A Love Laid Bare

by Constance Hussey

  She had graceful, slender hands—something he had often noticed—with long, shapely fingers and delicate wrists. They had a surprising strength, those hands, yet they were also capable of imparting a warm, gentle touch, like that which she reserved for Flora—and also for him. He imagined her hands sliding smoothly over his shoulders and back, locking behind his head to pull him close…

  Enough! Last night was simply the lamentable consequence of over imbibing. A mistake he had no intention of repeating. It’s said the road to hell is paved with good intentions, Halcombe. If so, the last thing you need or want is more hell in your life.

  Pulling his attention back to the drawing, he pointed at the wall between the kitchen and the maze of small rooms that were currently used as pantries. “This is a bearing wall, and seeing as it is some three feet in width, it is not something that can be removed. I know that you want easier access between the kitchen and dining room—a meritorious idea—but it cannot be achieved in this manner.” He looked at Frances then, noted her forehead furrowed in concentration and the tip of her tongue curled over her upper lip, and this time his smile was genuine. She looked much like Flora when the child was engaged in a weighty task.

  “May I?” Halcombe pushed aside the various books he had used to secure the corners of the drawing. The large sheet of paper rolled inward on itself and he removed it from the pile and repositioned the books on top of the next sheet to hold it down.

  “As you know, all that remains of the original building is the great hall tower, for which we should be grateful,” he said with a laugh. Frances gave him a puzzled look and in answer to her unspoken inquiry, he added, “It was not the most comfortable way to live.” He grinned. “Very drafty and damp, I believe.”

  Frances smiled, and her eyes met his in good-humoured agreement. “No doubt,” she allowed.

  The earl forced himself to ignore the appealing look of amusement on her face, and clearing his throat, he continued. “A fire damaged most of the structure to the right of the tower. It was torn down and replaced with this wing sometime in the fifteenth century, and now contains the formal drawing room, a lesser drawing room, this library, and what was once a music room and is now empty. All this area, if I understand correctly, you wish to refurbish with paint, wallpaper, draperies, and so on, along with the guest bedchambers above.”

  “Yes.” Frances leaned one hip on the corner of the table, her eyes moving from the drawing to his face. If she was bored with his instruction, she gave no indication of it.

  He covered the diagram of the wing to the left of the tower with his hand. “This presents more of a challenge. The then-earl was more politically inclined than most of us and spent some time at Elizabeth’s court. In hopeful expectation, he decided to modernize the house and make it fit for a monarchial visit.” Halcombe’s mouth pulled back in a wry smile. “The Queen did come, almost bankrupting him in the process, but I suppose he was satisfied that his hope had at least been realized.”

  Frances’ brows rose and she blinked. “Our bedchambers were built for Queen Elizabeth and her attendants?”

  “Along with the row of chambers on the opposite side of the hall, yes—several of which now make up the nursery suite.” He hoisted himself onto the corner of the table opposite Frances, braced his body with one arm, and leaned forward. “All but this small section is new,” he said, pointing at the house print. Shrugging, he gave her a sly glance. “New being a relative term, of course.”

  “Of course,” Frances said dryly, but her eyes gleamed with humour.

  Halcombe dragged his gaze from her face, now bright with laughter, and let it drift over the soft strands of red-tinged hair that had escaped the knot at her neck. He lingered on the soft flesh beneath her ear—an area that he knew was tender and delightfully sensitive. A memory he was not going to dwell upon, and he hurriedly continued with his explanation.

  “His was not the most capable of architects, which explains the uneven joining to the tower, but at least he had the good sense to use stone rather than the wood and lathing design that was so popular then. Unfortunately, his taste ran to a series of almost useless—at least to more modern tastes—small chambers, with the exception of the large drawing room at the front and the dining room behind it. Most of these little rooms were then converted to pantries, excepting my study and your sitting room and office.”

