A Love Laid Bare (12 page)

***

The day had gone well. The wedding ceremony at
Clifftop, and gracious meal with Frances’ father and the minister,
was followed by a leisurely drive to Summerton’s country residence.
As anxious as Halcombe was to see his bankers and begin the estate
restorations, he felt Frances might be more comfortable beginning
her married life in a more private setting than the Manor. Although
she appeared carefree, he saw glimpses of apprehension in her shy
glances at him as they consumed the simple meal that awaited them.
They lingered over the wine, until he saw his bride’s growing
nervousness. Halcombe rose, took her hand, and drew her into his
arms. “I will give you a few minutes to prepare for bed before I
join you,” he said, then placed a gentle kiss on her mouth. “One of
the maids is waiting to assist you.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled at him, her eyes full of love, and he
forced his feet into moving away and out of the room.
Remember
that patience is a virtue, albeit not one you wish to acquire right
now!

When he returned, she stood at the foot of the huge
four-poster bed, clad in a sea-green nightdress that outlined her
shapely form. Her long hair flowed over her shoulders and back. He
went to her and ran his fingers along the strands covering her
breasts. “Your hair has more red in it than I’d realized.”

“It was much redder when I was a child,” Frances
whispered, her gaze on his face.

The skin beneath his hand quivered and grew warm to
his touch. He laid his mouth upon hers and lingered, sucking
delicately on her lower lip until she sighed and leaned against
him. Deliberately slow, he kissed his way from eyes to bosom and
feasted on the silken skin of her throat. “Do you know what happens
between a man and a woman when they wed?” he asked, breathing into
her ear. He stroked the sweet curve of her breasts and felt her
heart flutter.

“I’ve read books,” she murmured, seeming so entranced
that she hardly moved.

Tickled by her response, he smiled. “I see. Then
you’ll know what comes next.” Laughing at her little gasp of
surprise, he swept her into his arms, laid her on the bed, and
drank in the picture before him—lips reddened by his kisses, the
rapid rise and fall of her breasts, hair spread brightly across the
snowy linen-covered pillows. She was enough to entice any man and
heaven knew he was no saint.

“Richard?” A blush crept into her cheeks. “The
light?”

Halcombe glanced around the room, smiled, and then
extinguished all but a few candles. He wanted to set them all
ablaze, ignite every lamp, bathe her in light, and watch her
beautiful green eyes glaze with passion. But that could wait for
another time. Tonight she was shy and uncertain.

“You are lovely. I like to look at you,” he said,
removing his banyan. Her eyes widened at the sight of his evident
arousal and he grinned. “Don’t look so alarmed, my dear. It all
works quite naturally, I assure you.” He stretched out beside her.
“It will hurt a bit this first time, Frances, do you know
that?”

She nodded, and he leaned over to kiss her, his hand
cupping her breast. “I will make it good for you, Frances, I swear
it. Trust me,” he said, when he raised his head.

She smiled and touched her fingers to his lips. “I do
trust you. Teach me how to make it good for you also.”

“My dear, it will be a pleasure,” he said. “A
pleasure indeed.”

***

It had been all that and more. Halcombe shook off the
remembrance and stood. It was time he took to his own bed. Tomorrow
was certain to be a long and difficult day, and he was no closer to
any decision regarding his wayward wife than he had been yesterday.
What to do about Frances? The question was a recurring theme in his
head. Welcome her and ignore her selfishness, his suffering? He
would never be able to do it. The pain was too deep, the desire to
retaliate too strong. He wanted her to hurt as much as he had
hurt.

He lit a candle from the embers and wandered toward
his bedchamber.
Can you honestly believe she has not had enough
misfortune already—nearly drowned, pregnant, and alone in a foreign
country?
He shook his head and scowled. No, she brought this on
herself. However much he sympathized, she kept the knowledge that
she lived, kept the existence of his
daughter
from him. And
that he could
not
accept.

