No! She had not done so, at least not consciously. When she again had her wits about her, the time to send messages had passed. Don’t search for any more reasons to feel guilty, Frances, when you already have enough of them.
His voice came abruptly out of the gloom.
“If your benefactors were so reluctant to send word on your behalf, how did you get to Portugal?”
Frances started and picked up her forgotten glass of wine, wishing she could see his face.
“I have Napoleon’s recruiters to thank for that,” Frances said. “On one of their periodic visits to the village, I happened to be outside with Flora. One of the men asked about me.” Her mouth tightened as she pictured the rapacious expression on the Frenchman’s face. “When the same man returned a second time, with yet more questions, Madame and Jean-Claude judged it wise for me to leave.”
Frances set aside her drink and rose. “I was more than ready,” she said, “and had already considered the possibility of persuading Jean-Claude to take me to Portugal if England was out of the question.”
“Plus, you held out the promise of a healthy payment on the other end, I suppose.”
Halcombe’s tone was more resigned than cynical. Frances was unsurprised by his taut smile, visible now that he was on his feet. He moved closer to her—too close. She stepped back.
“Yes, I was certain Aunt Olivia would help.” Her senses were assaulted by his heated gaze. Her heart beat in heavy, painful thuds. The warmth of his body, the long-missed male scent of him, stirred feelings she’d wanted to keep buried forever, and she edged away.
He stopped her in mid-step with a hand on her shoulder and leaned even closer, raising her chin with his thumb. His breath feathered her hair.
“A very edifying tale, my dear, if not complete. Tell me, Frances,” he said, his voice and eyes equally cold, “why did you not send word from Portugal?”
Frances wrenched from his grasp. “I don’t know!” She gazed at him in despair, the brittle silence raw with misery.
“You don’t know,” he said finally, in tone so laden with contempt and disbelief that she flung up her hands.
“No!” Frances pressed her palms against her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I simply cannot talk about this any longer.” Her throat was raw with swallowed sobs. Any further discussion had to wait. Exhausted in body and mind, she fled.
It was shamefully craven behavior. She knew it. But until she was strong enough to face him, and decided how much she wanted him to know, it was better to retreat while some shred of control remained. A battle lost, and the war yet to wage. A dispiriting thought and one she prayed was due to an overwrought imagination. Heaven help her—help them—if it portended the years to come.
Chapter Fourteen
She did not know why she had not sent word? Halcombe took several steps, half of a mind to go after her and demand some answers. He wanted—he scarcely knew what he wanted, damn it, but he knew enough to realize he would get no more from Frances tonight. Halting abruptly, he moved instead toward the sideboard and poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass. He had no guidance to help him with this insane situation. No maps to lead him through a storm of emotional disarray where every path was lined with foxholes ready to trip him up.
Maps. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. If he had only been able to find that damn Legacy Folio his poor deluded father had squirreled away! If you had had the Folio, Frances would never have come into your life, never put you through this nightmare…never loved you.
“Which I swear she did,” he growled into the empty room. He tilted the glass in his hand and watched the brandy catch the fire’s light. The flames spun the deep amber of the spirit into fiery streaks of colour—much like the colour of Frances’ hair in the glow of the flickering candles. It reminded him of their wedding night, when first he saw her hair unbound.
***
The day had gone well. The wedding ceremony at Clifftop, and gracious meal with Frances’ father and the minister, was followed by a leisurely drive to Summerton’s country residence. As anxious as Halcombe was to see his bankers and begin the estate restorations, he felt Frances might be more comfortable beginning her married life in a more private setting than the Manor. Although she appeared carefree, he saw glimpses of apprehension in her shy glances at him as they consumed the simple meal that awaited them. They lingered over the wine, until he saw his bride’s growing nervousness. Halcombe rose, took her hand, and drew her into his arms. “I will give you a few minutes to prepare for bed before I join you,” he said, then placed a gentle kiss on her mouth. “One of the maids is waiting to assist you.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled at him, her eyes full of love, and he forced his feet into moving away and out of the room. Remember that patience is a virtue, albeit not one you wish to acquire right now!
When he returned, she stood at the foot of the huge four-poster bed, clad in a sea-green nightdress that outlined her shapely form. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders and back. He went to her and ran his fingers along the strands covering her breasts. “Your hair has more red in it than I’d realized.”
“It was much redder when I was a child,” Frances whispered, her gaze on his face.
The skin beneath his hand quivered and grew warm to his touch. He laid his mouth upon hers and lingered, sucking delicately on her lower lip until she sighed and leaned against him. Deliberately slow, he kissed his way from eyes to bosom and feasted on the silken skin of her throat. “Do you know what happens between a man and a woman when they wed?” he asked, breathing into her ear. He stroked the sweet curve of her breasts and felt her heart flutter.
“I’ve read books,” she murmured, seeming so entranced that she hardly moved.
Tickled by her response, he smiled. “I see. Then you’ll know what comes next.” Laughing at her little gasp of surprise, he swept her into his arms, laid her on the bed, and drank in the picture before him—lips reddened by his kisses, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, hair spread brightly across the snowy linen-covered pillows. She was enough to entice any man and heaven knew he was no saint.
