Slut!
The memory of a caricature she had seen in a London newssheet crossed her mind. It depicted an ostensibly well-born woman in an amorous dalliance with her lover while being secretly observed by several other gentlemen. It had been ridiculously overblown, of course. Frances doubted Lady Merton was that free with her favors. But the picture of her hostess’ face, replacing that of the hapless female in the cartoon, had so bracing an effect that Frances was able to face the woman with a smooth nonchalance that resulted in a narrow-eyed look of reappraisal as she received Frances.
The alluring smile Lady Merton bestowed on Halcombe when he moved forward was both annoying and disturbing, causing Frances to smile more warmly upon Paul Jensen than perhaps was proper as he bowed over her hand. His was a familiar face and she sensed an ally of sorts, although she could not help being curious as to whether or not he was another of the viscountess’ lovers. The lady was quite beautiful. Knowing she herself did not hold a candle to the older woman was lowering.
Frances followed a footman into a large salon, Halcombe a few steps behind her. That he had not lingered pleased her, and she slowed and looked gratefully at him. “Will you join me in greeting our neighbors? I believe I remember most, but I did not know them well and may falter on some names.” Her gaze rested on a young woman sitting on one of the couches alongside her companion. Frances’ smile grew wider. “Except for Mary, of course.” The widowed Lady Alten was near to Frances in age and in the past weeks they had become close friends. They had met at church soon after Frances’ return and formed one of those immediate inexplicable friendships that life sometimes granted.
The earl stopped before a middle-aged couple engaged in conversation with two young ladies and a splendidly dressed youth, all obviously their offspring. Squire and Mrs. Dalmen addressed them cordially, with no indication that Frances had been away for so long, and proceeded to introduce the three children, although Frances felt certain she had met both of the girls at one time or another.
They all stood chatting for a short time, Frances’ attention divided between the conversation and a desire to search the salon for other familiar faces. Dr. Walton and his wife were there, as was the headmaster of a highly reputed boy’s school. The headmaster, she recalled, was somehow related to a duke. The remaining guests all appeared to be strangers—down from London, she supposed—and Frances resigned herself to a series of introductions. The majority of them were probably friends of Lady Merton’s, and as such, not high on any list of people she wanted to meet or talk to. And aren’t you the snob, Lady Halcombe. In all likelihood, these folks are very nice!
Frances was suddenly drawn from her thoughts by Paul Jensen’s quiet voice in her ear.
“You are looking very well, my lady.” He chuckled. “I won’t say you are beautiful—which you clearly are—lest you accuse me of plying you with Spanish coin.”
Frances turned, her mouth curling with amusement. “No lady is averse to compliments, sir, even if she does suspect her admirer of exaggeration.” She murmured her excuses to the group around her and allowed Mr. Jensen to guide her away to meet some of the other guests. Halcombe, she noticed, had been just as skillfully detached by Lady Merton and led in the opposite direction to begin another round of introductions.
The conversations with Lord and Lady this or that were as superficial as Frances had anticipated, but agreeable enough. Paul Jensen remained by her side until dinner was announced, escorted her to the dining room, and graciously seated her to his right.
Halcombe was, of course, seated at their hostess’ side. Frances expected as much, given his rank, but the sight of the woman leaning close to him as they conversed, made her head ache. Deliberately refraining from watching them, Frances forced gaiety into her voice as she spoke first with Mr. Jensen, and then listened with grave attention to Squire Dalmen, who was seated to her right. The meal, although nicely prepared and delicious, was overly long in her opinion. The entrance of the footmen with decanters of port for the men, indicating an end to the ordeal, was such a relief that Frances stood almost before Lady Merton nodded to signal for the ladies to depart.
After a visit to the withdrawing room set aside for the use of the female guests, Frances returned to the salon and went at once to join Mary, thus avoiding Lady Merton. Frances had managed to get through most of the evening without exchanging more than a word or two with the woman, which had left her ability to remain civil wholly untested—and better so.
