A Love Laid Bare (18 page)

Shock rippled across her face. She pressed one hand
to her breast. “Of course I expected marriage to be different! What
I did not expect was never to have your attention unless we were in
bed! I knew you had married me for my dowry—I am not a complete
fool. Your mother, too, made this clear. A titled, handsome man can
have any woman he wants, but I stupidly convinced myself that it
was not entirely the money—that you cared for
me
.”

“Certainly I cared for you!” Halcombe roared. He
stood, grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. “I’m not so
paltry a man that I’d marry someone only for money. You are not the
sole heiress in the world. I could have had my pick of them!”

Frances stood like a stone, but she was anything but
calm. Halcombe saw the racing pulse beating in her neck and felt
her blood heating even through the fabric of her sleeves. Her voice
shook. “Tell me, please, of just one instance that you spent a day,
an afternoon, an
hour
with me—from the time we arrived here
until the time I left—outside of my bedchamber. Just one.” She
stared at him defiantly and then pushed him away. “Let me go.”

Stunned into silence for the second time that
evening, he made no effort to hold her.

“We dined together most evenings,” he said after a
while, a sick feeling growing in him as he realized that what she
claimed was true. He did not remember a single time they had spent
together except in her bed.

“We dined with your mother,” Frances said wearily,
her face now pale with exhaustion.

Halcombe felt a similar fatigue. Not the good healthy
weariness that came from being outdoors all day, but a dragging
weight in his limbs that made moving an effort. “I see. That is why
you said, on that first day, that you did not think I cared whether
you were here or not. And that is why you stayed so long in
Portugal?”

“Partly.”

Her eyes held such sadness and regret it was
difficult to voice the next question, but he knew it would haunt
him if it was left unanswered.

“You said it was not punishment…it was not an attempt
to hurt me as I had hurt you. Was it a lie?”

“No! I knew you did not see what was happening. I was
at fault as well, for shrinking into corners and not telling you of
my feelings.” She stepped forward and touched his cheek, no more
than a feather’s brush over his skin. “Put it behind you, Richard,
as I am trying to do.”

He took her hand and folded it between his. “You said
partly. The other reasons?” He stepped back and dropped her hand
abruptly. “I
need
to know, Frances.”

“Yes.” The word stretched out as a sigh. “And so you
shall, but not tonight. I think we have been through enough for
tonight.” Another ghostly brush of her fingers on his cheek and she
was gone.

Halcombe stared at the door as if she might reappear
any second, even while he knew she would not. Eventually he
stirred, entered his bedchamber, and opened the drapes to gaze at
the moon-drenched lawn that reached to the glittering waters of the
lake.

What next? You finally have some answers and you do
not like what you heard. Nor does it appear likely you will care
for what is yet to come. Because you can be sure that this is not
finished.

Halcombe considered the conversation he had just had
with his wife. He thought of the tears that had shimmered in her
eyes and the way she had trembled in his arms. He needed the ear of
a good friend, someone who never judged and always listened—he
needed to talk to Summerton.

Go to London. A few days apart might be good for
both of you.

The earl pushed away from his lean on the window
frame and shrugged off his coat. Yes, he would go to London and see
Colin. But this time, he would not just leave a note. This time, he
would take great care to personally inform his wife of his
trip.

Frances was at her dressing table when she heard
Halcombe’s voice request admittance from her maid the following
morning. Joan allowed him entrance and, after a glance at Frances,
heeded her mistress’ almost imperceptible nod and left the
room.

It was the first time he had been in her bedchamber
since her return. Frances felt an inexplicable shyness, a feeling
for which she took herself to task. He had seen her
en
déshabillé
many times, and she was far from
naked
. Clad
in corset, chemise, and petticoats, she was almost as well covered
as if she were fully clothed. Even so, Frances slipped her arms
into the sleeves of her peignoir before turning to face him.

