Indeed, Frances was still asleep when Halcombe finished his meal. Keeping his beer at hand, he sat in the chair he had placed next to the bed. She was close to awakening, he believed. In what kind of state was worthless conjecture, but he did not want her to wake alone.
He shrugged. It may be that he was the last person she cared to see when she opened her eyes. A pity, if so. He was here now, and here was where he planned to stay.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Frances reluctantly floated to the surface of the grey fog that filled her head. Dear sweet heaven, what had she done? Shouting and raging like a denizen of Bedlam, striking at Richard…kicking him? It was almost more than she could bear, to have behaved so badly. She felt the hated tears gather in her eyes and turned to burrow her head further into the pillow. She could not face him, and he was here. She felt him, smelled him—heard him breathing. Mortified and humiliated by the entire episode, Frances prayed he would disappear before she opened her eyes. Go away! Please go away. If I pretend to be asleep…
Frances forced her breath to steady and deepen. She relaxed the hands clutching the sheets. It was quiet, so much so that the clink of a glass being set on a table sounded loudly. She heard the faint scrape of Richard’s shoe when he seemed to change position and felt the stir of air from his movement. Maybe he was leaving.
“I know you are awake.”
The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat beside her. His hand rested on her back, and she wiggled deeper under the quilt. “Go away. I don’t want you here,” Frances muttered, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“Unfortunate, because I am not leaving,” Halcombe said, gripping her shoulder and turning her to face him. “Look at me, Frances.”
She covered her face with her hands. “No! I cannot. I’m too ashamed.” She tried to roll over.
“Of what? Losing your temper? Don’t be absurd.” The earl pulled her hands away from her face. “Open your eyes, Frances.”
He held her loosely but securely, his hands keeping hers on the pillow. Frances knew that further protest was not only futile, but it made her seem even more the fool than she already was.
He looked, she thought…amused? No mistaking the smile quivering on his lips, and if the laughter did not quite extend to his eyes, they held an unaccustomed warmth that somehow made it easier to say the needed words. “I am so sorry. I was absolutely horrid.”
“No more than I.” He brushed aside the strands of hair that clung to her forehead and temples. “What I said, unconscionably so, I never thought for an instant of you.”
He moved back a little, pulled her upright, and cupped her cheek with his hand. “When you shut me out, close yourself behind some kind of wall, all I can think of is tearing it down. And I say things I should not.”
Frances leaned her head against his hand for a moment and sighed. “I am sorry,” she said again and then moved to separate them. She looked around for her peignoir. “I need to get up.” Avoiding his gaze, she waited until he handed it to her, and then slipped her arms into the sleeves without getting out of bed. Feeling at least minimally covered, she slid to her feet and hurried to the adjoining room. Why she felt bothered by him seeing her in her shift was unexplainable. He had seen her naked many times, including last night.
Frances pressed her hands to her eyes. Was it just last night that they had laid together? Almost impossible to believe when a few hours later the war between them had so swiftly resumed. Or perhaps the lovemaking was less a truce than a skirmish during battle—wonderful as it had been, it was not a gentle union.
Frances stared with horror at the wild-eyed woman in the mirror. Her hair was a rat’s nest of tangles. Red rimmed her eyes and stained her cheeks in startling contrast to the underlying pallor. She grabbed a brush and applied it so zealously that it stung her scalp, then splashed water on her face until some of the colour subsided.
She tied the sash of her peignoir tightly. Frances had no clothes in here and did not want to dress in front of her husband. She also had no expectation that he had gone away. “You are not that lucky,” she muttered and several deep breaths later, emerged from the room.
Richard stood just outside the door that opened onto the corridor. He spoke to someone in a low voice, and then stepped back inside. He had a large tray in hand, and he carried it to a small table. The table from her sitting room, Frances noted. The bench from her dressing table sat on one side, her boudoir chair on the other.
“I thought you might want something to eat. You ate little of your midday meal,” he said, lifting the covers from various platters and dishes. “At least have some soup,” he added when she hesitated.
The food smelled…good. Prepared for nausea, Frances was surprised that she actually felt hungry and even more surprised that she wanted to eat. “Thank you, I will have some soup.” She chose the bench, leaving the chair for him, although it was a close fit for his larger frame.
Richard picked at some cheese while she drank her soup, a hot, thick broth that soothed her throat and stomach. “Good gracious, Flora…,” she said with a sigh when her bowl was empty. Frances had missed the afternoon playtime, she realized, and felt guilty because she did not run at once to the nursery.
“Nancy has been informed that you are indisposed. I have told Flora you will see her tomorrow,” Richard said, and seeing the glint in his eye, Frances thought it unwise to make any attempt to go. In truth, she did not feel equal to the antics of her daughter.
The earl pushed aside his plate, took a gulp of beer, and nodded toward her dishes. “Are you finished?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He stood, placed all of the platters and bowls on the tray, and set it outside the door, leaving a pitcher of beer and a decanter of sherry. “You will be more comfortable here,” he said, and then picked her up and placed her on the bed. He piled some pillows behind her.
