A Love Laid Bare (17 page)

There was a part of him that liked the idea of being
her jailer—keeping her isolated, naked and vulnerable, and pleading
for the barest scrap of clothing. Would she lash out at him? Cry
for forgiveness? Or beg him to touch her.

Hell and damnation!
The picture in his mind
was so clear that he stopped midway on the stairs, gripping the
banister hard enough to hurt his palms. Frances, on her knees, hair
flowing over breasts and shoulders, her arms upraised in
supplication. Frances, obeying his every whim, desperate to please
him.

Cursing silently at his wayward manhood—the damn
thing was hard as a rock—Halcombe focused on the intricate grain of
the glossy wood under his hands.
Think of something else, you
idiot. The stable. That’s it. A nice solid—ha, ha—subject. Do we
need to enlarge what we have or build an entirely new
structure?
Gradually his heartbeat slowed, his breath steadied,
and he felt able to move. Perhaps he was going mad, imagining a
scene as fanciful as any two-penny novel.
And if you do not
already have bats in your belfry, Frances will put them
there.

A fortifying anger filled him and swept away any
lingering lust. Frances, their situation, his father—every facet of
it was infuriating. So it was in no good temper that he entered the
huge dining room and the sight that greeted him only served to
stoke his ire—Frances, standing at one end of the long table, where
two place settings were laid out across from each other and not at
their previous positions at opposite ends.

“Good evening, sir.” After one look at his face, she
said nothing else and merely moved aside while the footman pulled
out her chair.

“Lady Halcombe.” Halcombe allowed the footman to seat
him as well and serve the first course before speaking again. “Do
you
ever
plan to consult me before making changes?”
Soft-spoken as it was, the comment had a bite to it and Frances’
mouth tightened.

“I had no idea so minor a matter required your
permission, sir,” she said, her calm voice at odds with the
irritation in her eyes. “In the future, I shall be sure to confer
with you—should you happen to be available.”

Halcombe had to admire her nerve. If ever a person
had altered, his wife had—whether for the better, time would tell.
Surprisingly, he had a preference for this Frances.

“Very good, my dear. A fine hit,” he drawled. “You
have apparently grown quite clever in your absence.”

She flinched at the sarcasm, but her reply came
smoothly, along with a lift of her brows that called his manners
into question. “I have long been ‘quite clever,’ sir, but perhaps
you overlooked it ere now.”

Swallowing a laugh, he applied himself to his capon.
Cooked to so tender a state that the meat literally fell from the
bones, and smothered with the rich sauce he favored, it was worth
his attention. Although he was loath to admit it, and would
not
tell her so, the food was now served hot and the taste
of it had improved since she began supervising the staff.

Frances also seemed to be enjoying the meal. He had
noted that she was not a robust eater, at least not in his
presence. Since she did not appear unhealthy, however, he supposed
she ate more at other times of the day. These tense mealtimes were
certainly no aid to the appetite. Why he chose to subject
himself—and her—to them was beyond him.

The edge of his hunger appeased, Halcombe leaned back
in his chair, glass in hand, and observed as Frances directed the
footman to clear the plates and serve the second course: thick
slices of beef, roasted carrots seasoned with onion, and fresh peas
and asparagus in butter and cream.

Other than a casual comment on the welcome
availability of fresh spring vegetables, the earl made no attempt
to initiate any conversation. He was content to dull the edge of
his temper with the enjoyment of a good meal. They would be in
conflict soon enough.

“Have the final course brought in, please, Evans, and
another bottle of wine for his lordship,” Frances said when they
had finished. She glanced at Halcombe to see if he was agreeable,
and when he nodded, she added a request for some sugared almonds
and dismissed the footman.

The earl eyed her curiously. So he was not alone in
wishing to converse about something other than the weather. He
looked around the dark-paneled room, so large that the candelabras
on the table and sideboard did no more than create an oasis of
light in the otherwise gloomy chamber. It was not his choice of
venue for what was sure to be a distasteful discussion. But then,
why not? At least there was no bed nearby to tempt him.