  Frances’ brows narrowed, in thought rather than disapproval, Halcombe guessed, and stood. She moved to his side and circled the area in question with one finger. Her arm brushed his and the floral scent of her soap teased his nose. She was close…too close. He straightened and casually edged back, relieved she did not appear to notice.

  “So what you are saying is we cannot open the wall between the dining room and the rear kitchen. Food still must be carried along this passageway—one that leads outside and is cold and drafty—and through five additional rooms the size of large closets.”

  He nodded and took the opportunity to put some distance between them. “The wall must stay, I’m afraid.” Halcombe walked to the door, opened it and requested that someone ask Bolling to come in. “There are, however, other options.”

  “And they are?”

  “Bolling has some ideas on it. We will wait for him,” he said, his voice unintentionally hard. This meeting had gone on far too long for his comfort. Heat pooled in his groin and his jaw clenched. The room was too warm. Damnation, he was too warm.

  Frances glanced at him, and her expression cooled to indifference. “As you wish.” With her back very straight, she walked to the window and stared out at the rain.

  Halcombe returned to the table and glared at the drawings that were spread out over it. Devil take it, he had no reason to feel as if he had just kicked a puppy. All this renovation was entirely her idea and he had no obligation to feign interest in it. But the tension was almost another presence in the room, and he welcomed the knock on the door that signaled the arrival of the head carpenter.

  Bolling was a thickset man of middle years, with a healthy shock of brown hair and alert brown eyes. Born on the estate, he was a skilled craftsman who had learned his trade from his father and uncle; both were talented carpenters who were still active, although they had taken lesser roles in the past few years.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?” Hat in hand, Bolling bent his head to Halcombe and then turned to Frances. “Lady Halcombe.”

  Frances looked up and acknowledged his greeting with a smile. “Mr. Bolling. I understand you are to tell me how to go on with these alterations.”

  A flush crept under the man’s deeply tanned face. “Not tell you, madam, but I have some suggestions.”

  Seeing his obvious discomfort, Halcombe intervened. A widower, Bolling was not at ease around women, especially his mistress.

  “I’ve explained the problem with the wall to Lady Halcombe, Bolling, but we have not spoken of the possible alternatives. You can do that better than I. The drawing is here on the table. I have some clean paper and a pencil on hand if you want to sketch a picture of your plans.”

  Halcombe relinquished his position to the older man. Settling into a chair near the table, he stretched out his legs, and listened to the lively conversation. Frances paid close attention, a charming little frown creasing her forehead as she struggled to understand Bolling’s more technical descriptions. The two of them got along very well, Halcombe noted, and he turned his thoughts elsewhere.

  The current project was not the only matter he intended to discuss with his wife today. He suspected this future conversation would be much less amicable. Any discourse concerning money often was, in his opinion, and he had questions Frances may not welcome. They would be answered, however.

  Drawn from his reflections by the realization that the conference between Frances and Bolling was now at an end, Halcombe stood and added his thanks to his wife’s.

  “Are you satisfied with the plan?” he asked her.

  Occupied in rolling up the house
prints, Frances nodded, keeping her gaze on her task. “Yes. It is not ideal, but it will be a great improvement.”

  She set aside Bolling’s rough drawings—to keep with her, he imagined—and placed these smaller rolls with the others. Frances had an exceedingly tidy nature. He felt sure her account books were just as precisely kept. In fact, he looked forward to seeing them. She, he felt equally sure, was not going to like him doing so.

  “Good.” He hesitated, and watched as she stepped toward the door.

  “There is another matter to be discussed today and one of the reasons I stayed in,” he said, just before she reached it.

  She swung around, a wary look on her face. “Yes?”

  “It is time we talked about money,” he said blandly, arching a brow. “Your money, Frances.” He moved forward and gripped her elbow. “Some refreshment, first, and then I will look over your account books.”

  She hesitated and he thought she was going to refuse, but her pause was brief. She pulled from his grasp. “Very well,” she said brusquely, and swiftly walked away.

