A Love Laid Bare (24 page)

Tenderly now, Richard covered her mouth with his and
undid the fastenings of her gown, loosening it enough for him to
slide the sleeves from her shoulders. He lifted his head, eased
back, and allowed the bodice to fall to her waist. Her lace-trimmed
corselet pushed her breasts upward, the pale flesh nearly spilling
over the top. He kissed each delectable mound and felt her
tremble.

She raised her hands and ran them over his shoulders.
The warm, almost tentative touch stirred something deep within him.
He swung her into his arms and carried her into his bedchamber. A
few lamps cast a soft glow over the huge bed that dominated the
room.

Richard laid Frances in the center, immobilizing her
with his heated gaze. He removed his shirt and shoes and relished
the flush that crept up from the swell of her breasts and ran along
the graceful arc of her neck to flood her cheeks. No mistaking that
sign. Frances was his wife once more, even if only in this moment,
and just as willing as she had ever been.

Kneeling beside her, he stripped the gown and
petticoats from her slender body and tossed them to the floor.
“Much better,” he said, fumbling at the laces of her corset,
impatient to have her naked.

Frances sat up and reached forward to remove her
stockings.

“No!” He caught both of her hands in one of his and
lifted them over her head. “Lay still… I will do it.”

She stared at him with a puzzled look. “If you
wish…”

Frances might think him a lunatic, but Richard wanted
the luxury of sliding a hand over her shapely limbs as her body was
revealed to him. The corset parted, freeing her breasts, and her
nipples peaked under the thin fabric of her shift. Richard nipped
at one of the tight buds and ran his tongue around the dark
aureole. He took one breast, then the other, into his mouth and
suckled. She moaned and twisted against him, struggling to free her
hands.

Richard lifted his head. “Be…still,” he demanded,
ripping the shift from bodice to hem, grinning fiercely at her
stunned expression.

“Naked, my lady. I want you naked, open.” He
reclaimed her lips, his kiss hard and searching, until she grew
pliant beneath him and her efforts to free herself subsided.

Feeling her submission, Richard released her so that
he could lap at the tender skin below her ear. “Don’t fight me,
Frances. I need you so much,” he murmured. He nuzzled her neck,
reveling in the wild beat of her pulse, and then sat up to finish
disrobing her, rolling each stocking down with excruciating
slowness.

He had pictured Frances like this so often, but this
time she was real, not a dream—hair spread across the pillow, mouth
rosy and lush from his assault, nipples taut and begging for his
touch. She was more curvaceous now, her breasts fuller—truly a
woman and not a girl.

He held her with his gaze while he stripped off his
pants and shirt. He wanted to plunge into her, and feel her moist
heat clench around his rock hard member. The effort to wait, to
give her pleasure and bring her to readiness, made him ache.

“Richard.”

His name on her lips was a caress, her outstretched
arms a siren call. He stroked her body from breast to thigh, his
kiss tender now. He teased her tongue into his mouth. The flutter
of her fingers on his shoulders, sliding over his back with
increasing urgency, fueled his hunger. As his mouth drifted once
again to her breast, a hand trailed across her belly to the silky
hair below. He found the nub of her sex, and her closed her legs
against him in a reflexive motion that halted the tongue circling
upon her nipple. He looked into her eyes, glazed with passion, and
smiled.

“Open for me, Frances.”It was both an order and a
request. She moaned softly and her legs spread, granting him
access. “Yes, just like that,” he said huskily, sliding a finger
inside her. She gasped and twisted under him, crying out his name
when a second finger joined the first and he began stroking her sex
with his thumb. The pace of his caress quickened, his fingers both
gentle and unrelenting, waiting for her sweet plea for release.

“Please, oh please.”

Richard thought his cock would explode if he waited
another instant. He settled himself between her legs and sank into
her, again and again. Her fiery climax exploded around him, and
with a final thrust, his seed pumped into her. The force of it was
almost painful and his shout of pleasure rang out above them.

His breath coming in harsh gasps, Richard lay beside
her. He knew he was too heavy for her, but couldn’t summon the
strength to move. He listened to her heart racing alongside his and
indulged in the sensuous slide of her hands wandering over his back
and shoulders.

Eventually he raised himself up. He grasped her hips
and rolled them both over, so that she now lay atop him and he
remained sheathed in liquid heat. He was not quite ready for this
interlude to end.