They ate in silence for a time, with Frances taking
one bite to every three of his. She refused the pie, agreed to a
sliver of cheese, and allowed him to refill her glass.

“Flora eats more than you do,” he commented without
rancor. He wiped his mouth on his serviette, refilled his own
glass, and pushed their plates aside.

“I am not particularly hungry,” Frances said with a
shrug. “I had some strawberries earlier with Flora. I wanted her to
taste one and she would have it that I eat some as well.”

“Did she like it?”

“Of course. The berries are very sweet.” Amusement
flickered in her eyes. “Flora has a sweet tooth, I’m afraid.”

“Like me,” Halcombe said, absurdly pleased that his
daughter shared this trait.

“Like you.” Frances fell silent, rotating the stem of
her glass round and round, her eyes fixed on her hands.

He waited, realized she was not going to speak
further, and his irritation rekindled, since she had evidently had
something in mind when she changed the seating arrangements. Well
enough.
He
had a great deal to say.

“Mr. Compton informed me of his meeting with you
earlier. He also provided me with an overview of the work you want
done. A rather ambitious undertaking, madam—and one you had no
intention of discussing with me beforehand, I suppose.” His lips
pulled back in a mirthless smile. “Again, I am astonished at your
impudence.” She avoided his gaze, and he slapped a hand on the
table. “Look at me, Frances! Do you truly believe I will allow you
to completely alter my home without so much as a word to me?”

She jumped in her seat and raised her head. “You said
I was free to do what I wanted with the house.” No hint of anger in
that calm voice, but a flush rose in her cheeks and her jaw tensed.
“And there is no need to shout. I can hear perfectly well.”

Halcombe caught her hand in his and leaned toward
her. “Then you will clearly understand this. I
will
be a
party to any changes.”

She twisted from his grasp. “You never indicated that
you had the slightest interest in this house. Or in what I do or
not do, for that matter.” She raised her chin and met his glare
coolly. “You needn’t worry. I will bear most of the expense
personally.”

His teeth clenched. “You will
not
,” he bit
out, “and that is not the issue here. Of course I have an interest
in my surroundings. Dammit, this is my
home!”

“Is it? Is it really? Those fields and stables and
barns are your home!” Frances gestured wildly toward the heavily
draped window. “This building is naught to you but a place to eat
and sleep—and copulate, when it suits you.” She stood, pushed back
her chair with enough force to topple it on its side, and turned
her back to him.

Stunned that she would use such a word—
dare
to
say it to him!—Halcombe stared at her in shock, equally appalled at
the bitter note in her voice. He rose and leaned toward her.
“Frances…”

“Don’t! Don’t say anymore.” She shuddered and pressed
her hands to her eyes. “I am sorry I said that. You have a gift for
making me lose my temper. Perhaps we should continue this
discussion at another time.”

“No, we will not put it aside again. We do this too
often, because avoidance is so much easier.” In a few steps, his
hands were on her shoulders, making her face him. He’d thought to
see tears. Instead, she presented him with a dry-eyed, emotionless
mask and he felt a painful sense of loss.

“If we are going to live together in any sort of
harmony, some accommodation must be made on both our parts,”
Halcombe said quietly.

“And how do you propose to do so? When you make your
hatred for me obvious?”

“You mistake the matter if you believe I hate you.”
She tried to ease from his hold and his grip tightened. “Even
knowing you
chose
to stay away, I have never hated you.” He
felt her tremble and released her with a muffled curse.

Halcombe splashed some wine in a glass and gulped it
down. “It is a hard thing to forgive, or accept…that a man’s wife
would prefer not to return to him—and kept the knowledge of his own
child from him. Why, Frances? What caused you to feel so
desperately unhappy here that you couldn’t bear to come back?”

She gazed at him for some minutes, her expression
more contemplative now, as if she were weighing her words. He
braced for more lies, or a refusal to tell him anything at all.
And what will you do if she refuses to answer, or you don’t like
what you hear? What then?
God only knew. He hated the feeling
of helplessness she engendered in him.

