A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  A fortifying anger filled him and swept away any lingering lust. Frances, their situation, his father—every facet of it was infuriating. So it was in no good temper that he entered the huge dining room and the sight that greeted him only served to stoke his ire—Frances, standing at one end of the long table, where two place settings were laid out across from each other and not at their previous positions at opposite ends.

  “Good evening, sir.” After one look at his face, she said nothing else and merely moved aside while the footman pulled out her chair.

  “Lady Halcombe.” Halcombe allowed the footman to seat him as well and serve the first course before speaking again. “Do you ever plan to consult me before making changes?” Soft-spoken as it was, the comment had a bite to it and Frances’ mouth tightened.

  “I had no idea so minor a matter required your permission, sir,” she said, her calm voice at odds with the irritation in her eyes. “In the future, I shall be sure to confer with you—should you happen to be available.”

  Halcombe had to admire her nerve. If ever a person had altered, his wife had—whether for the better, time would tell. Surprisingly, he had a preference for this Frances.

  “Very good, my dear. A fine hit,” he drawled. “You have apparently grown quite clever in your absence.”

  She flinched at the sarcasm, but her reply came smoothly, along with a lift of her brows that called his manners into question. “I have long been ‘quite clever,’ sir, but perhaps you overlooked it ere now.”

  Swallowing a laugh, he applied himself to his capon. Cooked to so tender a state that the meat literally fell from the bones, and smothered with the rich sauce he favored, it was worth his attention. Although he was loath to admit it, and would not tell her so, the food was now served hot and the taste of it had improved since she began supervising the staff.

  Frances also seemed to be enjoying the meal. He had noted that she was not a robust eater, at least not in his presence. Since she did not appear unhealthy, however, he supposed she ate more at other times of the day. These tense mealtimes were certainly no aid to the appetite. Why he chose to subject himself—and her—to them was beyond him.

  The edge of his hunger appeased, Halcombe leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, and observed as Frances directed the footman to clear the plates and serve the second course: thick slices of beef, roasted carrots seasoned with onion, and fresh peas and asparagus in butter and cream.

  Other than a casual comment on the welcome availability of fresh spring vegetables, the earl made no attempt to initiate any conversation. He was content to dull the edge of his temper with the enjoyment of a good meal. They would be in conflict soon enough.

  “Have the final course brought in, please, Evans, and another bottle of wine for his lordship,” Frances said when they had finished. She glanced at Halcombe to see if he was agreeable, and when he nodded, she added a request for some sugared almonds and dismissed the footman.

  The earl eyed her curiously. So he was not alone in wishing to converse about something other than the weather. He looked around the dark-paneled room, so large that the candelabras on the table and sideboard did no more than create an oasis of light in the otherwise gloomy chamber. It was not his choice of venue for what was sure to be a distasteful discussion. But then, why not? At least there was no bed nearby to tempt him.

  They ate in silence for a time, with Frances taking one bite to every three of his. She refused the pie, agreed to a sliver of cheese, and allowed him to refill her glass.

  “Flora eats more than you do,” he commented without rancor. He wiped his mouth on his serviette, refilled his own glass, and pushed their plates aside.

  “I am not particularly hungry,” Frances said with a shrug. “I had some strawberries earlier with Flora. I wanted her to taste one and she would have it that I eat some as well.”

  “Did she like it?”

  “Of course. The berries are very sweet.” Amusement flickered in her eyes. “Flora has a sweet tooth, I’m afraid.”

  “Like me,” Halcombe said, absurdly pleased that his daughter shared this trait.

  “Like you.” Frances fell silent, rotating the stem of her glass round and round, her eyes fixed on her hands.

  He waited, realized she was not going to speak further, and his irritation rekindled, since she had evidently had something in mind when she changed the seating arrangements. Well enough. He had a great deal to say.

  “Mr. Compton informed me of his meeting with you earlier. He also provided me with an overview of the work you want done. A rather ambitious undertaking, madam—and one you had no intention of discussing with me beforehand, I suppose.” His lips pulled back in a mirthless smile. “Again, I am astonished at your impudence.” She avoided his gaze, and he slapped a hand on the table. “Look at me, Frances! Do you truly believe I will allow you to completely alter my home without so much as a word to me?”

  She jumped in her seat and raised her head. “You said I was free to do what I wanted with the house.” No hint of anger in that calm voice, but a flush rose in her cheeks and her jaw tensed. “And there is no need to shout. I can hear perfectly well.”

  Halcombe caught her hand in his and leaned toward her. “Then you will clearly understand this. I will be a party to any changes.”

  She twisted from his grasp. “You never indicated that you had the slightest interest in this house. Or in what I do or not do, for that matter.” She raised her chin and met his glare coolly. “You needn’t worry. I will bear most of the expense personally.”

  His teeth clenched. “You will not,” he bit out, “and that is not the issue here. Of course I have an interest in my surroundings. Dammit, this is my home!”

  “Is it? Is it really? Those fields and stables and barns are your home!” Frances gestured wildly toward the heavily draped window. “This building is naught to you but a place to eat and sleep—and copulate, when it suits you.” She stood, pushed back her chair with enough force to topple it on its side, and turned her back to him.

