A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  He spoke to the clerk, who pointed in her direction, and turned toward her, his expression so carefully neutral she winced, grateful for the veil hiding most of her face. With a studied calm she did not feel, she stepped forward.

  “You are precisely on time, as usual.”

  “I’m surprised you remembered.”

  And first blood to him. Frances glanced at his set face, rested her hand on his upraised arm, and refrained from comment. If he chose to snipe at her, so be it. Though it did not bode well for the evening, even if she did deserve it.

  They were both silent as he handed her into the waiting carriage, climbed in after her, and took a seat on the opposite bench. She felt his eyes on her, but as it was not yet completely dark, she feigned interest in the passing scene. They made the short journey without a word spoken.

  Summerton’s taciturn butler, who was no more unbending tonight than he had appeared that morning, showed them into a small parlour. Furnished informally, the room held a scattering of commodious chairs, a sofa, and a small table laid for two. A silver bowl centered on a sideboard held the roses that scented the air, and again she wondered if the viscount’s mother or sister was responsible for the feminine touch. Or perhaps he entertained his lady friends here. A picture of the handsome lord dining intimately by candlelight with his ladylove flashed into her mind. Frances banished the fanciful image impatiently, but the pang of regret that she and Richard had never dined thusly was sharp, and she put her back to the table and moved to finger a rose petal.

  “This is quite charming. Please convey my gratitude to Lord Summerton. It is generous of him. I hope we have not driven him from his home.”

  “Colin is out most evenings. I’m sure this is a minor inconvenience,” Halcombe replied with a shrug. “Take off your hat, Frances. No one will see you here, if hiding is the reason you are wearing that ridiculous veil.” He walked over, poured two glasses of wine from the decanter that was on the sideboard, and brought one to her.

  Frances laid her hat and veil on a chair, along with her wrap and gloves, and hesitated before she lifted the glass from his hand. Tempting as it was, she needed her wits about her tonight, and she had eaten very little all day. “I thought it wise to be somewhat discreet,” she said. She took a sip, not surprised it was an excellent sherry, and he confirmed her suspicion that it was from her aunt’s vineyard with his next comment.

  “Colin thought you might be more comfortable with a beverage from Portugal, considering your apparent affinity for that country. In fact, I believe it is from the Blake winery.”

  His insincere smile was worse than a sneer. Frances raised her glass to her lips to hide her dismay. Was this to be the tenor of their evening? A succession of hurtful words? She shook off the urge to flee and gave him a bland smile. “Why, yes it is. How thoughtful of Lord Summerton. I’m sure Aunt Livvy will be happy to send him a selection of our wines to show my appreciation.”

  He stared at her, his expression unreadable, and then went to ring the bell. “We’ll eat now,” he said curtly. He gestured toward the table. “Sit down.”

  She doubted she could swallow a morsel, but walked over, set her glass on the table, and sat. She should have waited for him to seat her, she supposed, but she was not ready to have him so close. The small size of the table was going to be enough of a trial. To have him behind her, feel his breath on her bare neck and breathe in the male scent of him, was not something she could bear at the moment.

  The almost immediate response of the two servants that entered, laden with trays, was a welcome interruption. Halcombe waited until they finished serving before he joined her. It was just as she had guessed. His legs were so near the fabric of his trousers brushed her gown. Frances glanced at him and picked up her fork. She wanted to edge away, but the knowing look in his eyes almost dared her to move. It was a weakness she refused to allow.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Much to her surprise, Frances managed to swallow a portion of the food on her plate. Halcombe, of course, had no trouble eating.

  “How long have you been here in London?”

  Startled, Frances eyed him warily. If she admitted to several days, would he be angrier? Could he be angrier? Possibly, but not likely, and this was a stupid thing to worry about.

  “We arrived two days ago, but I wanted to give Flora a chance to rest before we traveled to Sussex. I had no idea you were in London, of course.”