  Relieved at her agreement, since he did not relish the idea of locking her in her bedchamber while he reviewed her records, Halcombe followed her from the room. Then again, maybe he was being rather shortsighted about this small victory. It appeared that he had just lost an opportunity to carry her upstairs, toss her onto the bed…and…He sighed uncomfortably. Perhaps that was a scene best not imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The food was dry and tasteless in her mouth and what she managed to swallow under Richard’s sharp attention felt like a lump of coal in her chest. Frances drank some water in an attempt to wash it down and glared at the small amount of food that remained on her plate. She would not eat another bite of a meal she had not wanted in the first place. Her stomach was already knotted with anxiety over this upcoming conference with her husband.

  Her money. What did that mean? The amount her father had settled on her? Halcombe was more than familiar with the terms. He had agreed to them! The money from the estate she was spending on the house? You know very well he will ask about the funds you brought home from Portugal. It was stupid to have spent any of it on the house, when he was certain to find out you did not draw it from the trust or the estate.

  Not for the first time, Frances regretted her tendency to be overly impatient. If she had only waited! But that was the problem. She was tired of the endless waiting—for his attention after their marriage…for Flora to be born…for a chance to be rescued…for a comfortable house to live in…for the expansion of their little family! And she was most definitely tired of waiting for him to forgive her.

  You may well be an old lady by then, Frances, so scratch that from your list.

  Halcombe was lingering over his ale, probably to annoy her, and Frances had no patience for it. She laid her napkin on the table and rose. “If you will excuse me for a few minutes, I will join you in my office shortly.” Not staying for his agreement, she hurried away and ran upstairs. She needed to use the commode, wash the ink stains from her hands and tidy her hair. Her appearance might not be of importance to Halcombe, but it mattered to her.

  “You need every asset you can find,” Frances muttered as she walked along the passageway that led to her office a short time later.

  Halcombe was not seated at her desk, which she had expected of him. Some of her tension eased at the small courtesy and Frances went to stand behind it. He had also taken the time to freshen up, she realized, noting his jacket and cravat. Ignoring the speculation in his eyes as she unlocked the drawer and removed an account book, she sat down. If he did not keep his own personal papers locked away, he should.

  “What would you like to see first? The household accounts are here in this ledger.” She removed a second ledger from the drawer. “These accounts are my personal funds from the trust, which you are already familiar with, I’m sure.” She looked up then and snapped at him. “Do sit down. It is not comfortable to have you looming over me.”

  He paused to look at her for a moment before dropping into the chair in front of her desk.

  “And your comfort is of prime interest to me?” he drawled.

  “Apparently not,” Frances shot back, unreasonably hurt by the comment.

  Halcombe’s sardonic smile was another blow to her confidence. He slouched in the chair, crossed his long legs at the ankles, and laced his fingers together to rest his joined hands on his chest.

  It was a deliberate slight. Frances lowered her gaze to the book in front of her. She would not allow him to intimidate her. She would not! He could stare at her as long as he wished. She did not have to look at him to know his eyes were cold and hard. She felt it, an icy prickling that crept over her skin, and she forced herself not to shiver. The silence lengthened until Frances wanted to jump out of her chair and throw one of the ledgers at him.

  Halcombe reached over and closed one of the books with a clap that shattered the silence. Frances’ heart jumped and she jerked back.

  Clap! The second book slammed closed as well.

  “The other account, Frances, the one that records all of your expenditures since you returned to England.” He bit out the words. “Do you think I’m a fool? You may have lived on your aunt’s bounty, and I am beginning to doubt even that, but you would not spend her money on this house. Or that impressive wardrobe you brought here.”

  Halcombe rose, planted his hands flat on the desk and leaned over her. His voice turned soft and silky, a hint of both anger and threat threaded through it.

  “Where did the money come from, Frances? What exactly did you have to do to get it?”

