A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  “Do as you wish with the house. My steward will provide you with what funds you require.” The door slammed behind his brusque orders.

  Frances sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. Things would be so much easier if she did not love him. If only she had never overheard that conversation so long ago! Blissful ignorance had much to be said for it. But Frances knew that some way or another she would have learned the truth.

  ***

  In the early weeks of her marriage, Frances had discovered that the library was seldom occupied. Halcombe preferred his study when he was actually in the house, and his mother had no interest in reading anything other than fashion magazines. The dowager had made clear her disapproval of overly educated females and often accused Frances of being a bluestocking. It was one of many disparaging remarks Frances found easy to ignore. She was not ashamed of her education.

  The library had become her sanctuary, and her latest skirmish with Leticia had sent her fleeing for the book-filled room. She closed the door behind her and breathed in the pleasantly familiar odor of paper, leather, and the faint wisp of wood smoke. There was no fire today—none was needed in this warm weather—but she looked forward to curling up in one of the oversized chairs placed by the hearth come winter.

  Frances roamed the room, stopping here and there to remove a book from its shelf and riffle through the contents. The rows of words, marching so sturdily across the crisp pages, were a delight she never tired of. Some of it was drivel, of course, but much was worthwhile. She wished Richard had time for those long conversations they had enjoyed before their marriage. He, at least, appeared to appreciate her knowledge, and she wanted to discuss some of the things she had read recently. Alas, the man never seemed to have a free minute.

  Frances understood the importance of setting the estate to rights. From what little she’d been told, the late Lord Halcombe had sadly neglected the Manor holdings during his last few years. Now her husband was out most of the day. His mother dined with them, of course, but the dowager preferred that the conversation center on the latest gossip and fashion trends rather than on anything of substance. After the meal, Halcombe disappeared into his study to pore over accounts and Frances was left with Leticia.

  The estate needed a good steward, Frances thought, while paging through a book on husbandry. Halcombe’s secretary appeared to do little besides kowtow to Leticia. Frances disliked the man. He was…shifty. That was a good word for him. She wandered over to the huge dictionary. Nestled on its handsome mahogany stand, the book was a wonder. She often skimmed through it, sometimes choosing a word new to her. Ah, here it was. Shifty: deceitful or evasive. It fit nicely. Easton never looked one straight in the eye.

  Shrugging off thoughts of the disagreeable man, Frances eventually chose “Lyrical Ballads”, a collection of poems by Coleridge and Wordsworth. She had read and enjoyed it previously, but after a long walk in the sun, she was not inclined to exercise her mind unduly. She climbed up the ladder to the loft. It was somewhat warm there, but a settee was tucked in one corner under a window just large enough to provide adequate light. She stretched out and began to read.

  She had read, napped, and was again deep into her book when she heard the library door open. The sound of voices floated upwards to her snug aerie. Was someone searching for her? It was doubtful. Leticia was out making calls on her friends. Frances’ refusal to accompany her was the cause of their latest disagreement, in fact. Halcombe was also out. Curious, but with no desire to be found, Frances lay still. Most likely it was one of the maids.

  “If you will wait in here, Lady Merton, I will let Lord Halcombe know of your arrival.”

  Frances’ eyes widened. She had met Lady Merton for the first time this past Sunday, after church. Why was she here, and calling on Halcombe, of all people? He was never at the house this time of day. She heard the door open and close again and then footsteps with a heavier tread.

  “I received your message but was uncertain as to the reason for it. Why are you here, Victoria?”

  Gracious, that was Richard’s voice. He was home.

  “Richard! My darling, I expected you to come to me as soon as I returned from London!”

  Frances heard the rustle of the woman’s skirt, followed by a long silence.

  “Oh, my love, I have missed you so,” Lady Merton said.

  Frances searched for a word to describe the woman’s soft, silky voice. Croon. Yes, that suited. She had never had occasion to use so flowery a word and she smiled to herself, but any amusement was fleeting.