She did not have the energy to protest, and in fact almost welcomed being ordered about, a sign of just how emotionally exhausted she was. How did the people who chose to live in a state of constant drama manage to get through the day when it was so terribly fatiguing?
Richard sat at the end of the bed, his back braced on the bedpost. “Tell me about your business, Frances.”
Frances looked at him intently, but neither voice nor expression indicated anything but a calm interest. How long that would last was uncertain, but she knew he was not going to be put off with any claim of fatigue. She had always intended to tell him—just not in a situation like this. She huffed, tucked the coverlet snuggly around her legs, and folded her hands on her lap.
“When we reached Portugal both Flora and I were ill, and although not so serious a condition that our lives were in danger, it was some time before either of us shook off the effects of it.” She paused and raised her shoulders in a resigned shrug. “Naturally, Flora recovered faster than I. It was several months before I felt able to do more than sleep and spend an hour or two a day with her. Aunt Olivia was wonderful, caring for Flora, watching over me, and never a question as to the circumstances that led to my arrival in Portugal with a child—or what I planned to do.”
Frances leaned her head to the side in a questioning manner. “Have you ever been that ill, to the point where your world narrows to one of simple human function? Unable to do anything but eat, sleep, and go through the motions of everyday life without conscious thought?”
“No.”
Frances bit at her lips, unsure how to explain it further or if it was even necessary. “It changes you,” she said after a long pause. “Fortunately, Aunt Olivia did not allow me to wallow in self-pity for long. It was she who mentioned the books Father had sent her some months before his death, and she insisted I do something with them, since she is not at all bookish.”
“As you are.” Richard arranged himself so that his legs stretched out alongside hers.
It was an oddly intimate arrangement. Although separated by the covers, Frances imagined she felt
the warmth of his body curling around her limbs. Should she move?
Don’t be ridiculous. Why should you? It does not appear to disturb him and you don’t want to move anyway.
“As I am,” she agreed. “Although, as you may have guessed, the books Father gave to my aunt are not what one usually reads for pleasure. Many are in Latin or Greek and most are rare or first editions.”
“And so quite valuable.”
The quiet statement of fact and the glimmer of understanding in his eyes told her that Halcombe had guessed the source of her income. It made the entire endeavor seem more natural, that what she had begun was something anyone of sense might do.
“Very valuable,” Frances said dryly, her brows twitching. “I knew the names of many of the dealers and collectors my father worked with, since I had helped him with much of the correspondence. I sent a list to an old and trusted friend in Brussels and asked him to make some inquiries amongst them.”
“And it was well received, I gather,” Halcombe said.
His words were quietly spoken, but with an undercurrent that set off alarms in Frances’ head. He was annoyed again, and she had thought it was going so well. She had no idea of what displeased him now.
Frances raised and then dropped her hands wearily and swallowed a sigh. It took very little to irritate her husband. “Yes, there was quite a bit of interest. Working through Mr. Verney, I arranged for the sale of several of the most valuable volumes, and acting on his advice, I purchased a small collection at auction.”
She glanced at him, expecting further comment but he said nothing, and she went on, her fingers twisting nervously around a length of her hair. “I needed to build some inventory, if only to repay Aunt Olivia at least part of what she was owed. I was fortunate. Several in the lot sold swiftly and at a profit. Eventually I built up a substantial clientele.”
“And?” he prompted, his face so devoid of expression that Frances winced.
“And I bought and sold numerous books…and I continue to do so,” Frances said testily. “It is a profitable business, if one is careful. Which I am.” Too restless to sit, she got out of bed again, made sure her sash was tied, and poured some sherry into a glass.
Halcombe stood as well. “You have too little in your stomach to tolerate wine,” he said, removing the glass from Frances’ hand and putting it, and his tankard, on the table. He slid his palms slowly up her arms and closed his fingers around her shoulders.
“Am I to understand that people all over Europe knew you were alive the entire time you were in Portugal? Everyone was privy to that information but those who mattered most?”
“Of course not!” Frances tried to push him away and his grip tightened. “I acted under the name of A. Nesbitt, and all correspondence went through Brussels. Mr. Verney is the only person that knows the truth. It was at his suggestion that I assumed the identity of a distant relation who had inherited my father’s vast collection.”
“But he knew—this Verney fellow you are so friendly with.”
The bleak expression in his eyes tore at her. They were never to get by this, never to put her deception behind them. Heartsick, Frances suppressed the shout swelling in her chest.
“He never knew I was supposed to be dead! And why should he? He was one of the few to even know my father had a daughter, and as far as my marriage, Father never told him who I had wed and neither did I. So if he had heard stories about the Countess Halcombe, he would not have connected anything with me.”
Frances slipped from Richard’s hold, sank into a chair, and disregarding his earlier order, proceeded to drink a nearly full glass of sherry.
“Damn it all. Why does everything that involves you have to be so difficult? You’ve brought me nothing but trouble since the day you disappeared.” The earl spun around, yanked the draperies open, and stared out at the grey mist beading on the heavy leaded panes. “This business of yours is conducted even now?” He spoke without looking at her, and then answered his own question. “Of course it is. You said as much and now that you have access to your own books, you will likely have more customers than ever.”