He was dressed more formally than usual, in dove-grey
breeches, a waistcoat of pale yellow, and a form-fitting black coat
that set off his wide shoulders. Faint lines of fatigue bracketed
his mouth. Had his sleep been as restless as hers? If so, it was
the sole indication, for his expression was otherwise that of his
usual cool detachment.

“Good morning. My apologies for intruding so early.”
He moved closer to her. “I wanted to let you know I am going up to
London for a few days. I’ve some business to attend to. Have you
any commissions I can see to while I’m there?”

Halcombe was offering to undertake commissions for
her? When he must know that any matter probably concerned the
household renovations? Not wishing to be at a disadvantage, Frances
rose and tied her sash tautly around her waist.

“It is not too early,” Frances said. She had realized
sometime in the middle of the night that the question of
alterations to the manor had still not been settled and wondered
how much of this sudden trip was owed to last night’s conversation.
Or was it entirely unrelated? Impossible to tell.

“As you know, I visit with Flora in the early
morning,” she said. “Shall I tell her you will not be in to see her
today? At least, I can
try
to explain it to her,” Frances
added. She was not sure Flora understood the concept of time well
enough to comprehend an absence of several days.

His smile was broad and humour gleamed in his
eyes—the first such she had seen in these past weeks and so
infectious that she smiled warmly at him.

“Our daughter has her own little clock, I believe. I
wish you success.”

He stared at the hat in his hands, appeared almost
surprised to see it there, and his voice, when he spoke, held an
uncharacteristic uncertainty. “If you wish to begin some of the
renovations, I have no objections.” He looked at her, the
unrevealing expression once more in place. “I only ask that you
wait until I return before starting any major alterations so we can
plan them together.”

Frances blinked, shocked he had asked rather than
ordered, and was so delighted that she agreed without hesitation.
“Of course.”

“The building is old, and some of your suggestions
may not be feasible without consulting the master carpenter.” Again
a smile lit his face. “I’d prefer not to have any ceilings come
down on our heads.”

“That would be most unfortunate,” Frances said with a
soft laugh. Dare she kiss him good-bye? She gazed at him, the
silence stretching awkwardly until the moment was lost, and with it
her courage.

“I have no commissions, sir,” she said at last, glad
her voice contained none of the longing in her heart. “Thank you
for telling me of your plans. I wish you a safe journey.”

The earl nodded. “I’d best be going.” He turned and
then halted when he reached the door. “By the way, I have sent our
acceptance to a formal dinner party Lady Merton is holding next
week. It will be a good opportunity for you to meet our neighbors
again, as I am certain most of the county will be there. Mr.
Compton has the details.”

He was gone before Frances gathered her wits together
enough to answer. For which she was thankful, since she was sure
her face displayed every bit of the shock and dismay hearing that
woman’s name on his lips provoked. Shakily, she sank onto the
dressing table bench and glared at her white-faced reflection. She
did not want to even be in the same room as Lady Merton, who was no
lady in Frances’ eyes. Nor did she want to accept her hospitality
or eat her food.

Well, the woman would not find Frances so easy a mark
this time. If Richard had continued that liaison, it would end
now
. She did not think he had. Rose, at Frances’ request,
had made discreet inquires amongst the staff—and servants knew
everything
.

This time, Frances had too much at risk—her home…her
family…her
husband—
and she was darn well ready to fight for
them. She jumped up, threw aside her peignoir, and grabbed her
blouse. Rose was right. Frances had to get the man back into her
bed. She was no
femme fatale
but she had read a few books
whilst in Portugal. Some of them had been graphic enough to turn
her scarlet with embarrassment. She was not sure she had the nerve
to actually
do
some of the activities illustrated, but she
had the general idea, and if that is what men liked…

Her spark of determination faded as swiftly as it had
come. Frances rested her head on the bedpost, blouse clutched in
her hand.
Richard does not hate you, or so he claims. And you
had a somewhat meaningful conversation last night, if you can call
it that. Although shouting and cursing at him are not likely to
kindle his affection. While you have made some progress, he is
still a far cry from forgiving you. How can you explain why you
stayed in Portugal so long when you hardly understand it
yourself?