“Richard?” A blush crept into her cheeks. “The light?”
Halcombe glanced around the room, smiled, and then extinguished all but a few candles. He wanted to set them all ablaze, ignite every lamp, bathe her in light, and watch her beautiful green eyes glaze with passion. But that could wait for another time. Tonight she was shy and uncertain.
“You are lovely. I like to look at you,” he said, removing his banyan. Her eyes widened at the sight of his evident arousal and he grinned. “Don’t look so alarmed, my dear. It all works quite naturally, I assure you.” He stretched out beside her. “It will hurt a bit this first time, Frances, do you know that?”
She nodded, and he leaned over to kiss her, his hand cupping her breast. “I will make it good for you, Frances, I swear it. Trust me,” he said, when he raised his head.
She smiled and touched her fingers to his lips. “I do trust you. Teach me how to make it good for you also.”
“My dear, it will be a pleasure,” he said. “A pleasure indeed.”
***
It had been all that and more. Halcombe shook off the remembrance and stood. It was time he took to his own bed. Tomorrow was certain to be a long and difficult day, and he was no closer to any decision regarding his wayward wife than he had been yesterday. What to do about Frances? The question was a recurring theme in his head. Welcome her and ignore her selfishness, his suffering? He would never be able to do it. The pain was too deep, the desire to retaliate too strong. He wanted her to hurt as much as he had hurt.
He lit a candle from the embers and wandered toward his bedchamber. Can you honestly believe she has not had enough misfortune already—nearly drowned, pregnant, and alone in a foreign country? He shook his head and scowled. No, she brought this on herself. However much he sympathized, she kept the knowledge that she lived, kept
the existence of his daughter from him. And that he could not accept.
Chapter Fifteen
The toast was cold, the tea lukewarm. Frances pushed her plate and cup aside, propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on one hand. Whether the inept service was a deliberate provocation, or simply a lapse in standards since the dowager removed to Town, was not certain. Nor did it matter. Whatever the cause, once Rose Blount was in charge the household would soon be put to rights. Although Halcombe had not given her an answer concerning Mrs. Carroll, Frances did not expect him to refuse. In the past, he had been disinterested in the domestic arrangements of his household, so long as meals appeared on the table and his clothing lay ready to wear. Why would he care? He had but to lift a finger or voice an order and everyone jumped to his bidding.
You are being unfair, Frances. Halcombe is a considerate master who cares deeply about the welfare of his people. If he had not been so concerned about the estate’s well-being, he would have been free to marry as he wished instead of marrying for money.
The reminder that her dowry was no doubt the main reason Halcombe had married her drove Frances to her feet. It was a painful memory. How silly and naïve she had been to think a man in his position—an earl, no less—was likely to fall in love with someone scarcely out of the schoolroom. Arranged marriages were nothing unusual and Frances suspected her father had played a part in this one. Dear Papa. You wanted to be sure I had someone to care for me after you were gone. How can I fault you for that? I was the foolish girl who gave her heart away like a lovesick heroine in a gothic novel.
“And went from parent to husband like a parcel of home goods,” Frances muttered. She moved to a window that overlooked a wide expanse of lawn and shrubbery. Flora and Nancy were trotting around the bushes in some sort of game. Both had been gone when Frances awakened, their bedding folded tidily and a message left that they had eaten and were going outdoors to play.
By the time Frances had bathed and dressed, she was ravenous and decided to eat before seeking out her daughter. In any case, she had to inspect the nursery suite and arrange for renovations which, if it was in a state similar to the rest of this house, were needed. Meanwhile, some other accommodation had to be made. Having Flora and Nancy sleeping in her sitting room would not serve for long.
She had a great many things to do, in fact, but even so she lingered, hugging her arms across her chest to ease the tight ache that gripped her. She was a stranger in her own home, her husband despised her, and the way ahead seemed filled with overwhelming obstacles.
Start with a small thing, Frances, something manageable. Write to Rose and Thomas—and Aunt Olivia. She relaxed, a little eased by this decision, and dropped her hands to her sides. The Blounts were waiting to hear from her—and surely worrying. Plus, Thomas might already have some correspondence in hand. She had written to him whilst in London to tell him her letters were being directed to him for the time being. Aunt Olivia was also expecting to hear from Frances.
“Is Lady Halcombe down yet, Benson?”
The sharp-voiced inquiry jerked her from her reverie. Frances swung around to face the door. Richard, and he was in no sweet temper from the tone of his voice.
“Yes, my lord. Madam is in the morning room.”
Halcombe opened the door. Dressed in buff, form-fitting breeches, a white linen shirt opened at the neck and a black leather vest that matched the high, glossy boots that rose to mid-calf, he was the picture of the working landowner—a handsome landowner.
Frances took a step forward. Smoothing her expression to hide her anxiety—and the wave of longing that assailed her—she gave him an inquiring look.
“You wished to see me, sir?” An inane question, since he had patently sought her out, but words had a habit of deserting her in his presence.
