A Love Laid Bare (22 page)

“You are not that good an actress. You have no
choice, so make the best of it,” she muttered, tossing aside the
bedcovers. She sat up, swiped at her eyes and sniffed. Joan would
soon appear to help her dress. Frances did not want to give the
servants anything else to gossip about. Her return and Halcombe’s
obvious hostility—
their
hostility—had already provoked
enough speculation.

Rising, Frances put on her peignoir and went to look
once more at the evening dress that hung on the open door of the
wardrobe. She may be miserable, but by heaven, she would be well
dressed! The gown was a wonder and just gazing at it raised her
spirits. Frances folded back the cloth wrap that protected the
luxurious fabric. The white crepe robe, worn over a white satin
slip, had a shot sarsenet overskirt woven in multiple shades of
rose. The long, full sleeves, gathered at regular intervals, were
ornamented with gold ribbon that matched the trimming along the
scalloped neckline and the bands of wider ribbon around the hem. It
was the most beautiful dress Frances had ever owned and was perhaps
too elaborate for a country party, an idea which bothered her not
at all. She was already a subject for gossip—a little more hardly
mattered. She was determined to look nothing like that schoolgirl
who had married an earl.

Slippers of white satin, a carved ivory fan that Aunt
Olivia had given her, and her mother’s necklace of gold and pearls
completed the ensemble. Joan was skilled at hairdressing, and
eager, Frances knew, to do something with her mistress’ thick mane
besides twisting it into a knot or braid.

“Good morning, my lady,” Joan said brightly as she
entered with a tray in her hands.

Startled, Frances swung around. The cheerful greeting
grated, but nonetheless Frances forced a smile. It was not Joan’s
fault Frances felt so ill humoured today.

“Good day, Joan.” While the maid set out tea and a
plate of buttered toast, Frances used the commode, cleaned her
teeth and washed. She would have a bath later, prior to dressing
for the evening. She was fortunate in having a separate room for
bathing and other necessities. The accommodations were perhaps
somewhat antiquated, but it was convenient.

Half listening to Joan’s prattle while she thought
about what needed doing today, Frances nibbled at her toast. Very
little, she decided. Today was ‘great hall day’. Some of Halcombe’s
men were going to prepare the walls for an application of varnish.
The ancient battle flags had been carefully removed and packed away
in the attics along with the suit of armour and battle-axes. The
flagstone floor had received the first of what Frances felt sure
would be multiple cleanings, and the huge fireplace had been swept
out and the chimney blocked. It was never used and only served to
funnel cold air into an already chilly area. All in all, the task
was a major upheaval, and one that did not require her supervision.
In fact, Frances preferred to avoid it as much as possible.

“I plan on riding today,” Frances said, finishing the
last of her tea. “Please send word to the stables that I will need
Jim this morning directly after I see Lady Flora.” Unconsciously,
her brow furrowed. It seemed that she was becoming predictable in
her activities—play with Flora, a morning ride or walk, meet with
Cook, supervise work on the house, write letters. Perhaps this
dinner party would shake her out of this rut she had fallen
into.

Frances scowled. What she needed was a
husband—
a friend to talk to, to do things with…a strong body
to curl around her in bed and keep her safe and warm.

That she did not was entirely her fault. She should
have contacted Richard when she reached Portugal, instead of
putting it off day after day while she wallowed in self-pity
because her husband had a mistress and did not love his wife—a
relationship which described half the marriages in England! Why
expect hers to be any different?

Bah. These thoughts are useless. Done is done and
cannot be changed. It is the future that counts now
. Frances
knew it was up to her to see that it was a worthy one.

***

Although Frances seldom devoted huge amounts of time
to her wardrobe or adornment, she had spent the better of three
hours preparing for Lady Merton’s dinner party. An effort that was
amply rewarded by the look of appreciation in Halcombe’s eyes when
she descended the stairs to where he waited below.

He, too, was handsomely clothed, and Frances felt an
instant tug of desire. His coat of deep blue superfine fitted
snugly over his shoulders and offset a brilliantly white shirt and
a waistcoat of pale gold. His cravat was tied in a complex knot and
an ornately fashioned gold stickpin was nestled in the center of
the sharply creased folds.