  “Victoria, this is neither the time nor the place for this. My wife…“

  “That child! She will not possibly satisfy you.” Lady Merton’s voice shook. “How could you marry some nobody, when you had promised to wait for me? Surely you knew how ill George was!”

  “I made no promises,” Halcombe said flatly.

  “You did! We agreed that once I was free to marry again, you—”

  “Victoria!” Halcombe snapped. “You chose to marry Merton! Over me, I might remind you. Did you really think I would wait for the man’s death like some ghoul?”

  Frances heard the sound of agitated footsteps and was tempted to sneak out to the railing. Dread held her in place.

  “That is a horrid thing to say! I never thought such a thing, but George was so much older than I, and not in the best of health. It is not unreasonable to feel it was no more than a matter of time before he was gone. And I only married Merton because you were off running around Europe,” Lady Merton said. “How could I be sure you would even come back?”

  “I think it was a reasonable supposition,” Halcombe said impatiently.

  “Perhaps it was, but I was afraid,” Lady Merton said in a low voice.

  Frances heard a soft sob and pictured the woman’s beautiful face wet with tears—no doubt she never got all red and blotchy from crying.

  “Victoria.” Halcombe said, more warmly. “I am sorry my absence distressed you, but you knew I had to go. It was you who refused to marry before I left for Europe, and you who chose not to wait for me.”

  “I was wrong!” Lady Merton cried. “I loved you. I still love you. I told you when you returned how ill Merton was, that I would soon be free.”

  “But you were not free then,” Halcombe said, “and the needs of the estate were too great. My father had all but ruined us with his insane obsession with rare maps. I had to acquire money—a great deal of it.”

  “And that simple schoolgirl provided it, I suppose.”

  Frances flinched at the scorn lacing the woman’s voice. She pressed her hands over her ears. She did not want to hear anymore, but she was frozen by some horrid fascination.

  “Yes.”

  Quiet, firm, the single word hung in the air and rang painfully in Frances’ head.

  “She doesn’t have to come between us, darling. I know you want me…love me. Come to me tonight. I need you. You don’t understand how lonely my bed feels.”

  There was another long silence. Frances pictured them locked in a passionate embrace.

  “Enough, Victoria. This is not the place to discuss this. Someone may come in at any moment.”

  Halcombe’s voice seemed to emanate from a great distance. Frances wondered if she was going to faint. Her head swam and the sound of the door closing came dully through the roaring in her ears.

  You have to be standing up to faint. No one can faint lying down.

  If she did not swoon, she might very well be sick, right here on the thick carpet. With aching care, Frances eased upright and forced air into her lungs, in and out, until the nausea eased and the chill that gripped her lessened.

  She felt so incredibly stupid. Lady Merton was right. She was a silly child, to think Halcombe had married her for more reason than her dowry—how on earth had she ever deluded herself into believing he cared for her? It was not surprising she saw so little of him. She had no place in his life, was no more fit to be his countess than—tha
n a housemaid!

  He likes you well enough at night. Perhaps he did, but that was not much consolation. Frances did not know much about men’s needs, but she suspected affection was not a necessary condition when it came to bedding a woman. An heir and a spare and then he will be done with you. No wonder he did not share her bed. Instead, he came to her and slipped away once she was asleep. Never had he stayed the night—and she thought it merely the way of things among the aristocracy.

  More fool you, Frances. Halcombe does not want to stay. He is not a man much constrained by society’s rules.

  Frances sat for some time before fishing a handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her eyes. The afternoon was waning. She could not stay here forever. An appearance at dinner was beyond her, however, and after making her way to her bedchamber, she sent word by her maid that she was indisposed. Let Halcombe think what he wished.

  ***

  “Mama, mama!”

