A Love Laid Bare (27 page)

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.

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.

The sound of doors opening and closing, the heavy
footsteps of the servants laden with buckets of water, and a murmur
of voices drifted into the room. Her bath was almost ready.

“It’s always up to the woman to take the first step,
men being as prideful as they are.” Frances’ conversation with Rose
came back to her while she brooded, denied, and cursed Richard for
his hurtful words. It was so unfair, which was an incredibly stupid
thought, seeing that life was not fair most of the time, for
anyone.

Richard was wrong. She did not run along roughshod
with no regard for others. She
was
too impatient at times,
unwilling to wait for people to make up their minds. Life was so
short, so full of perils that might take you at any time. And there
were too many possible futures that she could not foresee, or
control.