When she reached him, he took her hand. “You look
lovely,” he said.

His touch was warm and she wanted to strip off her
glove and twine her fingers with his. “Thank you,” Frances
murmured, and contented herself with holding fast to his hand. In a
breathy voice that betrayed her disquiet, she added, “You are very
fine tonight.”

He released her, but remained close—so close that his
breath fanned the curls Joan had left loose to soften the intricate
arrangement of Frances’ hair. She stared at him, lost in longing,
as he touched the necklace twined around her throat.

“This is exquisite. Was it your mother’s?”

His palm brushed her skin and Frances felt a flush
rise in her face.

“Yes,” she breathed. She wanted to say more, but fear
of spoiling the brief interlude held her silent.

“You must forgive me. I realize now that I have never
offered you any of the family jewelry. Perhaps next time you might
choose to wear something from the collection.”

He studied her with an intensity that made her breath
catch. Flustered, and afraid of what he might see in her eyes,
Frances stepped aside. “We should go,” she said, deploring the
breathless timbre of her voice.

“As you wish.” Halcombe turned, took his hat and
gloves from Benson, and held out his arm. “Madam?”

“Thank you.” Frances winced inwardly, appalled at her
inability to say little more these past ten minutes. She laid her
hand on his forearm, nodded to the butler, and walked sedately
beside Halcombe to the waiting carriage.

Still tongue-tied, and with her husband now seemingly
lost in thought, the short journey was made in silence. Frances was
relieved when the vehicle stopped in front of the wide steps that
led up to Lady Merton’s imposing residence. Merton House was
Georgian in architecture. Although not as large as some she had
seen in paintings and guidebooks, it was an impressive building and
conveyed a grace that suited its mistress.

Swallowing against the sudden dread roiling her
stomach, Frances remained silent as they walked up the steps. She
was aware of Halcombe’s curious glance at her and wondered what he
saw on her face to make his mouth tighten so. Or perhaps it was due
to his own thoughts—thoughts of seeing his lover…his
paramour…whatever label one uses to describe a woman such as Lady
Merton.

Slut!

The memory of a caricature she had seen in a London
newssheet crossed her mind. It depicted an ostensibly well-born
woman in an amorous dalliance with her lover while being secretly
observed by several other gentlemen. It had been ridiculously
overblown, of course. Frances doubted Lady Merton was
that
free with her favors. But the picture of her hostess’ face,
replacing that of the hapless female in the cartoon, had so bracing
an effect that Frances was able to face the woman with a smooth
nonchalance that resulted in a narrow-eyed look of reappraisal as
she received Frances.

The alluring smile Lady Merton bestowed on Halcombe
when he moved forward was both annoying and disturbing, causing
Frances to smile more warmly upon Paul Jensen than perhaps was
proper as he bowed over her hand. His was a familiar face and she
sensed an ally of sorts, although she could not help being curious
as to whether or not he was another of the viscountess’ lovers. The
lady was quite beautiful. Knowing she herself did not hold a candle
to the older woman was lowering.

Frances followed a footman into a large salon,
Halcombe a few steps behind her. That he had not lingered pleased
her, and she slowed and looked gratefully at him. “Will you join me
in greeting our neighbors? I believe I remember most, but I did not
know them well and may falter on some names.” Her gaze rested on a
young woman sitting on one of the couches alongside her companion.
Frances’ smile grew wider. “Except for Mary, of course.” The
widowed Lady Alten was near to Frances in age and in the past weeks
they had become close friends. They had met at church soon after
Frances’ return and formed one of those immediate inexplicable
friendships that life sometimes granted.

The earl stopped before a middle-aged couple engaged
in conversation with two young ladies and a splendidly dressed
youth, all obviously their offspring. Squire and Mrs. Dalmen
addressed them cordially, with no indication that Frances had been
away for so long, and proceeded to introduce the three children,
although Frances felt certain she had met both of the girls at one
time or another.

