“Richard…?” His name came out as both a sigh and a question and uncertainty tinged her soft voice.
“Hmm…?” Setting the goblet aside, Halcombe undid the clasp of her necklace and gently laid the pearls on a nearby table. He cupped her head with one hand and began to remove the pins holding her hair, locking his eyes with hers as the pins scattered, unheeded, to the floor. He combed the silky strands with his fingers, nibbling at her neck and the tender lobe of her ear. She began to soften against him, and he answered her surrender with a deep kiss.
Frances moaned and opened to his thrusting tongue. The taste of the brandy was still on her lips. The scent of her hair filled his nostrils and he drove his tongue in further, eager to explore the hot recesses of her mouth. His need for her grew steadily until his arousal approached the point of pain.
Richard broke the kiss at last and fought to control the demands of his cock, which was all but insisting that he raise her skirts and plunge into her, now. Her face was flushed and the green of her eyes had darkened in response to her own longing. He smiled with grim satisfaction. Whatever else was lost between them, this was unchanged. Frances may have returned from the dead under the guise of a cool, guarded stranger, but the passionate bride he’d introduced to the pleasures of the bed yet lived.
Tenderly now, Richard covered her mouth with his and undid the fastenings of her gown, loosening it enough for him to slide the sleeves from her shoulders. He lifted his head, eased back, and allowed the bodice to fall to her waist. Her lace-trimmed corselet pushed her breasts upward, the pale flesh nearly spilling over the top. He kissed each delectable mound and felt her tremble.
She raised her hands and ran them over his shoulders. The warm, almost tentative touch stirred something deep within him. He swung her into his arms and carried her into his bedchamber. A few lamps cast a soft glow over the huge bed that dominated the room.
Richard laid Frances in the center, immobilizing her with his heated gaze. He removed his shirt and shoes and relished the flush that crept up from the swell of her breasts and ran along the graceful arc of her neck to flood her cheeks. No mistaking that sign. Frances was his wife once more, even if only in this moment, and just as willing as she had ever been.
Kneeling beside her, he stripped the gown and petticoats from her slender body and tossed them to the floor. “Much better,” he said, fumbling at the laces of her corset, impatient to have her naked.
Frances sat up and reached forward to remove her stockings.
“No!” He caught both of her hands in one of his and lifted them over her head. “Lay still… I will do it.”
She stared at him with a puzzled look. “If you wish…”
Frances might think him a lunatic, but Richard wanted the luxury of sliding a hand over her shapely limbs as her body was revealed to him. The corset parted, freeing her breasts, and her nipples peaked under the thin fabric of her shift. Richard nipped at one of the tight buds and ran his tongue around the dark aureole. He took one breast, then the other, into his mouth and suckled. She moaned and twisted against him, struggling to free her hands.
Richard lifted his head. “Be…still,” he demanded, ripping the shift from bodice to hem, grinning fiercely at her stunned expression.
“Naked, my lady. I want you naked, open.” He reclaimed her lips, his kiss hard and searching, until she grew pliant beneath him and her efforts to free herself subsided.
Feeling her submission, Richard released her so that he could lap at the tender skin below her ear. “Don’t fight me, Frances. I need you so much,” he murmured. He nuzzled her neck, reveling in the wild beat of her pulse, and then sat up to finish disrobing her, rolling each stocking down with excruciating slowness.
He had pictured Frances like this so often, but this time she was real, not a dream—hair spread across the pillow, mouth rosy and lush from his assault, nipples taut and begging for his touch. She was more curvaceous now, her breasts fuller—truly a woman and not a girl.
He held her with his gaze while he stripped off his pants and shirt. He wanted to plunge into her, and feel her moist heat clench around his rock hard member. The effort to wait, to give her pleasure and bring her to readiness, made him ache.
“Richard.”