The toast was cold, the tea lukewarm. Frances pushed
her plate and cup aside, propped her elbows on the table and rested
her chin on one hand. Whether the inept service was a deliberate
provocation, or simply a lapse in standards since the dowager
removed to Town, was not certain. Nor did it matter. Whatever the
cause, once Rose Blount was in charge the household would soon be
put to rights. Although Halcombe had not given her an answer
concerning Mrs. Carroll, Frances did not expect him to refuse. In
the past, he had been disinterested in the domestic arrangements of
his household, so long as meals appeared on the table and his
clothing lay ready to wear. Why would he care? He had but to lift a
finger or voice an order and everyone jumped to his bidding.

You are being unfair, Frances. Halcombe is a
considerate master who cares deeply about the welfare of his
people. If he had not been so concerned about the estate’s
well-being, he would have been free to marry as he wished instead
of marrying for money.

The reminder that her dowry was no doubt the main
reason Halcombe had married her drove Frances to her feet. It was a
painful memory. How silly and naïve she had been to think a man in
his position—an
earl
, no less—was likely to fall in love
with someone scarcely out of the schoolroom
.
Arranged
marriages were nothing unusual and Frances suspected her father had
played a part in this one.
Dear Papa. You wanted to be sure I
had someone to care for me after you were gone. How can I fault you
for that? I was the foolish girl who gave her heart away like a
lovesick heroine in a gothic novel.

“And went from parent to husband like a parcel of
home goods,” Frances muttered. She moved to a window that
overlooked a wide expanse of lawn and shrubbery. Flora and Nancy
were trotting around the bushes in some sort of game. Both had been
gone when Frances awakened, their bedding folded tidily and a
message left that they had eaten and were going outdoors to
play.

By the time Frances had bathed and dressed, she was
ravenous and decided to eat before seeking out her daughter. In any
case, she had to inspect the nursery suite and arrange for
renovations which, if it was in a state similar to the rest of this
house, were needed. Meanwhile, some other accommodation had to be
made. Having Flora and Nancy sleeping in her sitting room would not
serve for long.

She had a great many things to do, in fact, but even
so she lingered, hugging her arms across her chest to ease the
tight ache that gripped her. She was a stranger in her own home,
her husband despised her, and the way ahead seemed filled with
overwhelming obstacles.

Start with a small thing, Frances, something
manageable. Write to Rose and Thomas—and Aunt Olivia.
She
relaxed, a little eased by this decision, and dropped her hands to
her sides. The Blounts were waiting to hear from her—and surely
worrying. Plus, Thomas might already have some correspondence in
hand. She had written to him whilst in London to tell him her
letters were being directed to him for the time being. Aunt Olivia
was also expecting to hear from Frances.

“Is Lady Halcombe down yet, Benson?”

The sharp-voiced inquiry jerked her from her reverie.
Frances swung around to face the door. Richard, and he was in no
sweet temper from the tone of his voice.

“Yes, my lord. Madam is in the morning room.”

Halcombe opened the door. Dressed in buff,
form-fitting breeches, a white linen shirt opened at the neck and a
black leather vest that matched the high, glossy boots that rose to
mid-calf, he was the picture of the working landowner—a
handsome
landowner.

Frances took a step forward. Smoothing her expression
to hide her anxiety—and the wave of longing that assailed her—she
gave him an inquiring look.

“You wished to see me, sir?” An inane question, since
he had patently sought her out, but words had a habit of deserting
her in his presence.

He walked slowly toward her, his expression as
noncommittal as hers.

“Indeed.”

How did he do it, Frances marveled—put such a wealth
of meaning into one little word? Although she was not sure
precisely
what
he meant to convey, she knew it was not to
her benefit.

Annoyance stiffened her spine. She raised her brows
and said evenly, “Will you have some refreshment, sir? The tea is
cold, but I can ring for a fresh pot.”
Which may even be hot,
being his lordship is the recipient.

Seeming momentarily disconcerted, he stared at her
and Frances waited for his refusal. But surprisingly, he nodded,
strode to the door, and called out an order for tea and some
beer.