They all stood chatting for a short time, Frances’
attention divided between the conversation and a desire to search
the salon for other familiar faces. Dr. Walton and his wife were
there, as was the headmaster of a highly reputed boy’s school. The
headmaster, she recalled, was somehow related to a duke. The
remaining guests all appeared to be strangers—down from London, she
supposed—and Frances resigned herself to a series of introductions.
The majority of them were probably friends of Lady Merton’s, and as
such, not high on any list of people she wanted to meet or talk to.
And aren’t you the snob, Lady Halcombe. In all likelihood, these
folks are very nice!

Frances was suddenly drawn from her thoughts by Paul
Jensen’s quiet voice in her ear.

“You are looking very well, my lady.” He chuckled. “I
won’t say you are beautiful—which you clearly are—lest you accuse
me of plying you with Spanish coin.”

Frances turned, her mouth curling with amusement. “No
lady is averse to compliments, sir, even if she does suspect her
admirer of exaggeration.” She murmured her excuses to the group
around her and allowed Mr. Jensen to guide her away to meet some of
the other guests. Halcombe, she noticed, had been just as
skillfully detached by Lady Merton and led in the opposite
direction to begin another round of introductions.

The conversations with Lord and Lady this or that
were as superficial as Frances had anticipated, but agreeable
enough. Paul Jensen remained by her side until dinner was
announced, escorted her to the dining room, and graciously seated
her to his right.

Halcombe was, of course, seated at their hostess’
side. Frances expected as much, given his rank, but the sight of
the woman leaning close to him as they conversed, made her head
ache. Deliberately refraining from watching them, Frances forced
gaiety into her voice as she spoke first with Mr. Jensen, and then
listened with grave attention to Squire Dalmen, who was seated to
her right. The meal, although nicely prepared and delicious, was
overly long in her opinion. The entrance of the footmen with
decanters of port for the men, indicating an end to the ordeal, was
such a relief that Frances stood almost before Lady Merton nodded
to signal for the ladies to depart.

After a visit to the withdrawing room set aside for
the use of the female guests, Frances returned to the salon and
went at once to join Mary, thus avoiding Lady Merton. Frances had
managed to get through most of the evening without exchanging more
than a word or two with the woman, which had left her ability to
remain civil wholly untested—and better so.

At Mary’s welcoming gesture, Frances took the just
vacated place of Mrs. Norton, Mary’s companion, and reached out to
clasp her friend’s hand for a moment. “I am sorry I have not
returned your last call,” Frances said with an apologetic smile.
“Things have been rather at sixes and sevens recently, but that is
no excuse. How have you been, my dear?” Frances thought her friend
was too pale and much too thin. She was in mourning, true, but so
slow a recovery seemed unusual. Especially since Frances suspected
that the late Lord Alten had not been an easy man to live with. An
impression gleaned more from Mary’s tone of voice when she spoke of
him than any disparaging comments

Mary’s smile lit her face, erasing the sad cast in
her expression. “Think nothing of it. I am sure you are impossibly
busy. I am glad to see you so well recovered from your ordeal,
Frances. You and Flora have amazing resilience.”

“It
was
a difficult situation,” Frances said.
“It is nice to be home though,” she added with a small smile.

The men had begun to wander in while they talked and
Frances looked around for her husband. Halcombe was at Lady
Merton’s side at one end of the room, listening with apparent
attentiveness to her animated discourse. Paul Jensen stood apart
from the others, his gaze alternating between his
hostess—lover?—and Frances. Hurriedly, she returned her attention
to her companion, but the young woman’s gaze had followed Frances’
and a question appeared in her eyes.

Frances gave Mary a quick, mischievous grin. “Mr.
Jensen and I met several days ago and he is, I suspect, inclined to
a mild flirtation.” Her smile faded and she shrugged. “Although
why, when he appears to be
quite
comfortable with his
beautiful hostess, I cannot imagine.”

“Because you are pretty and charming, dear Frances,
and Mr. Jensen strikes me as being among those gentlemen who are
naturally flirtatious.”