Sins of Omission

by Irina Shapiro

  Luke cupped Frances’s cheek as he looked into her eyes. “Frances, I will leave if you ask me to. I can’t bear to see you looking so frightened. It’s as if you are having an internal argument with yourself, and losing,” he observed. “Are you that unsure of your feelings for me, or are you worried about the impropriety of the situation?”

  Frances was surprised by how accurately Luke assessed her thoughts. He knew her better than she realized, so she felt she owed him honesty. “I’m not concerned with impropriety, but I am scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of being physically hurt, for a start, and of being unable to overcome my fears. There are times when I wish I never had to marry, so that no man could ever lord it over me again or have the power to hurt me.”

  “Oh, Frances, how you must have suffered in your marriage to feel this way,” Luke said sadly as he pulled Frances into his arms. “If you put yourself in my hands, I will show you that there is no reason to fear. I will show you how love is meant to be. Will you trust me?” he asked as he lifted her chin with his finger and forced her to look at him. “I will stop any time you wish.”

  “All right,” Frances whispered. “I will trust you.”

  Luke didn’t reply but kissed her lightly, his lips brushing hers in a manner which was completely nonthreatening as he pushed her down onto the bed. Frances expected him to undress, but Luke kept his clothes on; he was in no hurry. He kissed her for what seemed like an hour, his lips drinking her in and caressing her flesh until Frances felt as if she were floating above the bed, intoxicated with Luke’s kisses. All tension fled from her body, replaced by a delicious languidness which seemed to permeate both body and mind. She barely noticed when he untied the ribbon on her nightdress and kissed her exposed breast, making her moan with pleasure.

  Frances opened her eyes in surprise as Luke’s mouth suddenly vanished. “Be right back,” he whispered. Frances experienced a moment of doubt while Luke shed his clothes, but told herself she was being silly. Instead, she focused on Luke. He had a lithe, strong body, and his skin felt warm and soft against hers once he climbed back into bed and kissed her tenderly. Frances felt a twinge of alarm when Luke pushed up her nightdress and slid his hand between her legs, but he whispered words of love as he picked up where he’d left off that afternoon, caressing and probing until Frances was ready for him. “Ready?” he finally asked.

  “Yes,” Frances murmured, suddenly feeling anything but.

  Luke slid into her and began to move slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers. She’d expected pain, a sense of violation, and the usual wave of humiliation to wash over her, but all she felt was her tender flesh stretching around him. It wasn’t unpleasant, but not pleasurable either.

  “Allow yourself to relax,” Luke murmured. “Enjoy it.” He kissed her lips, but then broke the kiss as he began to move a little faster, thrusting harder, and making Frances stiffen with fear. Was this the part where he would hurt her? Frances wondered frantically. She was no longer languid, but tense and uncomfortable, wishing only that he would finish and leave her alone.

  “You’re holding back,” Luke whispered. “I can feel it. Let me in, sweetheart.”

  Frances tried to do as he asked, but she couldn’t let go. She wanted to cry as her hands came up against his chest. She tried to move her hips away from him, but Luke slid his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her hips to meet his, making resistance impossible. Frances stopped fighting and just went limp, as she so often had with Lionel, in the hope that he would be done soon. Luke finally spilled himself into her and released her, panting as he rested his head against France’s forehead. He cupped her cheek and pushed a stray curl out of her face as their eyes met.

  “I know you didn’t enjoy it, but it will be better next time, you’ll see. You just need to allow yourself to relax.”

  “Yes,” Frances mumbled, desperate for him to leave. She just wanted to be alone. She didn’t want to think about what had just happened or contemplate the next time. She just wanted to curl up like a shrimp and think of nothing at all until, hopefully, she fell asleep. They would be going home tomorrow morning, so she wouldn’t have to see Luke or even speak to him until she was ready to face him again.

  “I love you, Frances,” Luke whispered as he planted a sweet kiss on her nose. “I can’t wait until we are married.”

  Frances averted her eyes so that Luke wouldn’t see her tears, but Luke was already pulling on his breeches and reaching for his shirt. Frances turned her face away, waiting for the sound of a closing door.