“A drink would be welcome.” Halcombe gestured toward
the table, waited for her to be seated, and then took a seat
opposite. “It is a warm day.”

“I have not yet been out, but Flora and Nancy appear
to be enjoying the sunshine.” Eyes downcast, Frances toyed with a
spoon and reluctantly added, “This concerns our conversation of
last night, I suppose.”

He planted his palms on the table and tapped a
finger. “It does. I’ve not the time to discuss
every
aspect.
Some of the more
interesting
must wait until this evening.”
His lips thinned into a mirthless smile and he reached over to pull
the spoon from her grip. Turning her hand up, he stroked feather
light circles on her palm. “You
will
dine with me
tonight?”

Frances raised her head, saw the taunting challenge
in his eyes, and pulled from his grasp. He knew perfectly well how
his touch affected her. Suddenly tired of the game, and her own
weakness, she stared straight at him, her expression and voice
equally cold.

“Of course, my lord. How can I refuse such a gracious
invitation?”

The lift of his lips was almost a smile, and for a
second she saw amusement in his eyes. Or thought she did, but no
doubt it was her imagination, for his sarcastically voiced, “I look
forward to it,” held not the slightest bit of humour.

The arrival of a footman curtailed further comment.
Frances waited for her steaming tea to be served and hungrily eyed
the plate of fresh-baked scones that accompanied their beverages.
Shrugging away her irritation at Mrs. Carroll’s slight, as
evidenced by her earlier meal, she reached for one of the fragrant
treats as soon as the footman left the room.

“I am not fond of cold toast or tea,” Frances said
tersely in response to his curious glance.

The earl glanced at the discarded remnants of her
breakfast and frowned. He said nothing, however, and merely watched
as she slathered marmalade on her scone. She finished it in several
generous bites and then washed it all down with some hot tea before
sitting back.

“I believe you wish to discuss something, sir?”
Frances said with gentle, feigned courtesy.

His mouth tightened. She waited for some sneering
response, but it seemed his lordship had also tired of their little
game. Or perhaps his time really was limited.

“This matter of a housekeeper,” he began, and then
paused for a few swallows of beer. “I have no objection to your
choice of servants, as long as the household runs smoothly.” He
shrugged and glanced again at Frances’ discarded breakfast. “It
appears some things have grown lax since my mother moved out. You
may give your Rose Blount a try, if you wish. Mrs. Carroll is to be
given her entire year’s wages and a good reference. Her service has
been satisfactory.”

“Of course.” If he had expected Frances to disagree,
he had mistaken the matter. Her problems with Mrs. Carroll did not
stem from the level of service, but rather the subtle inferences
and disrespect that reflected the housekeeper’s opinion of Frances’
lack of stature here.

Frances laced her fingers together under the table.
She dreaded bringing up anything that raised her husband’s ire, but
decisions other than the choice of housekeeper had to be made. She
waited until he finished his drink and had pushed back his
chair.

“While we are on the subject of household matters,
there
is
something else,” Frances said, keeping her voice
steady. “Arrangements must be made to refurbish the nursery suite
before it can be put into use.” She took a quick breath. “I also
want to refurbish some other areas of the Manor. As you know,
nothing has been done for many years and, quite frankly, there is a
great deal of shabbiness here.”

Halcombe got slowly to his feet. “Indeed.”

Frances stood and glared at him. “I do wish you would
stop using that word and just say what is on your mind.
Indeed
,” she intoned, in much the same voice as his. “It is
quite annoying. I am sure you would dislike it immensely should I
reply to you thusly.”

“No doubt I would,” he said in so mild a manner that
Frances stared suspiciously at him—and rightly so, for his next
remark bore his usual ill will.

“You are quite demanding for an errant wife.” He
moved closer and slid a hand around the nape of her neck. “I am
continually amazed at your temerity.”

Frances studied the hard lines of his face, seeing
along with his anger a not-unpleasant curiosity.

“That is not an answer, sir.” She heard the words
with a sense of disbelief, surprised at her own boldness. Now would
come one of the raking set-downs that tied her stomach in
knots.