Halcombe waited for her to reply, and then finally turned to look at his wife. Her head was bent, all of her attention seemingly focused on the glass she turned round and round, her touch light on the delicate stem. He stared at her, baffled by her air of indifference, when he knew she was not. The thin line of her mouth and telltale race of the pulse in her throat betrayed her. What in hell was she thinking?
“You worry me, Frances, charging forward with that bit between your teeth, intent on your goals,” he said, his voice cold and exact. “You seem to think that that everyone will simply follow along behind you, regardless of the route you take—or if it is their choice.”
Her head jerked up. “That is not true!” She stood, her hands gripping the edge of the table with enough pressure that her fingers shone whitely in the lamplight. “I do not force anyone to do my bidding. That is a cruel thing to say.”
“No? You’ve just told me that you still operate your business—without my permission and without even telling me of it. You apparently expect to run the entire household by yourself, without any participation from me.”
He paced closer, her shocked expression and trembling lips stoking his fury. “You wanted a new housekeeper, and you got one. You wanted to redecorate, so you used your own funds in order to avoid consulting me. You’ve revealed minute pieces of your life over the past two years and expect me to be satisfied with nothing more than those crumbs!”
He cleared the table of decanter, tankard and glass with a single sweep of his arm, spilling wine over the carpet to mix with glittering shards of crystal. Frances stumbled back with a soft cry.
Halcombe continued, his tone both hard and weary. “I have tried—I am still trying—to forget that you purposely kept the knowledge of our daughter a secret for months after you were free to contact me, and for reasons you refuse to even share.” He grasped her shoulders. “You say you want a place here. That you truly want me to include you in my life and not treat you like some stranger who just happens to reside here? Then you better learn to trust me—trust us—because I cannot, and will not, attempt to repair this relationship alone.”
Halcombe stared down at her, already regretting the tirade that had drained the colour from her face. Her ashen countenance and tear-spangled eyelashes clawed at his heart, but he’d meant what he’d said. It had to stop, this rending at each other and all the damned secrecy…how could he fully trust her when she had lied, by omission at least, about her life while she was absent?
He tipped her chin up, his tone softening. “You think I hate you. That is not so. But I could learn to, if things don’t change between us.” His gaze intent, he slowly wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Surely we can do better.”
Abruptly, driven by a need he barely understood, he covered her mouth with his, lips and tongue insistent, until he felt the response he knew she could not hide. In this, she had no secrets.
He raised his head and smiled grimly. “When you are tempted to crawl behind that wall of yours, think of me…of this.” He pulled her closer, plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, his kiss hard and demanding.
Then, without warning, he released her and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him with a satisfying crash. He was exhausted in both mind and body, and acutely aware that his wife was not the only one hiding behind a wall. Given his own natural reticence, and Frances’ extended absence, Halcombe had built a sturdy inner fortress of his own.
Chapter Twenty-eight
With the sting of his kiss still upon her lips and his harsh words thundering in her head, Frances tumbled onto the bed. Worn out, at last, by the steady barrage of emotional tumult, she slept for a time, and then lay staring at the ceiling until she heard her maid tiptoe in. “Mind the glass, Joan.”
“Yes, madam. Shall I clear it away?”
“Please do. And order a bath
for me and another bowl of soup. It is excellent. If you will, please tell Cook how much I enjoyed it earlier.”
“Yes, my lady.” Joan lit several lamps and then left.
Wincing at the brighter light, Frances pulled the covers over her face. Her eyes felt dry and gritty, although she had shed no more tears after Richard stormed from the room. Crying was a waste of time and of no worth whatsoever. All it did was make one’s face red and blotchy…and make one’s chest hurt.
Of course, love did that to one as well. Not the red face perhaps, but absolutely that palpable sense of suffering, which seemed to encompass her entire body. Fool! That is why they call it heartache, Frances thought crossly. She climbed from the bed and went into the sitting room, where there were no mirrors and no reminders of her husband. No traces of wine, beer, broken glass or clothing tossed on a chair. While he had clearly undressed her again today, it was not as a prelude to coupling—a cold word for so heated an act.
Frances wandered around the small room. She had not spent much time in here since her return. The furniture was rather shabby and the wall covering had faded to a bland yellow. It was a cozy place in chilly weather, though, where one could sit and read, and warm themselves by the fire that heated the entire area.
A portrait of her father hung on one wall. At ease behind his wide desk, books piled on the corner, it seemed as if he might step out from the canvas at any moment. Frances touched the frame and wondered what he would say about the mess she had made of her life.
Her parent’s marriage had appeared so perfect to her—full of laughter, casual touches, and spirited conversation. If they had argued, she had never known about it. But then, what did they have to argue about? Whether or not Frances should go away to school was the single subject ever to set them at odds, and her mother’s death had swiftly ended any further thought of it. Neither she nor her father wanted to be apart after that.
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