  She glared at him with burning eyes, sickened by the hateful implication in his words. That he could suggest such a thing filled her with rage. She slapped her hands on the desk beside his.

  “I earned the damn money! I worked, had a business, and it was not selling myself, if that is what you are insinuating!” Frances yanked open the drawer, pulled out the remaining ledger, and thrust it at him. “Read it, burn it—eat it if you want! I…don’t…care!”

  She threw the last words at him like razor-sharp arrows. Blinded by tears—a weakness she despised—she stumbled to the door and wrenched it open.

  “Bloody hell.” Halcombe reached her in two long strides, lifted her off her feet and kicked the door shut.

  “Put me down!”

  She beat her fists on his shoulders, twisting and turning with a frantic abandon that shocked him. Halcombe swore quietly and steadily as he caught her flailing hands, set her down, and pinned her arms to her sides—and still she fought him.

  “Frances, stop it.” He tightened his hold on her. “I swear to God, if you kick me again I’ll turn you over my knee.”

  Halcombe was never sure afterward, when she suddenly collapsed against him, whether she believed him or had even heard him. He looked around the sparsely furnished room, spied a settee in a dim corner, and keeping a wary grip around her shoulders, put an arm under her knees and carried her to it.

  Holding her securely in his grasp, Halcombe sat down and settled her in his lap. She was quiescent now, and only the hot tears seeping into his clothes revealed her distress. He did not believe he had ever seen her cry. Her breath came in little shuddering gasps that shook her slight shoulders. She was surprisingly thin. He’d remarked upon it before—that she ate too lightly.

  He felt disturbingly helpless, without a notion of what to do next. It did not seem wise to talk to her. What was he to say in any case? His comment had insinuated that she came by the money dishonestly—or worse. And he knew this was impossible. Not Frances. He never meant it, never even truly thought it. She just made him so angry. All the secrets he felt she kept hidden under that infuriating calm composure goaded him into saying things he regretted the instant the words left his mouth—anything just to ruffle that calm exterior.

  He managed to get his legs on the wretchedly uncomfortable settee and partially drape Frances over him
until he was able to lean back. Her breath had steadied somewhat, and he thought the flow of tears had lessened. Shifting carefully, he freed one arm and moved her head so that it rested on his shoulder. The tidy knot had come undone and her hair lay in tangled lengths upon her back. Her eyes were closed, the thick eyelashes dark with tears. If she fell asleep, which he thought possible, since she was limp now and quiet, he’d carry her to her bedchamber.

  The time passed slowly, allowing him too much time to think. What had Frances meant when she said she had a business? What kind of business? Women did not do such things—not the ones he knew anyway. Is that one of the reasons she had stayed in Portugal? Because he would have stopped her? Halcombe was not sure how he felt about the idea, or what his reaction might have been if Frances had disclosed to him when she first returned that she had her own business. It was something that needed clearer thought than he was capable of at the present.

  Once satisfied that she was asleep, the earl struggled to his feet and carried her from the room. Cutting off the surprised butler’s questions with a soft-voiced, “Your mistress is not feeling well,” he continued on his way. No doubt the entire household had heard them shouting and speculation was running rampant. He did not give a bloody damn for it.

  Halcombe dismissed Frances’ startled maid with instructions to tell Nancy the countess was unwell, and that she would not visit Lady Flora this afternoon. Then he gently laid his wife on the bed. Removing her clothing was the first task and this was accomplished with far less effort than he’d expected. Her malleability was, in fact, almost alarming and several times he put a hand on her breast to assure himself that her heart beat steadily. When only her shift remained, he eased her under the covers.

  Not knowing how long she might sleep, he closed the heavy damask drapes and lit a lamp, turning it low before he went on to his room. He needed to change his coat and shirt, pay Flora a visit, and have a meal sent to Frances’ bedchamber—for him, since it was unlikely she wanted anything more to eat today. Cook surely had some soup on hand if she did.