  Recalled to her surroundings by the sound of Flora’s voice, Frances lifted her head and fiercely scrubbed the tears from her cheeks. She never did discover what Halcombe had thought of her supposed indisposition that night. The next day word came that her father was desperately ill. Her husband was, of course, not available, and her single thought had been to get to Clifftop as swiftly as possible. She had left him a note, and she wondered vaguely whether he ever received it. Perhaps not, as he said.

  It hardly mattered now.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I shall have another dinner party.”

  Lady Merton made the announcement as if she were addressing a gathering of her peers, rather than lying naked in her bed with her lover. Amused, Paul Jensen hid a smile. Victoria continued to entertain him, which he had not expected. Granted, she was willful, spoiled, and overly obsessed with her neighbor, Lord Halcombe. The wealthy viscountess also possessed a childlike naiveté at times, could be generous, and was a talented bed partner.

  She had aged well, Jensen thought, fondling the firm breast under his hand. Like many young men, he considered any woman older than he past her prime, and she had five years on him. Her face showed little of her thirty years. The fair skin remained smooth and unlined, and only a hint of chronic dissatisfaction around her lusciously full mouth marred an otherwise perfect countenance.

  “Why put yourself to the trouble?” he said, rolling a nipple between his fingers until he felt it harden in response. “I understood you had a party here right before I arrived. We’ve had so little time for us.”

  Lady Merton swatted at him, but her effort to push him away was half-hearted at best. When Jensen bent his head to lip and suckle the stiff peak she gasped, and arched toward him.

  “We have spent much of the past few days in bed,” she protested weakly.

  “So we have,” he said. “And most enjoyable it has been, too.” He slid his hand over the curve of her hip to the nest of hair between her legs. She was wet, as he knew she would be. He pinched her sex lightly, swallowing her moan with a long kiss. Positioning himself atop her, he nudged her thighs apart with his knee, and rubbed his cock against her, smiling slyly. “If you prefer not to continue, I can go away.”

  She wound her arms around his neck in answer. “Just try it,” she said, her voice husky with passion. She raised her hips to invite him in.

  It was fast and hard this time, the way the lady preferred her lovemaking. Jensen did not always accommodate her in this regard, choosing at times to extend the foreplay until she was writhing beneath him and pleading for release. He had to exercise some control in this situation. Even knowing she could dismiss him at any time, it was not in his nature to be subservient.

  When he was spent, Jensen withdrew, rolled onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Tell me why you want to have a party.”

  The viscountess slid from under the coverlet, sat on the side of the bed, and reached for her peignoir. “It is the neighborly thing to do, seeing that Lady Halcombe has miraculously returned from what was believed to be a watery grave. Naturally, one must welcome her back.”

  “Watery grave? The woman was lost at sea?” Jensen tried his best to sound surprised. He had heard the story, of course, and had conducted some research of his own. Lady Halcombe’s astonishing reappearance, with daughter in tow, after so long an absence, was the talk of London whilst he was there. Rescued by some fishermen, stranded in France, pregnant, and at last making her way to Portugal and thence to England to rejoin her loving husband—the story was on everyone’s lips. He suspected there was more to it than anyone realized and he admitted to being curious about the intrepid countess.

  “So it was believed. A part of her boat was found after she disappeared, and she was thought drowned.” Lady Merton rose and went to sit at her dressing table. She gazed at him in the mirror as she brushed out her long blond hair. “Richard, Lord Halcombe—was understandably distraught.”

  I’m sure you did your best to console the man. The question is how willing he was to be consoled. Jensen had learned enough about Lord Halcombe to know he was not the friendliest of men and gaining entrance to his household might prove difficult. The wife was easier prey, he suspected, and the sooner they met, the better for him. It was imperative he get into Halcombe Manor.

  “It sounds quite the ordeal. Did you know her well? Before all this, I mean.”