At Mary’s welcoming gesture, Frances took the just vacated place of Mrs. Norton, Mary’s companion, and reached out to clasp her friend’s hand for a moment. “I am sorry I have not returned your last call,” Frances said with an apologetic smile. “Things have been rather at sixes and sevens recently, but that is no excuse. How have you been, my dear?” Frances thought her friend was too pale and much too thin. She was in mourning, true, but so slow a recovery seemed unusual. Especially since Frances suspected that the late Lord Alten had not been an easy man to live with. An impression gleaned more from Mary’s tone of voice when she spoke of him than any disparaging comments
Mary’s smile lit her face, erasing the sad cast in her expression. “Think nothing of it. I am sure you are impossibly busy. I am glad to see you so well recovered from your ordeal, Frances. You and Flora have amazing resilience.”
“It was a difficult situation,” Frances said. “It is nice to be home though,” she added with a small smile.
The men had begun to wander in while they talked and Frances looked around for her husband. Halcombe was at Lady Merton’s side at one end of the room, listening with apparent attentiveness to her animated discourse. Paul Jensen stood apart from the others, his gaze alternating between his hostess—lover?—and Frances. Hurriedly, she returned her attention to her companion, but the young woman’s gaze had followed Frances’ and a question appeared in her eyes.
Frances gave Mary a quick, mischievous grin. “Mr. Jensen and I met several days ago and he is, I suspect, inclined to a mild flirtation.” Her smile faded and she shrugged. “Although why, when he appears to be quite comfortable with his beautiful hostess, I cannot imagine.”
“Because you are pretty and charming, dear Frances, and Mr. Jensen strikes me as being among those gentlemen who are naturally flirtatious.”
The shadow of Mary’s companion suddenly fell across them. Mary’s smile disappeared under the stern gaze of Mrs. Norton. At some unspoken command, Mary rose and held out her hand to Frances. “Do come to share a luncheon with me so we can visit longer. Is Thursday too soon?”
Frances took her hand and stood. “I will be happy to join you and Thursday is fine.” She watched as Mary moved through the room saying her farewells, Mrs. Norton sticking like a burr to Mary’s side. The companion’s habit of hovering was something Frances had noticed before. Something was definitely amiss there. Francis vowed to get to the bottom of it when she and Mary next met—if, of course, they could manage a few minutes alone.
“You and Lady Alten are good friends.”
There was a note of inquiry in Paul Jensen’s voice. Frances looked over to find him beside her. “Yes, although I do not see her as often as I would like.”
“You are busy these days, I imagine,” he said with a look that told Frances he was aware of the reason she was so occupied.
“That, sir, is an understatement.” Frances’ eyes widened. “You must have heard that I have been away for almost two years. Certainly the entire story is being bandied about by one and all,” she said dryly. “You needn’t mince words!”
“I would not dream of it,” Jensen said, laughing. “I admire you for not bowing to the gossip.” He bestowed a warm look upon her. “You are obviously not one to pay mind of what is said of you, good or bad.”
Frances chuckled. “Gracious, you make me sound quite callous. Perhaps rightly so, but I prefer to think the direction my life took during those many months has led to a belief that life is too precious to allow the opinio
n of others to determine my actions.”
Halcombe’s voice interrupted. “Madam.”
Frances turned to face him, her heart jolting at the unexpected glitter in his eyes.
“It is time we started home.”
He gripped her elbow tightly, and Frances stepped closer in an effort to ease the discomfort. “Of course,” she said readily. Ignoring the cold glare and curt nod he awarded Jensen, Frances smiled at the man. “Good evening, Mr. Jensen. It may be that we will meet again before you return to London.”
Jensen wisely made no attempt to prolong the conversation. He bowed and quietly wished them good evening. Frances was aware of his eyes on her as they crossed the room at a pace much faster than Mary had undertaken earlier. Halcombe’s farewells were short and generally addressed, with Frances a less-than-willing participant as he impatiently forestalled any attempt she made to pause and speak to anyone.