He walked slowly toward her, his expression as noncommittal as hers.
“Indeed.”
How did he do it, Frances marveled—put such a wealth of meaning into one little word? Although she was not sure precisely what he meant to convey, she knew it was not to her benefit.
Annoyance stiffened her spine. She raised her brows and said evenly, “Will you have some refreshment, sir? The tea is cold, but I can ring for a fresh pot.” Which may even be hot, being his lordship is the recipient.
Seeming momentarily disconcerted, he stared at her and Frances waited for his refusal. But surprisingly, he nodded, strode to the door, and called out an order for tea and some beer.
“A drink would be welcome.” Halcombe gestured toward the table, waited for her to be seated, and then took a seat opposite. “It is a warm day.”
“I have not yet been out, but Flora and Nancy appear to be enjoying the sunshine.” Eyes downcast, Frances toyed with a spoon and reluctantly added, “This concerns our conversation of last night, I suppose.”
He planted his palms on the table and tapped a finger. “It does. I’ve not the time to discuss every aspect. Some of the more interesting must wait until this evening.” His lips thinned into a mirthless smile and he reached over to pull the spoon from her grip. Turning her hand up, he stroked feather light circles on her palm. “You will dine with me tonight?”
Frances raised her head, saw the taunting challenge in his eyes, and pulled from his grasp. He knew perfectly well how his touch affected her. Suddenly tired of the game, and her own weakness, she stared straight at him, her expression and voice equally cold.
“Of course, my lord. How can I refuse such a gracious invitation?”
The lift of his lips was almost a smile, and for a second she saw amusement in his eyes. Or thought she did, but no doubt it was her imagination, for his sarcastically voiced, “I look forward to it,” held not the slightest bit of humour.
The arrival of a footman curtailed further comment. Frances waited for her steaming tea to be served and hungrily eyed the plate of fresh-baked scones that accompanied their beverages. Shrugging away her irritation at Mrs. Carroll’s slight, as evidenced by her earlier meal, she reached for one of the fragrant treats as soon as the footman left the room.
“I am not fond of cold toast or tea,” Frances said tersely in response to his curious glance.
The earl glanced at the discarded remnants of her breakfast and frowned. He said nothing, however, and merely watched as she slathered marmalade on her scone. She finished it in several generous bites and then washed it all down with some hot tea before sitting back.
“I believe you wish to discuss something, sir?” Frances said with gentle, feigned courtesy.
His mouth tightened. She waited for some sneering response, but it seemed his lordship had also tired of their little game. Or perhaps his time really was limited.
“This matter of a housekeeper,” he began, and then paused for a few swallows of beer. “I have no objection to your choice of servants, as long as the household runs smoothly.” He shrugged and glanced again at Frances’ discarded breakfast. “It appears some things have grown lax since my mother moved out. You may give your Rose Blount a try, if you wish. Mrs. Carroll is to be given her entire year’s wages and a good reference. Her service has been satisfactory.”
“Of course.” If he had expected Frances to disagree, he had mistaken the matter. Her problems with Mrs. Carroll did not stem from the level of service, but rather the subtle inferences and disrespect that reflected the housekeeper’s opinion of Frances’ lack of stature here.
Frances laced her fingers together under the table. She dreaded bringing up anything that raised her husband’s ire, but decisions other than the choice of housekeeper had to be made. She waited until he finished his drink and had pushed back his chair.
“While we are on the subject of household matters, there is something else,” Frances said, keeping her voice steady. “Arrangements must be made to refurbish the nursery suite before it can be put into use.” She took a quick breath. “I also want to refurbish some other areas of the Manor. As you know, nothing has been done for many y
ears and, quite frankly, there is a great deal of shabbiness here.”
Halcombe got slowly to his feet. “Indeed.”
Frances stood and glared at him. “I do wish you would stop using that word and just say what is on your mind. Indeed,” she intoned, in much the same voice as his. “It is quite annoying. I am sure you would dislike it immensely should I reply to you thusly.”
“No doubt I would,” he said in so mild a manner that Frances stared suspiciously at him—and rightly so, for his next remark bore his usual ill will.
“You are quite demanding for an errant wife.” He moved closer and slid a hand around the nape of her neck. “I am continually amazed at your temerity.”
Frances studied the hard lines of his face, seeing along with his anger a not-unpleasant curiosity.
“That is not an answer, sir.” She heard the words with a sense of disbelief, surprised at her own boldness. Now would come one of the raking set-downs that tied her stomach in knots.
The firm press of his mouth on hers was stunning and so far from her expectations that she shivered in response. Frances began to protest, only to have his tongue slip through her parted lips. She should stop him, but it felt so wonderful. The tang of malt on his lips, the scent of new-mown grass that clung to him, the smell of man, teased her senses, beguiled her, and it took every bit of her willpower to twist from his hold. “Nor is that an answer, my lord,” she gasped, keeping her back to him.
“An answer of sorts,” he said obliquely.
She heard a quick catch in his breath—an oddly satisfying sound—as he turned to walk away.
A Love Laid Bare Page 9