“It felt right at the time,” Frances whispered. Now,
however, her reasoning seemed stupid and selfish.
“What cannot
be cured must be endured.”
The old proverb slid through her
mind, and she took a deep, noisy breath. Perhaps so, but in the
future—why, anything might happen if she wanted it badly enough…and
she
did
want to save her marriage.

“Let me help you, my lady,” Joan said as she hurried
into the room. “The buttons on that blouse can be difficult to do
up.”

The maid sounded so horrified to think her mistress
might attempt to dress herself that Frances smiled, stifling the
impulse to tell her that she had dressed alone many times. The
young woman had her job to do and took her work seriously.

Frances also had work to do, and Flora was waiting.
It was time to stop mooning about and get started on the
day
.
A day that must include a serious discussion with Joan
as to what to wear to Lady Merton’s—and whether there was enough
time to have a new evening gown made up and sent from London.
Frances might have many a worthier problem to address, but not one
of more importance right now. No matter how frivolous and petty it
was, she planned to look positively
stunning
at that
party!

***

Frances was busy all day with one thing or another.
She allowed time for a morning walk with Flora and delighted in the
exuberant curiosity the child exhibited over every squirrel and
bird, not to mention any sign of a horse. Halcombe had already
purchased a pony for her. Frances believed Flora was far too young
for riding lessons, but could only trust that he would see the
child came to no harm.

After returning a sleepy Flora to her nursemaid,
Frances worked steadily in her office until Benson announced a
visitor in mid-afternoon. Mr. Jensen. Frances debated whether to
see him or not. A courtesy call, she supposed, for the trifling
service yesterday. Was it only yesterday? Somehow it seemed much
longer. She could see no reason to put him off and was not averse
to a short respite herself.

“Very well, Benson. Have Mr. Jensen wait in the
library whilst I change my dress. Ask Cook to send up some
refreshments and tell Joan I need her.”

“Yes, madam.”

Frances locked her papers in a drawer and went off to
change her dress and have Joan arrange her hair into a more
becoming style than simply pulled into a twisted knot. Feeling much
refreshed, Frances entered the library a short time later, along
with her maid and a footman bearing a laden tray. Frances did not
expect her visitor to be overly forward, but she did not want to
raise any eyebrows.

“Mr. Jensen, good afternoon. How nice of you to
call.” The room was amply lit by the afternoon sun. Frances had to
admit the man was handsome. Blond hair, cut in what she imagined
was the latest fashion, set off his perfectly classical
features—truly an Adonis, as she had thought before. She swallowed
the urge to laugh at her fanciful idea as he turned to greet her
and bow over her hand.

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Halcombe. I wanted to
thank you again for your help yesterday.”

“I am happy I could be of assistance.” Frances
gestured to a pair of chairs flanking the small table holding the
tray. “Please have a seat, Mr. Jensen. Might I offer you some
refreshment? Tea or lemonade?”

“Some lemonade, please,” he said with a smile. He
waited until Frances was seated and took the chair opposite.

The footman served Jensen his drink and then looked
at Frances.

“Tea for me, Evans.” Frances stirred some sugar into
her cup and chose a pastry. “Cook’s sweets are excellent, sir. Do
try one.”

“Thank you. I’m sure they are delicious.” Jensen put
several of the tiny fruit tarts on a plate. “This is a fine room,
my lady.” He looked around in obvious approval. “You have an
extensive collection, I see.”

Frances smiled, gratified by the compliment. She
was
proud of the library, and not solely because she loved
books. The newly polished mahogany paneling gleamed and the brass
fittings glowed with repeated polishings. With the removal of dust
from the handsome damask draperies and beautifully patterned
carpet, the room invited one to relax in one of the big leather
chairs and read. The single chamber in the manor that did not
require redecorating, Frances had set an army of servants to clean
it within a day of her return.