A Love Laid Bare (23 page)

The shadow of Mary’s companion suddenly fell across
them. Mary’s smile disappeared under the stern gaze of Mrs. Norton.
At some unspoken command, Mary rose and held out her hand to
Frances. “Do come to share a luncheon with me so we can visit
longer. Is Thursday too soon?”

Frances took her hand and stood. “I will be happy to
join you and Thursday is fine.” She watched as Mary moved through
the room saying her farewells, Mrs. Norton sticking like a burr to
Mary’s side. The companion’s habit of hovering was something
Frances had noticed before. Something was definitely amiss there.
Francis vowed to get to the bottom of it when she and Mary next
met—if, of course, they could manage a few minutes alone.

“You and Lady Alten are good friends.”

There was a note of inquiry in Paul Jensen’s voice.
Frances looked over to find him beside her. “Yes, although I do not
see her as often as I would like.”

“You are busy these days, I imagine,” he said with a
look that told Frances he was aware of the reason she was so
occupied.

“That, sir, is an understatement.” Frances’ eyes
widened. “You must have heard that I have been away for almost two
years. Certainly the entire story is being bandied about by one and
all,” she said dryly. “You needn’t mince words!”

“I would not dream of it,” Jensen said, laughing. “I
admire you for not bowing to the gossip.” He bestowed a warm look
upon her. “You are obviously not one to pay mind of what is said of
you, good or bad.”

Frances chuckled. “Gracious, you make me sound quite
callous. Perhaps rightly so, but I prefer to think the direction my
life took during those many months has led to a belief that life is
too precious to allow the opinion of others to determine my
actions.”

Halcombe’s voice interrupted. “Madam.”

Frances turned to face him, her heart jolting at the
unexpected glitter in his eyes.

“It is time we started home.”

He gripped her elbow tightly, and Frances stepped
closer in an effort to ease the discomfort. “Of course,” she said
readily. Ignoring the cold glare and curt nod he awarded Jensen,
Frances smiled at the man. “Good evening, Mr. Jensen. It may be
that we will meet again before you return to London.”

Jensen wisely made no attempt to prolong the
conversation. He bowed and quietly wished them good evening.
Frances was aware of his eyes on her as they crossed the room at a
pace much faster than Mary had undertaken earlier. Halcombe’s
farewells were short and generally addressed, with Frances a
less-than-willing participant as he impatiently forestalled any
attempt she made to pause and speak to anyone.

Until, of course, they reached Lady Merton.

“Victoria.” Halcombe freed Frances and bowed. “Thank
you for your hospitality.”

Lady Merton placed a hand on the earl’s arm and
looked wistfully at him. “Richard,” she said in a purring voice.
“It was my pleasure. I am sorry you feel the need to run off so
early. I hope another time you can stay longer, when you are not so
encumbered by your responsibilities.” She then turned to Frances
and smiled with sickening sweetness. “My dear child. I’m so glad we
had this chance to further our acquaintance. And I am delighted to
see that you appear to have
almost
recovered from your
dreadful experience. Do call on me some day. I should love to
compare notes on your stay in Portugal. It is such a beautiful
country. I quite fell in love with it when I was there.”

Rigid with fury, Frances tipped her head in the
barest of nods. “Why, someone mentioned just this evening that you
had traveled there with your parents soon after your presentation,
Victoria
. I’m sure the countryside has changed very little
since then, although it
was
many years ago.” She wrapped her
arm around her husband’s and moved closer to him. “You won’t want
to keep your horses standing, Richard. Shall we go?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

Giving neither his hostess nor his wife another
glance, Halcombe guided Frances from the room, and if he heard what
sounded remarkably like a hiss behind them, he gave no indication
of it. Frances, however, welcomed the evidence that her barb had
hit home. While she herself had few advantages over the worldlier
viscountess, relative youth was one of them. Beautiful women
loathed admitting their age more than most, she had noticed, and
the woman
was
some years older than Frances.