  “Ah, yes. My daughter. When exactly was she born, Frances? You did not mention it earlier.”

  His expression was so dispassionate, so unfeeling, that she felt chilled. She rubbed her bare arms. “Our daughter was born in January ‘08,” she replied, meeting his cold gaze straightly. She waited, bracing for the next question, as he counted it out in his head.

  “You were three months along and had not seen fit to tell me?” He stood and roughly pushed the chair aside. “Devil take it …. Did you know?”

  “I suspected, but was not sure. How would I know such a thing, inexperienced as I was?” Frances rose and clutched the table edge for support. “I wanted to be certain before I said anything, but my father took ill and it was all I could think about.”

  “You could have asked my mother,” he countered.

  “No, I could not,” Frances said in a tone that dared him to contradict her. Her poor relationship with Leticia, who had disliked her from the first day she set foot in the Manor, was no secret to anyone.

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed in a pained voice, unable to deny it. “But why did you not come to me? I’ve had enough experience with animals to at least recognize the signs, enough to call in a physician anyway.”

  Frances drew in a sharp breath and pressed fisted hands to her breast. “Come to you? When might that have been, my lord? You were out every day, not even coming in for meals most of the time. Dear heaven, you did not even find the time to attend my Father’s funeral.” Frances made no effort to keep the bitterness from her voice. His failure to be at her side when she needed him was a sorrow that never fully left her.

  “I did not know! I swear to you, the service was over before I found out about it.”

  “You expect me to believe that? When I sent enough messengers the whole county should have known?”

  “I was in London!”

  His shout echoed through the room. Frances stared at him, appalled at the emotion that burned inside her. She had thought those old hurts buried too deep to surface, but here she was, raking them up, when she had sworn not to open herself to such pain again.

  Dropping her hands loosely at her sides, Frances turned away, unable to bear the hurt and regret on his face. “I’m sorry. I had no intention of bringing up the past. It hardly matters now, anyway,” she said, keeping her voice level.

  “Apparently it does.”

  The short, terse answer was as jarring as the sudden hard grip on her arm. Frances bit back a gasp when he spun her around to face him. She was caught in his arms, felt the heat of his body along the length of hers, and a shiver coursed along her spine. Did he feel it, the weakness in her that made her melt under his touch?

  “Look at me,” he demanded, tipping her chin up. “Is that why you stayed away, to punish me? A harsh sentence for something beyond my control.”

  “No!” She wrenched away. With an effort she feared was visible, Frances stilled her trembling legs and gazed steadily at him. The calm, cold expression was back in place, with not a trace of his earlier wrath. The brief surrender to anger might never have been.

  “This is pointless.” Frances lifted and dropped her hands in a helpless gesture. “Surely you have more important things to say.” Unnerved by his intent gaze, Frances went to the table, picked up her glass of wine, stared at the crimson contents, and then set it down. She longed to be done with this, to be at home with Flora snuggled up beside her. This horrible day seemed to stretch on endlessly and she wanted it over.

  She raised her head and met her husband’s eyes. “What
do you plan to do?”

  “With you and our daughter?” He walked toward her, his smile so smug, so coldly satisfied, she took a step back.

  “Flora. Her name is Flora,” Frances said through the lump in her throat.

  He cupped his hand around the side of her face and stroked along her jaw with his thumb. “Why, you and Flora will come with me, of course. Do you think I will allow you to escape me again? You will be a very obedient wife, won’t you, Frances? Accommodating in every way.” His fingers were on her mouth, feather light as they traced her lips. “You would not care to be separated from your child, I’m sure.”

  She had barely enough breath to whisper, “no”, chilled by the piercing look of promised retribution in his eyes, and the flare of desire under it. The sudden force of his mouth on hers, hot and demanding, her body tight against him, swept away any thought of resistance. She clung to him, helpless under his punishing kiss.