“It was more a case that I was
not
happy,
without knowing why. I was young, in love, and had no experience to
draw upon; no examples of what marriage should be other than my
parents. This world is very different than that of my mother and
father, isn’t it?” She lowered her lashes and toyed with the fringe
of her shawl, avoiding his gaze. “I was led to believe, by your
mother and her friends, that a purposeless life was normal for a
woman in the world of the rich and titled. That I was expected to
do nothing, and think of nothing but fashion and entertainment.”
She looked up. “I am not blameless, since I made no effort to
question it. You appeared to think it the normal way of things, and
I was terrified of shaming you. I knew nothing of your world.”

Frances hesitated, and with a queer catch of breath,
added, “It was a difficult transition for me.” Then, in a voice so
low he barely heard her, “I was used to having some value, you see,
other than in the bedchamber.”

She thought her worth was solely as a bedmate?
Surely you misunderstood
. Shaken by this revelation, if he had
indeed heard her correctly, Halcombe said curtly, “I prefer to
continue this discussion where there is no chance of
interruption.”

He took her arm, grabbed the opened bottle, and swept
them out and up the stairs into the sitting room adjoining his
bedchamber. His suite was positively where he had
not
wanted
to be, but this encounter promised to be too fraught with emotion
to continue in the cold and cavernous dining room. He wanted
Frances seated, where he could watch her face—and halt any attempt
to flee, as she had done before.

“Sit,” he ordered, before she said a word. He poured
wine into one of the glasses always at hand on the sideboard and
handed it to her. Brandy for him, and he welcomed the bite of the
stronger spirit as it poured down his throat. After refilling his
glass, he took up a position at one side of the unlit fireplace,
his back against the surround.

“Tell me once more, Frances, so I am quite certain I
understand what you said—something about only being useful as a bed
partner?” Skepticism coloured his tone, in spite of his
efforts.

Frances’ eyes narrowed. She set her glass on a table,
the contents untouched.

“This is useless, since you evidently feel anything I
say is a lie.” She gave him a mocking, derisive smile. “Very well.
I was joyously happy here. I stayed in Portugal because I am a
heartless, selfish jade who never gave so much as a farthing about
anyone else. So be it.” Frances rose, her head averted, and moved
toward the door.

“Damnation!” Halcombe dropped his glass, ignoring the
brandy spreading across the table, and intercepted her before she
had taken two steps. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He spun her
around and forced her chin up. “Damnation,” he repeated in a low
voice, his anger draining away when he saw her tear-drenched eyes
and trembling mouth.

The earl wiped away the teardrops clinging to her
eyelashes with his thumb. “I cannot seem to be rational around you.
If I agree to listen,
really listen
, will you stay?” He
waited, his eyes never leaving her face, until something eased in
her expression and she blinked back the tears.

“If you wish,” She eased from his grip and went back
to her chair. “And if you will also be seated. Having you stand
glaring at me is not a comfortable thing.”

“I will, but first…” He looked at the spirit dripping
onto the carpet with distaste and then went into his bedchamber and
returned with a length of toweling.

“That stain will never come out,” Frances said,
watching as he righted the glass and soaked up the liquid with the
cloth.

He stuffed the cloth into the empty glass and
shrugged. “They can always use it in the stable.” He wiped his
hands on another piece of toweling, tossed it onto the sideboard
tray, and sat in a chair opposite to her. Leaning forward, he
tented his fingers in front of his chest.

“Before anything else, I want you to know that I
never thought you to only have worth in my bed. You are a lovely,
intelligent woman. Any man would be proud to have you as his wife.
I find it hard to believe you thought otherwise of me.” His mouth
twisted. “Not a very flattering opinion of a man.” Halcombe saw
words forming on her lips and held up a hand.

“You were close to your father. I know that, and
perhaps it was more difficult than I realized for you to lose his
companionship. But, Frances, you knew marriage was different and
that I could not be with you for hours every day as he was.”