Once the doors closed behind them, Frances released
her ill-mannered husband, hurried to the waiting carriage, and
allowed a footman to assist her into the vehicle. She settled as
far back into one corner as possible, leaned her head on the
cushions and closed her eyes. Her chest ached with the effort to
swallow the sobs that threatened her composure. Her hands were
shaking and the delectable meal she had enjoyed earlier in the
evening was now a heavy weight in her stomach.

Thank heaven it was not far to Halcombe Manor.
Frances longed for the privacy of her bedchamber. Given the latest
turn in her conversation with Lady Merton, Frances wished she had
consumed more of the wine served at dinner and less of the food.
But she had not dared risk losing her head—or loosening her
tongue.

Her husband had not been so reticent, allowing his
glass to be refilled with every course, and he had surely had
several glasses of port after the meal. Despite this, he did not
appear to be affected—men did not, it seemed. Just one more
advantage they had over women. Not that she wanted to become sodden
with drink, but at times it might be gratifying to indulge in just
a little more than was proper.

She felt the lurch of the carriage as Halcombe
climbed in and sat on the opposite bench. He signaled the coachman
and they were away.

“You appeared to have enjoyed yourself tonight.”
Richard spoke so suddenly that Frances jumped. “Although you and
Lady Merton did not seem to be on the friendliest of terms. In
fact, you seem to have taken her in aversion.” He hesitated, and
then added in a voice devoid of any inflection whatsoever, “That
was a rather spiteful comment, Frances.”

Frances opened her eyes and peered warily at him
through the darkness. Surely he was not implying that any sort of
friendship was possible between them—his mistress and his wife? She
choked on the thought and a cleansing anger swept through her.
Halcombe dared to take her to task? When she had been deliberately
slighted by her hostess?

“Was it? I had no idea it could be so misconstrued,”
Frances said in a dulcet tone. “But I must advise you that Victoria
and I will likely never become more than just acquaintances—I fear
we have very little in common, sir.”

“I desire no such thing. I would have you be civil,
however.”

There was a distinct edge to her husband’s voice and
Frances gasped. Even he did not have that much effrontery! No, more
than her little spat with Lady Merton was at play here.

The air between them seemed to vibrate with his ire,
or some other suppressed emotion she was unable to determine.
Frances again closed her eyes. Whatever it was, it boded ill and
she wanted no part of it.

Halcombe wanted a drink. He was just enough under the
hatches to threaten his hard-won control, but not enough to fully
erase the sight of his wife smiling at the much-too-handsome
European. He suspected the man was Victoria’s lover, which said
something about her protestations of love for
him
. But he
had quickly learned that she was not a woman to allow her bed to
remain empty for long. Thank God he had come to his senses years
ago, when he discovered the sort of female she was. The scene she
had subjected him to after his marriage to Frances—in his own house
no less—had been the final chapter in their already precarious
relationship.

Why in God’s name had he taken Frances to task for
her incivility when, in reality, he had nothing but admiration for
her quick response to Victoria’s cuts? His wife’s set-down had been
delivered in so sly a fashion that the slight itself lay buried
under a seemingly innocuous comment.

Damnation! His sweet, child-bride had grown into an
out-going, engaging woman who seemed comfortable in any situation,
with a charming manner that would appeal to almost any man. Where
had she learned all that? In France, buried amongst uneducated
villagers? By her accounts she had been doing little more than
cooking, cleaning and hauling buckets of water. All while big with
his child. He could not help but picture her in a more appealing
state…her breasts full and ripe…her tender nipples ready for
suckling…

Blast it all to
hell
. He should have been
there with her, anticipating the birth of their daughter. It should
have been
his
head at her bosom,
his
hand resting on
her belly, feeling the tiny, precious life moving within
.
He
had been denied the opportunity to experience so many of the
intimate moments that every father had the right to cherish for
himself.

He had missed hearing the unique cry of a newborn
babe when Flora took her first breath. Missed seeing her nestled
securely in his wife’s arms as they celebrated together the blessed
arrival of a
healthy
little girl.