  He drew back abruptly, his face hard and set, and the tight grip he had on her shoulder was the single evidence he was not completely unaffected.

  “You will start by calling on my mother tomorrow morning. With Flora,” he said curtly. “I’m sure Leticia will be delighted to meet her granddaughter. We will leave for Sussex immediately afterward.”

  Dazed, Frances stared up at him and tried to make sense of his words. “Your mother,” she echoed numbly. He must know Leticia would be anything but happy to have her daughter-in-law reappear, not to mention with an unexpected grandchild in tow, and of course, he did, the sarcastic tone of his words finally penetrating.

  “As you wish,” she managed. She pulled from his grasp. “If you will send word as to the time, we will be ready. I want to leave now.” Frances picked up her wrap and draped it around her shoulders. She would agree to anything if it meant an end to this interminable evening. Perhaps he heard her unspoken plea, for the next thing she knew, her hat was on her head, and a firm hand on her arm guided her from the room.

  She stared at him in surprise, but his only response was a curt “You look ready to drop.”

  Nor had he anything to say during the drive to the hotel, which suited her entirely. She did not want to talk, did not want to think, and had to fight the urge to jump from the carriage and run up to her suite. Instead, she walked calmly beside him as if she welcomed his escort—as if he wanted to provide it! She gave him the key when they reached her door and waited for him to unlock it, all without so much as a glance at him.

  “Good night. I will see you in the morning.”

  He opened the door, but blocked her way until she looked up at him. He smiled at her, another one of those grim, satisfied smiles that made her heart jump in her breast. “Sweet dreams, dear wife.” He brushed her cheek with one finger. “Oh, and Frances? We will speak of the past, when I so choose.”

  Chapter Nine

  Frances was right. Halcombe stepped into the carriage for the short ride back to Summerton’s, his mind on the summer following his marriage. He had spent long hours outside, trying desperately to put the estate to rights after years of neglect. Every leaking roof and fallow field had been another reminder of his father’s costly obsession with collecting rare maps. That, and his own failure to find the appallingly expensive Legacy Folio of antique maps that had consumed the last of the assets and put a mortgage on the estate; the first in the centuries-long history of the Halcombe seat. The very thought of it was abhorrent, and the instant the marriage settlements were at hand, work had commenced and the debts were paid. It was all he’d dreamed of those years in Europe, dodging armies and drawing maps for his government.

  Hell and damnation, he had needed to marry well, and while Frances was not the wife he expected to choose, he had been charmed by her innocence and intelligence. And she cared for him. He was not wrong about that, and if he had had a few qualms about taking advantage of her youth and lack of opportunity to meet other men, why what other choice had she, hidden away in the country as she was?

  Besides, Frances’ father’s offer was too good to refuse. The benefit to both of them was equal. He would not wallow in guilt. He wished he had told Frances the truth from the beginning, but Nesbitt had been insistent; she was not to be told.

  Halcombe was still deep in thought when the hired cab came to a halt in front of Summerton’s town house. Roused by a footman opening the door, he gave the man some coins to pay for the cab and ran up the steps.

  “Has Lord Summerton returned?” Halcombe asked, handing the butler his hat and gloves.

  “No, my lord. His lordship sent word he was delayed and that if you cared to wait for him, there is an assortment of refreshments available in his office anteroom.”

  “Thank you,” Halcombe said. “No need to see me up. I will serve myself.”

  He poured himself a generous measure of brandy, removed his coat, and settled into a comfortable chair, the bottle on a table beside him, and stared into the flames while his thoughts drifted to that fateful conversation with Nesbitt.

  ***

  “You’ve done nicely with the sale of these books and maps, Lord Halcombe, but I venture to say it isn’t enough to bring you about.” Nesbitt gave him a keen look that challenged him to deny it, but he was hardly in a position to do so, as much as it might gall him to admit it. The earl had a feeling the canny man seated behind the desk knew to a penny how much he was worth—and owed. He waited, not sure where this was leading. Was the man going to offer him a loan? The last thing he wanted was more debt.