Until, of course, they reached Lady Merton.
“Victoria.” Halcombe freed Frances and bowed. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Lady Merton placed a hand on the earl’s arm and looked wistfully at him. “Richard,” she said in a purring voice. “It was my pleasure. I am sorry you feel the need to run off so early. I hope another time you can stay longer, when you are not so encumbered by your responsibilities.” She then turned to Frances and smiled with sickening sweetness. “My dear child. I’m so glad we had this chance to further our acquaintance. And I am delighted to see that you appear to have almost recovered from your dreadful experience. Do call on me some day. I should love to compare notes on your stay in Portugal. It is such a beautiful country. I quite fell in love with it when I was there.”
Rigid with fury, Frances tipped her head in the barest of nods. “Why, someone mentioned just this evening that you had traveled there with your parents soon after your presentation, Victoria. I’m sure the countryside has changed very little since then, although it was many years ago.” She wrapped her arm around her husband’s and moved closer to him. “You won’t want to keep your horses standing, Richard. Shall we go?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
Giving neither his hostess nor his wife another glance, Halcombe guided Frances from the room, and if he heard what sounded remarkably like a hiss behind them, he gave no indication of it. Frances, however, welcomed the evidence that her barb had hit home. While she herself had few advantages over the worldlier viscountess, relative youth was one of them. Beautiful women loathed admitting their age more than most, she had noticed, and the woman was some years older than Frances.
Once the doors closed behind them, Frances released her ill-mannered husband, hurried to the waiting carriage, and allowed a footman to assist her into the vehicle. She settled as far back into one corner as possible, leaned her head on the cushions and closed her eyes. Her chest ached with the effort to swallow the sobs that threatened her composure. Her hands were shaking and the delectable meal she had enjoyed earlier in the evening was now a heavy weight in her stomach.
Thank heaven it was not far to Halcombe Manor. Frances longed for the privacy of her bedchamber. Given the latest turn in her conversation with Lady Merton, Frances wished she had consumed more of the wine served at dinner and less of the food. But she had not dared risk losing her head—or loosening her tongue.
Her husband had not been so reticent, allowing his glass to be refilled with every course, and he had surely had several glasses of port after the meal. Despite this, he did not appear to be affected—men did not, it seemed. Just one more advantage they had over women. Not that she wanted to become sodden with drink, but at times it might be gratifying to indulge in just a little more than was proper.
She felt the lurch of the carriage as Halcombe climbed in and sat on the opposite bench. He signaled the coachman and they were away.
“You appeared to have enjoyed yourself tonight.” Richard spoke so suddenly that Frances jumped. “Although you and Lady Merton did not seem to be on the friendliest of terms. In fact, you seem to have taken her in aversion.” He hesitated, and then added in a voice devoid of any inflection whatsoever, “That was a rather spiteful comment, Frances.”
Frances opened her eyes and peered warily at him through the darkness. Surely he was not implying that any sort of friendship was possible between them—his mistress and his wife? She choked on the thought and a cleansing anger swept through her. Halcombe dared to take her to task? When she had been deliberately slighted by her hostess?
“Was it? I had no idea it could be so misconstrued,” Frances said in a dulcet tone. “But I must advise you that Victoria and I will likely never become more than just acquaintances—I fear we have very little in common, sir.”
“I desire no such thing. I would have you be civil, however.”
There was a distinct edge to her husband’s voice and Frances gasped. Even he did not have that much effrontery! No, more than her little spat with Lady Merton was at play here.
The air between them seemed to vibrate with his ire, or some other suppressed emotion she was unable to determine. Frances again closed her eyes. Whatever it was, it boded ill and she wanted no part of it.
Chapter Twenty-four
Halcombe wanted a drink. He was just enough under the hatches to threaten his hard-won control, but not enough to fully erase the sight of his wife smiling at the much-too-handsome European. He suspected the man was Victoria’s lover, which said something about her protestations of love for him. But he had quickly learned that she was not a woman to allow her bed to remain empty for long. Thank God he had come to his senses years ago, when he discovered the sort of female she was. The scene she had subjected him to after his marriage to Frances—in his own house no less—had been the final chapter in their already precarious relationship.