  Stunned that she would use such a word—dare to say it to him!—Halcombe stared at her in shock, equally appalled at the bitter note in her voice. He rose and leaned toward her. “Frances…”

  “Don’t! Don’t say anymore.” She shuddered and pressed her hands to her eyes. “I am sorry I said that. You have a gift for making me lose my temper. Perhaps we should continue this discussion at another time.”

  “No, we will not put it aside again. We do this too often, because avoidance is so much easier.” In a few steps, his hands were on her shoulders, making her face him. He’d thought to see tears. Instead, she presented him with a dry-eyed, emotionless mask and he felt a painful sense of loss.

  “If we are going to live together in any sort of harmony, some accommodation must be made on both our parts,” Halcombe said quietly.

  “And how do you propose to do so? When you make your hatred for me obvious?”

  “You mistake the matter if you believe I hate you.” She tried to ease from his hold and his grip tightened. “Even knowing you chose to stay away, I have never hated you.” He felt her tremble and released her with a muffled curse.

  Halcombe splashed some wine in a glass and gulped it down. “It is a hard thing to forgive, or accept…that a man’s wife would prefer not to return to him—and kept the knowledge of his own child from him. Why, Frances? What caused you to feel so desperately unhappy here that you couldn’t bear to come back?”

  She gazed at him for some minutes, her expression more contemplative now, as if she were weighing her words. He braced for more lies, or a refusal to tell him anything at all. And what will you do if she refuses to answer, or you don’t like what you hear? What then? God only knew. He hated the feeling of helplessness she engendered in him.

  “It was more a case that I was not happy, without knowing why. I was young, in love, and had no experience to draw upon; no examples of what marriage should be other than my parents. This world is ver
y different than that of my mother and father, isn’t it?” She lowered her lashes and toyed with the fringe of her shawl, avoiding his gaze. “I was led to believe, by your mother and her friends, that a purposeless life was normal for a woman in the world of the rich and titled. That I was expected to do nothing, and think of nothing but fashion and entertainment.” She looked up. “I am not blameless, since I made no effort to question it. You appeared to think it the normal way of things, and I was terrified of shaming you. I knew nothing of your world.”

  Frances hesitated, and with a queer catch of breath, added, “It was a difficult transition for me.” Then, in a voice so low he barely heard her, “I was used to having some value, you see, other than in the bedchamber.”

  She thought her worth was solely as a bedmate? Surely you misunderstood. Shaken by this revelation, if he had indeed heard her correctly, Halcombe said curtly, “I prefer to continue this discussion where there is no chance of interruption.”

  He took her arm, grabbed the opened bottle, and swept them out and up the stairs into the sitting room adjoining his bedchamber. His suite was positively where he had not wanted to be, but this encounter promised to be too fraught with emotion to continue in the cold and cavernous dining room. He wanted Frances seated, where he could watch her face—and halt any attempt to flee, as she had done before.

  “Sit,” he ordered, before she said a word. He poured wine into one of the glasses always at hand on the sideboard and handed it to her. Brandy for him, and he welcomed the bite of the stronger spirit as it poured down his throat. After refilling his glass, he took up a position at one side of the unlit fireplace, his back against the surround.

  “Tell me once more, Frances, so I am quite certain I understand what you said—something about only being useful as a bed partner?” Skepticism coloured his tone, in spite of his efforts.

  Frances’ eyes narrowed. She set her glass on a table, the contents untouched.

  “This is useless, since you evidently feel anything I say is a lie.” She gave him a mocking, derisive smile. “Very well. I was joyously happy here. I stayed in Portugal because I am a heartless, selfish jade who never gave so much as a farthing about anyone else. So be it.” Frances rose, her head averted, and moved toward the door.

  “Damnation!” Halcombe dropped his glass, ignoring the brandy spreading across the table, and intercepted her before she had taken two steps. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He spun her around and forced her chin up. “Damnation,” he repeated in a low voice, his anger draining away when he saw her tear-drenched eyes and trembling mouth.

  The earl wiped away the teardrops clinging to her eyelashes with his thumb. “I cannot seem to be rational around you. If I agree to listen, really listen, will you stay?” He waited, his eyes never leaving her face, until something eased in her expression and she blinked back the tears.

  “If you wish,” She eased from his grip and went back to her chair. “And if you will also be seated. Having you stand glaring at me is not a comfortable thing.”

  “I will, but first…” He looked at the spirit dripping onto the carpet with distaste and then went into his bedchamber and returned with a length of toweling.

  “That stain will never come out,” Frances said, watching as he righted the glass and soaked up the liquid with the cloth.

  He stuffed the cloth into the empty glass and shrugged. “They can always use it in the stable.” He wiped his hands on another piece of toweling, tossed it onto the sideboard tray, and sat in a chair opposite to her. Leaning forward, he tented his fingers in front of his chest.

  “Before anything else, I want you to know that I never thought you to only have worth in my bed. You are a lovely, intelligent woman. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife. I find it hard to believe you thought otherwise of me.” His mouth twisted. “Not a very flattering opinion of a man.” Halcombe saw words forming on her lips and held up a hand.