  “I barely knew her at all.” The viscountess frowned, leaned closer to peer at her reflection, and then smoothed away the lines on her forehead with one finger. “I suppose it was dreadful,” she said with a shrug that expressed her indifference. “Everyone is making her out to be a heroine of sorts, although I think it shocking that she was careless enough to go off in a sailboat like some rag-tailed boy.” She turned to face him. “Although one might expect such behavior of so plebian a creature. Why, she is not much more than a child!”

  He sat up, feigning confusion. “I have not met Lord Halcombe, but it seems unlikely that he would be enamored of a schoolgirl.”

  “Money,” the lady said with a short laugh. “What else?” She swung around and began applying cream to her face. “I think it best if you went to your own rooms now. My maid will be coming to assist with my toilette.”

  Jensen’s mouth tightened at the casual dismissal. Annoyed, he stood and walked over to stand behind her. “I can help you,” he said smoothly. He stroked the line of her jaw with his thumb, and slid his fingers under her robe to trace the curve of her breast.

  “You would be too distracting.”

  Her voice was cool, but the pulse in her neck quickened. Satisfied by her reaction, he dropped his hands and stepped back.

  “As you wish…” Jensen walked over to retrieve his banyan and left through the door connecting their bedchambers. It was no secret in this household that they were lovers. He was sure he was not the first to have her since her husband died—or before, for that matter, although that was speculation.

  He sent his valet off to order a bath and poured a glass of brandy from the decanter that was kept readily available in his room. This was a well-run establishment, he had to give the lady that much credit, and she did not stint her guests. He was after a lot more than the trinkets she occasionally bestowed on him, however. He had to get his hands on that damn Legacy Folio, and soon.

  Sipping infrequently at his brandy, Jensen stared out the window at the immaculate grounds below. Lady Halcombe was the key. He did not know why she had returned to England, or what lies she had told the earl, but he knew something about her activities whilst in Portugal. The world of rare books and antique maps was a small one, a chummy club of collectors and dealers, and as her father before her, she was a member. The pretense she put about, claiming that A. Nesbitt was Mr. Nesbitt’s distant cousin and heir, appeared to have fooled most people. He was not one of them.

  Did Lord Halcombe know? An interesting question and one that needed answering at once. It may be that he could use it to lean on her, but he’d try a friendly seduction first. According
to Victoria, the earl had married for money, but she had her own reasons to portray him as locked into a marriage of convenience. Better to make his own judgment and avoid assumptions.

  So, how to arrange a meeting with her ladyship? Jensen was not about to wait until Victoria’s dinner party to begin this campaign. Time was running out for his father—and for him. He set aside his glass and turned his mind to planning an accidental meeting with Lady Halcombe—tomorrow.

  ***

  Jensen halted his horse at the top of the rise that overlooked Halcombe Manor and studied the pale stone building with interest. It appeared to be built around a square tower of darker rough-hewn stones. The Ehlmans were an old family and Jensen understood the title went back for centuries. Although the additions were obvious to a discerning eye, somehow it all blended into an attractive whole, even if it was a bit quaint for his taste. Halcombe Manor was certainly nothing on the scale of some of the grand estates he had visited here and in Europe, but it was a solid property that appeared prosperous.

  He had gathered a surprising amount of information about Lady Halcombe’s life, including her daily habits. Servants inevitably talked, and given the unusual situation, gossip just now was at a peak. Jensen grinned at the understatement. Yes, returning from the grave counted as an extraordinary circumstance. And Lady Halcombe had come back with a vengeance, too, if half the stories he had heard were true. Dismissing servants, bringing in a new housekeeper, hiring tradesmen and extra maids—oh, yes, she was making her presence felt.

  From all accounts, this was not her style prior to her disappearance and he wondered what had changed her. Facing death? Exile? Motherhood? More likely a combination of them all. It only mattered to him insofar as making his prey more interesting than a shy and nervous schoolgirl. Apparently one thing remained unchanged—her habit of walking or riding every morning. This bit of information had handily been obtained from idle talk at the local public house.