You can still have it—the chance to relish nature’s
gradual transformation of Frances’ body…the chance to savor the
taste of mother’s milk for yourself.

Get her with child.

Halcombe clenched his teeth. He couldn’t escape the
vivid images of he and Frances alone together…their bodies
entwined. He all but leapt from the carriage when it halted at the
bottom of the broad manor steps. His grip on Frances’ arm was
firmer than courtesy allowed and he almost dragged her inside.

“Richard,” she whispered urgently. “What are you
about?”

Halcombe paused in the entryway, struggling to regain
his composure, with little success. He snapped an order to Benson
for some brandy and hurried Frances up the wide stairs and into his
sitting room. “I want a nightcap…
with my wife
,” he snarled.
With a jerk that caused her to flinch, he pulled the wrap from her
shoulders and tossed it aside.

“You had but to ask,” Frances bit out.

“Did I? I have not found you especially accommodating
of late.” His voice held a silky skepticism and her expression
hardened. Pulling off her gloves, she evaded his attempt to grip
her arm.

“Perhaps if you stopped giving orders you would find
me more amenable,” Frances said sharply. She increased the distance
between them, her movements easy, but there was a wary look in her
eyes and the pulse in her throat beat visibly.

Halcombe shrugged out of his coat, dropped it on a
chair, and then stepped toward her, only to be interrupted by a
light tap on the door. He frowned, and barked, “Enter!”

Benson entered with a tray holding a decanter and two
glasses, and at the earl’s gesture, set it on the sideboard. “Shall
I pour, my lord?”

“No. We will serve ourselves. I won’t need anything
else tonight, Benson. Dismiss the other servants as well.”

Impassive, the butler nodded. “Good night, my lord.
My lady.”

Halcombe filled his glass to just below the rim,
drank deeply, and refilled it. He then poured another generous
amount into another goblet. With his eyes hard on his wife’s face,
he walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps. He saw the quick
rise and fall of her breasts as they strained against the low-cut
bodice of her gown. Apprehension flared in her eyes and his cock
hardened.

He ached to have her under him—a woman he hardly
knew, a woman who had betrayed him, and one he did not trust. But
he did not care. Not now, and certainly not for the next hour.
Frances was his dammed
wife.
He owned her, and by heaven, he
would have her.

Richard was drunk. He knew it and he knew he would
regret this later, but every consideration faded as he lifted her
hand and pushed the glass of brandy against her palm. He dipped his
index finger into the spirit and touched the liquid to her
lips.

Instinctively, her tongue flicked outward and she
gasped, her eyes widening. They widened further when he raised the
goblet to her lips. He watched her sip delicately, and then turned
the glass and took more of the warm, fiery beverage into his own
mouth, leaving just enough on the tip of his tongue to kiss her
with it.

“Richard…?” His name came out as both a sigh and a
question and uncertainty tinged her soft voice.

“Hmm…?” Setting the goblet aside, Halcombe undid the
clasp of her necklace and gently laid the pearls on a nearby table.
He cupped her head with one hand and began to remove the pins
holding her hair, locking his eyes with hers as the pins scattered,
unheeded, to the floor. He combed the silky strands with his
fingers, nibbling at her neck and the tender lobe of her ear. She
began to soften against him, and he answered her surrender with a
deep kiss.

Frances moaned and opened to his thrusting tongue.
The taste of the brandy was still on her lips. The scent of her
hair filled his nostrils and he drove his tongue in further, eager
to explore the hot recesses of her mouth. His need for her grew
steadily until his arousal approached the point of pain.

Richard broke the kiss at last and fought to control
the demands of his cock, which was all but insisting that he raise
her skirts and plunge into her,
now.
Her face was flushed
and the green of her eyes had darkened in response to her own
longing. He smiled with grim satisfaction. Whatever else was lost
between them, this was unchanged. Frances may have returned from
the dead under the guise of a cool, guarded stranger, but the
passionate bride he’d introduced to the pleasures of the bed yet
lived.