  “You were close to your father. I know that, and perhaps it was more difficult than I realized for you to lose his companionship. But, Frances, you knew marriage was different and that I could not be with you for hours every day as he was.”

  Shock rippled across her face. She pressed one hand to her breast. “Of course I expected marriage to be different! What I did not expect was never to have your attention unless we were in bed! I knew you had married me for my dowry—I am not a complete fool. Your mother, too, made this clear. A titled, handsome man can have any woman he wants, but I stupidly convinced myself that it was not entirely the money—that you cared for me.”

  “Certainly I cared for you!” Halcombe roared. He stood, grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. “I’m not so paltry a man that I’d marry someone only for money. You are not the sole heiress in the world. I could have had my pick of them!”

  Frances stood like a stone, but she was anything but calm. Halcombe saw the racing pulse beating in her neck and felt her blood heating even through the fabric of her sleeves. Her voice shook. “Tell me, please, of just one instance that you spent a day, an afternoon, an hour with me—from the time we arrived here until the time I left—outside of my bedchamber. Just one.” She stared at him defiantly and then pushed him away. “Let me go.”

  Stunned into silence for the second time that evening, he made no effort to hold her.

  “We dined together most evenings,” he said after a while, a sick feeling growing in him as he realized that what she claimed was true. He did not remember a single time they had spent together except in her bed.

  “We dined with your mother,” Frances said wearily, her face now pale with exhaustion.

  Halcombe felt a similar fatigue. Not the good healthy weariness that came from being outdoors all day, but a dragging weight in his limbs that made moving an effort. “I see. That is why you said, on that first day, that you did not think I cared whether you were here or not. And that is why you stayed so long in Portugal?”

  “Partly.”

  Her eyes held such sadness and regret it was difficult to voice the next question, but he knew it would haunt him if it was left unanswered.

  “You said it was not punishment…it was not an attempt to hurt me as I had hurt you. Was it a lie?”

  “No! I knew you did not see what was happening. I was at fault as well, for shrinking into corners and not telling you of my feelings.” She stepped forward and touched his cheek, no more than a feather’s brush over his skin. “Put it behind you, Richard, as I am trying to do.”

  He took her hand and folded it between his. “You said partly. The other reasons?” He stepped back and dropped her hand abruptly. “I need to know, Frances.”

  “Yes.” The word stretched out as a sigh. “And so you shall, but not tonight. I think we have been through enough for tonight.” Another ghostly brush of her fingers on his cheek and she was gone.

  Halcombe stared at the door as if she might reappear any second, even while he knew she would not. Eventually he stirred, entered his bedchamber, and opened the drapes to gaze at the moon-drenched lawn that reached to the glittering waters of the lake.

  What next? You finally have some answers and you do not like what you heard. Nor does it appear likely you will care for what is yet to come. Because you can be sure that this is not finished.

  Halcombe considered the conversation he had just had with his wife. He thought of the tears that had shimmered in her eyes and the way she had trembled in his arms. He needed the ear of a good friend, someone who never judged and always listened—he needed to talk to Summerton.

  Go to London. A few days apart might be good for both of you.

  The earl pushed away from his lean on the window frame and shrugged off his coat. Yes, he would go to London and see Colin. But this time, he would not just leave a note. This time, he would take great care to personally inform his wife of his trip.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frances was at her dressing table when she heard Halcombe’s voice request admittance
from her maid the following morning. Joan allowed him entrance and, after a glance at Frances, heeded her mistress’ almost imperceptible nod and left the room.

  It was the first time he had been in her bedchamber since her return. Frances felt an inexplicable shyness, a feeling for which she took herself to task. He had seen her en déshabillé many times, and she was far from naked. Clad in corset, chemise, and petticoats, she was almost as well covered as if she were fully clothed. Even so, Frances slipped her arms into the sleeves of her peignoir before turning to face him.

  He was dressed more formally than usual, in dove-grey breeches, a waistcoat of pale yellow, and a form-fitting black coat that set off his wide shoulders. Faint lines of fatigue bracketed his mouth. Had his sleep been as restless as hers? If so, it was the sole indication, for his expression was otherwise that of his usual cool detachment.

  “Good morning. My apologies for intruding so early.” He moved closer to her. “I wanted to let you know I am going up to London for a few days. I’ve some business to attend to. Have you any commissions I can see to while I’m there?”

  Halcombe was offering to undertake commissions for her? When he must know that any matter probably concerned the household renovations? Not wishing to be at a disadvantage, Frances rose and tied her sash tautly around her waist.

  “It is not too early,” Frances said. She had realized sometime in the middle of the night that the question of alterations to the manor had still not been settled and wondered how much of this sudden trip was owed to last night’s conversation. Or was it entirely unrelated? Impossible to tell.

  “As you know, I visit with Flora in the early morning,” she said. “Shall I tell her you will not be in to see her today? At least, I can try to explain it to her,” Frances added. She was not sure Flora understood the concept of time well enough to comprehend an absence of several days.

  His smile was broad and humour gleamed in his eyes—the first such she had seen in these past weeks and so infectious that she smiled warmly at him.