  Chapter 37

  The day was uncharacteristically gloomy for late May; a dreary mist falling outside, and a chill seeping into every room of the house and forcing the maids to lay fires in hearths that had been cold for weeks. Even the birds were unusually silent, feeling no urge to sing when the skies looked as if they were about to open up and drench the city in a cleansing downpour. A merry fire blazed in the library, driving the chill away, but the house was hushed, as if everyone in it was responding to the weather and refusing to feel cheerful. Neve was upstairs with Valentine, and Frances had hardly left her room since they returned from the country, claiming a mild indisposition and lounging in bed. Even Archie seemed out of sorts and had retreated to the stables to commune with the horses, followed by Jem, who was bored and restless.

  Hugo didn’t actually mind the somnolent atmosphere. After three days of whirlwind activities at Versailles, and a long ride back in a stifling carriage with two women who were sleep-deprived, hot, and cranky, Hugo was enjoying the silence. He looked up from his book as Luke stormed into the library; his cheeks blotched by red spots of anger. Hugo gestured toward a chair, but Luke refused to sit down and just paced in front of Hugo like a caged beast, trying to catch his breath before blurting out whatever it was he’d come to say.

  “So which is it, Hugo? Is she your daughter or your mistress?” he finally spat out, his eyes blazing with fury as he stood over Hugo, who was still seated, his legs crossed and the book now in his lap.

  “Which would you prefer?” Hugo asked solicitously, smiling up at his irate friend.

  “As of Friday, rumor had it that you were bedding Frances under your wife’s nose, but by Sunday, it seems that everyone had it all wrong, and she is really your love child with Morley’s wife. Which is it? I have a right to know,” Luke roared.

  Hugo set aside the book and got to his feet. He didn’t like to feel at a disadvantage when speaking with an angry man. And angry he was. Love was obviously having an adverse effect on the poor man. Perhaps Frances rejected him while they were all at Versailles, or maybe Luke was having problems with Sir Trumbull. Hugo didn’t know the man well, but his temper was legendary.

  “First of all, you have no rights when it comes to my private life,” Hugo replied calmly, “and second, neither one is true, as I am sure you know. What’s really got you so upset, Luke?”

  “If it isn’t true, then why did you tell Monsieur Devereaux that you had been inordinately fond of Frances’s mother? He’s the biggest gossip at Court,” Luke demanded indignantly, maddened by Hugo’s knowing smile.

  “Luke, someone started a mean-spirited rumor about Frances and myself, clearly meant to punish me for worming my way into Court. Something tells me that Sir Trumbull might have had a hand in it, given his obvious loathing of me. The gossip distressed and humiliated my wife, tarnished Frances’s reputation, and didn’t do me any good either. The only way I could find to quell the speculation was to imply that Frances is my ward because she’s really my child,” Hugo explained patiently. “Unless the idiots at Court are depraved enough to suggest that I’m romancing my own daughter, the rumor is now dead.”

  “Did you know her mother?” Luke asked belligerently, unwilling to drop the subject.

  “Never met the woman, but I hear she was a beauty, just like her daughter,” Hugo quipped in an effort to deflate Luke’s anger.

  Luke sank into a chair and
smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Hugo. The thought of you and her just sent me over the edge. I suppose I wanted to believe that she’s really your spawn to alleviate my jealousy. I’ve tried to call on Frances since we got back, but she has refused to see me.”

  “You have nothing to feel jealous of. Frances is not mine, but I care for her as a daughter, nothing more. I love my wife, unlikely as it may seem to a courtier, and wish to spare her any more distress. Neve wasn’t brought up to this life; she’s out of her depth in this cesspool of gossip and malice. I simply wish to protect her.”

  “I understand,” Luke conceded. “Were you also protecting Frances by not telling me she’d been wed?”

  Hugo’s expression grew hard as he surveyed his friend. “And who told you that, pray?”

  “Trumbull.”

  “Yes, Frances had been married. She was viciously abused by her husband, Lionel Finch. Remember him?”

