his face every other visitor wore when seeing this garden for the first time.

  “This is incredible! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more beautiful setting.” He looked down at her and shook his head. “It had to take years of work and planning. Somehow I cannot quite see Mr. Nesbitt out here toiling away. You must have a talented gardener.”

  Frances chuckled at the idea of her sedentary father doing more than strolling along the path and drowsing on the bench. “No, we don’t have a gardener, although several of the local lads come in to help with the heavier tasks. My mother was responsible. She designed it and planted many of the shrubs and flowers years ago. I always loved working out here with her, and after she died, I took it over entirely.”

  “She deserves a great deal of praise. You both do. It is lovely and I am glad you shared it with me.” He smiled at her, the first real smile she had seen on his face, and her breath caught. “I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but I’ve several hours’ ride to my home and don’t care to be on the road after dark. Perhaps when I return?”

  “Of course. Have a safe journey, my lord.” It was all she could manage to say. In a daze, Frances curtsied in response to his bow and watched him stride away. She knew her father would have already sent word to their groom, and indeed, once she had rushed around to the front for one last glimpse of him, she saw Tim waiting with hi
s lordship’s horse. She stood there, rooted to the ground, until the earl was no more than a dark spot far along the road. “He said he would return,” she whispered, and somehow she knew her life would never be the same again.

  ***

  And you were right about that, if little else. Drawn back to the present, Frances raised her head and got stiffly to her feet. Flora was waiting and she had yet to wash and dress. Nothing was served in dwelling on the past. It could not be changed. She had made her choices and now she had to live with them.

  Chapter Eight

  Frances nervously smoothed her skirt as she waited in a corner of the hotel’s ornately decorated lobby. She was somewhat beforetime, but Richard was always punctual, and she was too unsettled to remain upstairs. The concierge knew where she was. She wanted a minute or two to just look at her husband, unobserved, before they met. Had he changed as little as she remembered from their earlier meeting? Confrontation, she corrected herself, one too fraught with emotion to allow much objectivity. She did not believe the evening ahead would be less so. Frances smiled thinly. At least on your part. You never were able to distance yourself from him. He still rouses that ache of love and longing you felt from the minute you first saw him.

  Frances’ stomach lurched and she swallowed the bile burning in her throat. She daren’t let it show, not allow him to know how he affected her. He had not wanted her love before and would not believe in it now.

  She steadied her breathing. She could do this. If she was capable of dealing with a crew of French fishermen when half drowned and scared senseless, she could manage one obstinate man, however formidable.

  Halcombe crossed the lobby with the same long-legged, confident stride she remembered and stepped up to the desk. There were a few more lines around his eyes, but other than the hard line of his mouth, he appeared much the same; fit, and lightly tanned. He must still be in the habit of working outside.