  “Frances is a considerable heiress.”

  For all his suspicions that the quiet and unassuming Nesbitt was more than he seemed, the flat statement shocked, and Halcombe stiffened, still unsure of Nesbitt’s intent.

  “You could do worse, my lord. She comes of good stock. Her mother was the daughter of an earl. Her family never forgave her for marrying a lowly baron’s son, but Anne had no regrets and we had a happy marriage.”

  For a moment Halcombe doubted his hearing, but one look at Nesbitt’s expression told him the man was serious.

  “She could do better,” he said shortly. “She needs the chance to try her wings, meet other young people. Not plunge into marriage with the first man she meets.” It pained him to admit that it had crossed his mind, but however fair and charming, she was so damn young, and not only in the eight years separating them in age. A wealth of experience out in the world lay between them as well.

  “It does you credit, my lord, but the time for that is past. I’ve been selfish, keeping her with me, not taking her into society. Now it is too late.” Nesbitt paused, laid his hands flat on his desk, and leaned forward. “I’m dying, Halcombe. It’s a matter of months and I want my daughter settled before I go.”

  “Frances doesn’t know?”

  Nesbitt shook his head, suddenly appearing as ill as he claimed. “That I am ill? Yes. That I am not going to get better? No, although she may suspect. Frances is no fool, but in this she wants to pretend otherwise.” He raised a hand before Halcombe had a chance to reply. “Consider it. That’s all I ask. I think I can trust you to care for her and make her happy.”

  ***

  Neither of which you did very well. The admission left a bitter taste in Halcombe’s mouth and he refilled his glass.

  “Your evening went badly, I take it.”

  Roused from his memories by the sound of Colin’s voice, Halcombe looked up as his host strolled into the room. The viscount held up the bottle and lifted a brow.

  “From the level on that bottle, I’d say you were well on your way,” he said with a grin. “You’ll have a head on you in the morning if you keep this up, my lad. Perhaps I should remove the temptation and drink the rest myself.”

  The earl raised his glass and shrugged. “It’s your brandy.” He studied the spirit in his hand as if it held some long-sought answer, then his mouth twisted. “Although I’d rather a bout with a sore head and sour stomach than face today again.”

  Summerton stirred up the fire, d
ropped into the chair opposite, and cocked his head. “You have made some plans, then, if you are thinking about tomorrow. Did Lady Halcombe explain what she has been doing in Portugal—and how she got there? I must admit to an unseemly curiosity.” Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Sea travel being so chancy these days.”

  “Lady Halcombe is quite sparing with explanations,” Halcombe said bitterly. “I know nothing more now than I learned this morning. I brought up the fact of her pregnancy and we ended up quarreling over my failure to attend her father’s funeral.” He banged his fist on the table.

  “Dammit, Colin. She suspected she was with child, never said a word about it, and I’m the one in the wrong? Blast it! I was in London dealing with that mess of Montford’s. I did not even know about her father until I got back to the Manor.”

  “She did not know you were called away suddenly?”

  “She should have. I left a note, telling her I had to leave for London immediately.” He looked at Summerton and frowned. “You know full well how quickly it blew up. Frances was out walking, I was in a hurry, and she was bidden to attend her father that afternoon.” Perhaps she never saw the note. Just like you never received any messages about Nesbitt’s illness and death.

  “Frances sent several messages about her father but no one sent them on to me. It was not until I returned that I heard the news.” His voice grew grim. “My mother saw fit to hold them. By the time I got to Clifftop, Frances had gone missing.”

  His fury when he found out his mother had brazenly intercepted all of Frances’ letters, and refused to allow his servants to “bother him in London” was so engulfing even the memory of it was disturbing.

  “Leticia actually took Frances’ letters? Even for your mother, it seems over-zealous,” Summerton said with such astonishment it was almost humourous.