  “Good God,” Luke breathed, suddenly making the connection. “She was married to that Finch?”

  “Yes. Mercifully, he’s dead.”

  “Poor girl,” Luke breathed. “I heard what he’d done to that girl at Madame Nelly’s. It was unspeakable. They said she’d lost her sight and hearing after the beating he gave her.”

  “Thankfully, Frances can still see and hear, but she’d suffered greatly, Luke, and if you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will nail your bollocks to the wall. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” Luke replied, suddenly eager to take his leave.

  Hugo closed his eyes as Luke left the room, feeling strangely worn out despite the early hour. He’d grown up at the Court of Charles II, and had frequently visited the Court of James II, but in his view, and perhaps he was being naïve, no Court was as vicious as that of Louis XIV. Hugo was a seasoned courtier, but Neve was a woman of the twenty-first century, a woman who valued honesty, respect, and friendship. She was baffled by the goings-on at Versailles, and rightfully disgusted with the energy and fervor the followers of Louis XIV devoted to scheming and intrigue. She wanted nothing to do with that life, and he couldn’t blame her, but their very future depended on remaining in Louis’s good graces, which meant visiting Versailles, or any number of other palaces, when invited. Hugo couldn’t afford to reject Louis’s hospitality, nor could he refuse the summons of de Chartres, who needed an opportunity to see Hugo without meeting in private and risking exposure. Talking for a few minutes at Versailles would raise no eyebrows or connect Hugo to de Chartres in any way, which is precisely what the spymaster wanted in order to keep Hugo from becoming compromised.

  It was a bit early in the day, but Hugo threw caution to the wind and poured himself a large brandy before settling back in his chair by the fire. He rarely gave in to homesickness, but there were moments, like right now, when he wished for nothing more than to be back home in Cranley, away from all this scheming and gossip. He wanted Neve to be happy and safe, and his daughter to grow up on land which belonged to her family. He wished he could play a game of chess with Bradford and share his concerns with his friend. He was desperate for someone to talk to, someone he could trust, someone who understood the position he was in and not judge him too harshly.

  Neve would support him, of course, but she simply couldn’t understand the game he was playing or what was at stake, now and in the future. He also wished that he could speak to Clarence face to face, and visit Jane’s grave. It wouldn’t change anything, but maybe his soul would feel a little lighter when he thought of the sister who’d committed the ultimate sin by taking her own life. Would he ever feel indifference when he remembered her, or would there always be this anger and hurt which threatened to consume him? Not a day went by that Hugo didn’t replay the events of last fall in his mind, still searching for answers and arguing with a woman who was long gone in an effort to understand what drove her to such extreme measures.

  Hugo allowed himself a moment of self-pity before putting Surrey out of his mind and returning to the problem at hand. He had to earn his keep, which meant providing de Chartres with some intelligence, and soon. At this moment, the only means he had of learning anything was through Bradford Nash’s letters and Luke’s unguarded observations, but Gideon Warburton might prove a useful ally. The man had no place at Court, but he was well-informed, highly observant, and deeply involved in the politics of England through his profession. Perhaps it was time to renew their acquaintance, Hugo decided as he reached for paper and quill.

  Chapter 38

  Frances pulled the bed hangings closed and curled into a ball, enjoying the feeling of sanctuary that being cocooned in her bed gave her. There were nights when she still dreamed that Lionel was in her room, grabbing her by the ankles and dragging her to the edge of the bed, a twisted smile on his face as he enjoyed her terror. The dreams came less often now, but sometimes, Frances woke up with a scream on her lips and cold sweat on her brow. It took a few minutes for her to remember that she was in Paris, alone in her room, and safe. Frances finally relaxed out of her fetal position and lay on her back, staring at the indiscernible pattern on the canopy.

  Frances heard Neve’s voice in the corridor, talking to the baby as she passed Frances’s room, and was overcome with a storm of emotions ranging from smugness to deep regret. The regret was about deceiving Lord and Lady Everly. Frances wished that she could confide in Neve and talk to her as she used to, but she found herself keeping her distance since the baby was born, unable to share in the joy when her own heart broke every time she thought of the baby she’d lost. She knew it wasn’t Neve’s fault, and she had done everything in her power to help her, but the pain was still there every time she saw the smiling, gurgling baby.