Why in God’s name had he taken Frances to task for her incivility when, in reality, he had nothing but admiration for her quick response to Victoria’s cuts? His wife’s set-down had been delivered in so sly a fashion that the slight itself lay buried under a seemingly innocuous comment.
Damnation! His sweet, child-bride had grown into an out-going, engaging woman who seemed comfortable in any situation, with a charming manner that would appeal to almost any man. Where had she learned all that? In France, buried amongst uneducated villagers? By her accounts she had been doing little more than cooking, cleaning and hauling buckets of water. All while big with his child. He could not help but picture her in a more appealing state…her breasts full and ripe…her tender nipples ready for suckling…
Blast it all to hell. He should have been there with her, anticipating the birth of their daughter. It should have been his head at her bosom, his hand resting on her belly, feeling the tiny, precious life moving within. He had been denied the opportunity to experience so many of the intimate moments that every father had the right to cherish for himself.
He had missed hearing the unique cry of a newborn babe when Flora took her first breath. Missed seeing her nestled securely in his wife’s arms as they celebrated together the blessed arrival of a healthy little girl.
You can still have it—the chance to relish nature’s gradual transformation of Frances’ body…the chance to savor the taste of mother’s milk for yourself.
Get her with child.
Halcombe clenched his teeth. He couldn’t escape the vivid images of he and Frances alone together…their bodies entwined. He all but leapt from the carriage when it halted at the bottom of the broad manor steps. His grip on Frances’ arm was firmer than courtesy allowed and he almost dragged her inside.
“Richard,” she whispered urgently. “What are you about?”
Halcombe paused in the entryway, struggling to regain his composure, with little success. He snapped an order to Benson for some brandy and hurried Frances up the wide stairs and into his sitting room. “I want a nightcap…with my wife,” he snarled. With a jerk that caused her to flinch, he pulled the wrap from her shoulders and tossed it aside.
“Did I? I have not found you especially accommodating of late.” His voice held a silky skepticism and her expression hardened. Pulling off her gloves, she evaded his attempt to grip her arm.
“Perhaps if you stopped giving orders you would find me more amenable,” Frances said sharply. She increased the distance between them, her movements easy, but there was a wary look in her eyes and the pulse in her throat beat visibly.
Halcombe shrugged out of his coat, dropped it on a chair, and then stepped toward her, only to be interrupted by a light tap on the door. He frowned, and barked, “Enter!”
Benson entered with a tray holding a decanter and two glasses, and at the earl’s gesture, set it on the sideboard. “Shall I pour, my lord?”
“No. We will serve ourselves. I won’t need anything else tonight, Benson. Dismiss the other servants as well.”
Impassive, the butler nodded. “Good night, my lord. My lady.”
Halcombe filled his glass to just below the rim, drank deeply, and refilled it. He then poured another generous amount into another goblet. With his eyes hard on his wife’s face, he walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps. He saw the quick rise and fall of her breasts as they strained against the low-cut bodice of her gown. Apprehension flared in her eyes and his cock hardened.
He ached to have her under him—a woman he hardly knew, a woman who had betrayed him, and one he did not trust. But he did not care. Not now, and certainly not for the next hour. Frances was his dammed wife. He owned her, and by heaven, he would have her.
Richard was drunk. He knew it and he knew he would regret this later, but every consideration faded as he lifted her hand and pushed the glass of brandy against her palm. He dipped his index finger into the spirit and touched the liquid to her lips.
Instinctively, her tongue flicked outward and she gasped, her eyes widening. They widened further when he raised the goblet to her lips. He watched her sip delicately, and then turned the glass and took more of the warm, fiery beverage into his own mouth, leaving just enough on the tip of his tongue to kiss her with it.
A Love Laid Bare Page 17