His name on her lips was a caress, her outstretched arms a siren call. He stroked her body from breast to thigh, his kiss tender now. He teased her tongue into his mouth. The flutter of her fingers on his shoulders, sliding over his back with increasing urgency, fueled his hunger. As his mouth drifted once again to her breast, a hand trailed across her belly to the silky hair below. He found the nub of her sex, and her closed her legs against him in a reflexive motion that halted the tongue circling upon her nipple. He looked into her eyes, glazed with passion, and smiled.
“Open for me, Frances.”It was both an order and a request. She moaned softly and her legs spread, granting him access. “Yes, just like that,” he said huskily, sliding a finger inside her. She gasped and twisted under him, crying out his name when a second finger joined the first and he began stroking her sex with his thumb. The pace of his caress quickened, his fingers both gentle and unrelenting, waiting for her sweet plea for release.
“Please, oh please.”
Richard thought his cock would explode if he waited another instant. He settled himself between her legs and sank into her, again and again. Her fiery climax exploded around him, and with a final thrust, his seed pumped into her. The force of it was almost painful and his shout of pleasure rang out above them.
His breath coming in harsh gasps, Richard lay beside her. He knew he was too heavy for her, but couldn’t summon the strength to move. He listened to her heart racing alongside his and indulged in the sensuous slide of her hands wandering over his back and shoulders.
Eventually he raised himself up. He grasped her hips and rolled them both over, so that she now lay atop him and he remained sheathed in liquid heat. He was not quite ready for this interlude to end.
Frances snuggled against him, seeming to accept this position with ease, although he had never done this before—kept her so close, afterwards. She kissed his chest, her breath steadier now, and the slender fingers entwined in his hair stilled. He sensed the moment she fell asleep, her boneless sprawl upon him a pleasant weight, and he held her, just held her, for a long time. When the dawn light began to seep around the edges of the window coverings, he eased from beneath her and carried her to her bed.
It was better this way, he told himself, watching as she curled onto her side and hugged her pillow. A smile curved her lips and he wondered what her dreams held. Something better than his of late, it appeared. He would not sleep again this night, but perhaps his present euphoria might remain until he next sought his bed.
He tucked the coverlet around Frances’ shoulders and returned to his bedchamber, knowing better than to believe so fortuitous a feeling could last. Swearing under his breath, he yanked open the drapes to watch the sun rise.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Good morning, my lady.”
Joan’s voice scattered the remnants of the wonderful dream in Frances’ head. She rolled over, reluctant to open her eyes. It was a dream, surely—her husband’s hands roaming her body, teasing her until she was on fire with longing. But she smelled him on her, his man-scent and the distinct odor of lovemaking. A thin ribbon of liquid ran down from between her legs, tickling her skin on its path to the sheet beneath her. No, it was not a dream. They had made love last night, at his direction. Frances’ hand moved to rest on her belly. He had shared his seed—she may already have Richard’s child growing within her.
He was drunk. It meant nothing. If it was more than a primal urge you would not wake alone and in your own bed. Don’t be delusional. Richard wanted a woman last night—you were available.
But for all her inner warnings, Frances was encouraged, if solely due to the fact that they had shared his bed for the first time. Whether it signified an improvement to their relat
ionship was uncertain.
She stretched and sat up, and remembered her clothing was strewn about in wanton abandon in Richard’s suite. What must his valet be thinking! And Joan, as well, who surely had expected to find her mistress’ evening gown and undergarments waiting here for her attention. Ridiculously embarrassed, Frances darted a look at her maid, slid from the bed, and hurried to attend her morning ablutions. It was silly—she was silly—to think anything of it. Of course, Joan would assume her mistress and master had been…involved. She could hardly do otherwise after Halcombe had sent all the servants to bed.
Shaking her head at her fancies, Frances returned to her bedchamber. It was past her usual time of rising. Flora and Nancy would have finished the morning meal long since.
“Are Lady Flora and Nancy in the nursery, Joan?”
“Yes, madam. The weather has turned and they will not be able to go outside today.”