  Of course, had Gabriel lived, Frances would be facing different kinds of problems. She would have no money, no place to live, and no desirable future, since the only way that her son could claim his rightful place was if she were to return to Lionel. Gabriel would either grow up a pauper, or fall into the clutches of his father and suffer whatever cruelty Lionel decided to dish out as punishment for Frances, since she would suffer deeply if her son were abused. Perhaps Lionel would still be alive if she hadn’t lost the baby or asked to leave England with Lord Everly, but whatever might have happened, no hardship in the world was as soul-crushing as losing a child. Strangely enough, Frances never thought of Gabriel as being Lionel’s. He was hers, and hers alone. Frances said a prayer for Gabriel’s soul, as she did every night, and turned her attention to more current issues.

  Once safely back home, Frances had time to analyze her feelings for Luke. What happened at Versailles had not been his fault. Luke had done everything right; he’d wooed her, offered her a secure future, and made love to her gently and respectfully. A beautiful little package had been delivered the day after they returned from Versailles, containing a pair of dangling sapphire earrings set in gold and encrusted with tiny diamonds. The earrings were the most beautiful thing Frances had ever owned, but she was reluctant to put them on, feeling the weight of responsibility at accepting the gift. Did Luke believe them to be secretly engaged?

  Frances wasn’t ready to commit to Luke, but she felt that she owed their courtship another chance. Now that she knew what to expect, she had to try it one more time to see if things got better. Luke promised to be patient, and now that she’d already gone to bed with him, she had nothing to lose. Perhaps he was right, and she just needed to relax. She’d gone out to meet Luke under the pretense of taking the air in the Gardens de Tuileries with Sabine. Sabine dutifully walked around while Frances joined Luke in his carriage, which was parked on the south side of the park just behind the la Terrasse du Bord-de-L'eau. Frances nearly changed her mind when Luke drew her into the carriage and into his arms, his hungry mouth devouring hers as she nestled in his lap.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t see me again,” Luke said as he planted feather kisses on the tops of her breasts. “You seemed so distant after we made love in Versailles.”

  He sounded lik
e a petulant child, but Frances could understand how he felt. He needed to be reassured, and she had turned her back on him. Well, she was here, wasn’t she, ready to try again. There wasn’t enough room in the carriage to lie down, so Luke unlaced his breeches and pushed up Frances’s skirts, impaling her on him. Frances closed her eyes and willed herself to relax, trying to focus on the excitement of their secret rendezvous. Sabine thought this tryst was absolutely delicious, giggling all the way to the park and giving Frances helpful suggestions.

  Luke grabbed Frances’s hips and began to move within her; his eyes closed in concentration. Frances wasn’t frightened or tense, but try as she might, she felt nothing other than discomfort and impatience. Luke pulled down her bodice and buried his face in her breasts, then caught her nipple between his lips. Any woman would enjoy this, Frances thought frantically, but all she wanted was to flee. Luke shuddered as he came, and Frances got off his lap and carefully adjusted her skirts.

  “I must go,” she said as she reached for the door.

  “Frances, when will I see you again?” Luke called after her, but Frances was already out the door, running down the path.

  She met Sabine, who was growing impatient, and treated her to a cup of chocolate at a nearby brasserie. Frances had been pensive as they walked home, and now that she was alone in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she felt sure that she couldn’t marry Luke. Luke was a good man and deserved a woman who loved him. He needed someone who felt more for him than tolerance, and at this point, Frances was sure that she could never bring herself to truly want him. She tried, she really had, but as much as she enjoyed being kissed and caressed, she couldn’t bear having him inside her, and if she couldn’t bear Luke, she probably couldn’t bear any man. The thought of someone having rights to her body terrified her. Even someone as patient as Luke would become a despot if she rejected him again and again. He would demand that she allow him to exercise his marital rights, and would probably take her by force if she refused.