“Has it?”
Frances walked to the window to view the gloomy aspect, which she had been too preoccupied to notice earlier. “Yes, it looks quite uninviting,” she commented. If the heavy mist did not yet qualify as rain, a downpour was surely on its way. They would certainly be confined to the house today. Excepting her husband, of course, who went out rain or shine.
Frances wandered to the table where a tray holding her morning coffee, a dish of butter, and plate of fresh-baked bread awaited.
“I will eat before dressing today, Joan. Lay out one of the warmer gowns, please. It is cooler than it has been lately.” She poured her beverage from the whimsically shaped pot—a sleeping calico cat with its ears as part of the lid—and buttered some bread.
Frances took a bite and began to plan her day. First, a visit with Flora. There would be no ride today, nor any walks. But she was sure she and Flora would find something to entertain themselves.
Then she wanted to see how the work in the great hall was progressing. After that, a final decision must be made on the wall hangings for the formal parlour. Along with those tasks she had her usual activities—meeting with Cook, attending to her correspondence, and bringing her accounts up to date. It was more than enough to keep her busy.
When Frances opened the playroom door an hour later, Lady Flora was not showing any signs of regretting the indoor day. Father and daughter sat at a table holding a large wooden ark. Engrossed in moving several beautifully carved and hand-painted animals into the vessel, they did not hear her enter. Frances paused to watch them.
Flora’s hair held several bows that were in danger of dropping out altogether, and her lips were pursed in concentration. Richard’s head was also bent with grave attention. He had much the same look of concentration on his face as his daughter. Jacketless, white shirt loose at the neck and cuffs turned up, he appeared entirely at ease. His dark hair, a little disheveled, contrasted with Flora’s strawberry blond curls. Frances knew that when she greeted them, two pairs of bright blue eyes would simultaneously peer up at her.
Richard loved the child. It was so obvious a thing that she wondered why she even remarked upon it. And the love was fully returned by his daughter—their daughter. The truth of this twisted and turned inside her. Never could she separate them, no matter what she and Richard made of this marriage.
She walked toward them, smiling at Flora’s attempt to parrot her father.
“Elephant.”
“El’phant.”
“Sheep.”
“Shee’!”
“Monkey.”
Flora grabbed one of the monkeys in Halcombe’s hand and jumped it up and down.
“’..kee, ‘kee,’kee!”
“The monkey will be lonely if he cannot stay with his friend,” Frances said, coming forward and crouching down beside them. She took the monkey, set it on the ramp with its partner, and kissed Flora’s cheek. “Good morning, pet. You are having fun, I see.”
Flora launched herself at her mother who, without Halcombe’s prompt support, would have crashed to the floor. “Mama!”
The earl stood abruptly, and scooped Flora up. “Careful, child. You don’t want to hurt your mother.” He held out a hand to Frances.
“Thank you. She is sometimes over exuberant,” Frances said. Shying at the unexpected expression of concern in his eyes, she brushed at her skirt. “It is a wonderful Noah’s Ark,” she continued, anxious to fill the sudden, awkward silence. “Where did it come from?”
Flora wiggled to get down. Richard set her on her feet and he and Frances watched as she dashed off to play with a pile of blocks in one corner of the play area. He selected one of the animals that stood on the deck—a giraffe, Frances noted—and idly turned it in the palm of his hand.
“It was made for my father by one of the craftsman on the estate. I remembered playing with it when I was a boy, so I made arrangements to have it cleaned and repainted.”
Frances stared at the long, strong fingers that fondled the tiny wooden creature, recalling the times she had felt the same light touch on her own skin. Heat began to gather in her belly and her breasts, and she kept her gaze resolutely on the toy. “It was beautifully done,” she said “and very thoughtful of you.” She collected several pairs of animals and placed them along the gangway.
“Frances.”
Frances settled herself with a quick, quiet breath and looked at him, praying her face held nothing but a friendly interest.
“I am surprised to see you here, sir. Can it be you are at times guided by the weather?” she said airily.
Whatever she thought was in his eyes earlier was now gone. The noncommittal expression he habitually wore was back in place, and the moment had passed.
“I had thought to take advantage of the rain and spend some time reviewing the improvements on your list. Perhaps bring in one of the carpenters to advise us.” He paused, and raised his brows. “If you are interested.”
Frances smiled, unable to completely conceal how much she welcomed his suggestion, but she managed to keep her tone as casual as his. “I would be happy to do so. If you will appoint a time?”
His mouth quirked. Her attempt to conceal her enthusiasm was unsuccessful, it seemed. For once his expression held no animosity and smiling again, Frances touched his arm.
Halcombe stared at her for a long moment, regarded the hand resting on his arm, and gently removed it. “You will want some time with Flora, I expect. Shall we say half an hour from now?”
“Of course.” Absurdly hurt by his subtly dismissive gesture, Frances nodded coolly and moved away. She should have known he would not have miraculously changed overnight, and fool that she was, had deceived herself into believing otherwise. You have no right to resent his rejection and if you allow it to bother you, then you are an idiot. Frances suppressed a sigh. So she was an idiot. It could not be helped. Her feelings for her husband were not something she could simply cast aside. She stood quietly and waited near the doorway while Richard placed a kiss on Flora’s head and said goodbye.
Flora looked up from her blocks and smiled. “Papa go?”
“Papa go,” Halcombe repeated. He nodded briefly at Nancy, who was now on the floor with her charge, and exited the room.
Frances stared after him. It was unwise and unrealistic—this dangerous longing she had to hear him say, “All is forgiven.” He had not softened, but Frances knew she was partly to blame for it. She had not yet been entirely open and honest with him. There were many miles ahead on this path that they were stumbling along, and they had to meet at the end as equals. They must…but how? She had long since realized that a nature such as hers would never be content with a passive existence under his rule. Nor did she believe he would be happy with her in such a role.
Stay strong and don’t allow him to ignore your love. Just how to achieve this without argument, anger and hurt was not clear—was, in fact, seemingly impossible. But better anger than indifference. Frances smiled. She did have that advantage. If there was one thing Richard was not, it was indifferent.
***
Halcombe had suggested they meet in the library. He felt it a more neutral setting than in his study, his wife’s parlour or the adjoining office. Why she found it necessary to have a separate room as an office, he had not yet determined. Granted, Frances was active in managing the household—an understatement!—but what else so occupied her time was a mystery and one he planned to unravel today.
The earl looked up from the drawing he was examining when she entered, her arms full of rolls of paper that he suspected were additional building prints of the manor.
“More?” he asked, and tipped his chin toward her burden.
“This is all I have found so far,” Frances said somewhat breathlessly.
Annoyed by her small, tentative smile, which made him feel a churlish boor, Halcombe frowned. “It seems to be plenty,” he groused, but he moved forward and took the ungainly load from her.
Frances stiffened and her smile faded. “I don’t expect to make changes to every room, sir. It’s merely that I find the history of the house quite fascinating.” She retrieved several sheets of paper from the bottom of the rolled prints that he had tossed on a nearby sofa. “Here are my suggestions, which I believe you have already seen.”
Halcombe took the proffered lists and summoned a smile, not so much one of apology as an offer of détente. She was not an enemy after all, and he had no desire to make her one.
“Yes, I have. And I have also discussed the improvements with both Mr. Compton and the head carpenter, Matt Bolling. There are some problems of which you should be aware.” Halcombe gestured toward another table that held the diagram he had been studying earlier. “Please.”
Frances looked at him warily, and then nodded, but her stony expression softened and she walked over to join him. She examined the print carefully. “Is the problem in the area between the kitchen, pantries and the dining room?” she asked, as her index finger touched down upon each room.
A Love Laid Bare Page 18