Frances snuggled against him, seeming to accept this
position with ease, although he had never done this before—kept her
so close, afterwards. She kissed his chest, her breath steadier
now, and the slender fingers entwined in his hair stilled. He
sensed the moment she fell asleep, her boneless sprawl upon him a
pleasant weight, and he held her, just held her, for a long time.
When the dawn light began to seep around the edges of the window
coverings, he eased from beneath her and carried her to her
bed.

It was better this way, he told himself, watching as
she curled onto her side and hugged her pillow. A smile curved her
lips and he wondered what her dreams held. Something better than
his of late, it appeared. He would not sleep again this night, but
perhaps his present euphoria might remain until he next sought his
bed.

He tucked the coverlet around Frances’ shoulders and
returned to his bedchamber, knowing better than to believe so
fortuitous a feeling could last. Swearing under his breath, he
yanked open the drapes to watch the sun rise.

“Good morning, my lady.”

Joan’s voice scattered the remnants of the wonderful
dream in Frances’ head. She rolled over, reluctant to open her
eyes. It
was
a dream, surely—her husband’s hands roaming her
body, teasing her until she was on fire with longing. But she
smelled him on her, his man-scent and the distinct odor of
lovemaking. A thin ribbon of liquid ran down from between her legs,
tickling her skin on its path to the sheet beneath her. No, it was
not a dream. They
had
made love last night, at his
direction. Frances’ hand moved to rest on her belly. He had shared
his seed—she may already have Richard’s child growing within
her.

He was drunk. It meant nothing. If it was more than
a primal urge you would not wake alone and in your own bed. Don’t
be delusional. Richard wanted a woman last night—you were
available.

But for all her inner warnings, Frances was
encouraged, if solely due to the fact that they had shared
his
bed for the first time. Whether it signified an
improvement to their relationship was uncertain.

She stretched and sat up, and remembered her clothing
was strewn about in wanton abandon in Richard’s suite. What must
his valet be thinking! And Joan, as well, who surely had expected
to find her mistress’ evening gown and undergarments waiting here
for her attention. Ridiculously embarrassed, Frances darted a look
at her maid, slid from the bed, and hurried to attend her morning
ablutions. It was silly—
she
was silly—to think anything of
it. Of course, Joan would assume her mistress and master had
been…involved. She could hardly do otherwise after Halcombe had
sent all the servants to bed.

Shaking her head at her fancies, Frances returned to
her bedchamber. It was past her usual time of rising. Flora and
Nancy would have finished the morning meal long since.

“Are Lady Flora and Nancy in the nursery, Joan?”

“Yes, madam. The weather has turned and they will not
be able to go outside today.”

“Has it?”

Frances walked to the window to view the gloomy
aspect, which she had been too preoccupied to notice earlier. “Yes,
it looks quite uninviting,” she commented. If the heavy mist did
not yet qualify as rain, a downpour was surely on its way. They
would certainly be confined to the house today. Excepting her
husband, of course, who went out rain or shine.

Frances wandered to the table where a tray holding
her morning coffee, a dish of butter, and plate of fresh-baked
bread awaited.

“I will eat before dressing today, Joan. Lay out one
of the warmer gowns, please. It is cooler than it has been lately.”
She poured her beverage from the whimsically shaped pot—a sleeping
calico cat with its ears as part of the lid—and buttered some
bread.

Frances took a bite and began to plan her day. First,
a visit with Flora. There would be no ride today, nor any walks.
But she was sure she and Flora would find something to entertain
themselves.

Then she wanted to see how the work in the great hall
was progressing. After that, a final decision must be made on the
wall hangings for the formal parlour. Along with those tasks she
had her usual activities—meeting with Cook, attending to her
correspondence, and bringing her accounts up to date. It was more
than enough to keep her busy.

When Frances opened the playroom door an hour later,
Lady Flora was not showing any signs of regretting the indoor day.
Father and daughter sat at a table holding a large wooden ark.
Engrossed in moving several beautifully carved and hand-painted
animals into the vessel, they did not hear her enter. Frances
paused to watch them.

Flora’s hair held several bows that were in danger of
dropping out altogether, and her lips were pursed in concentration.
Richard’s head was also bent with grave attention. He had much the
same look of concentration on his face as his daughter. Jacketless,
white shirt loose at the neck and cuffs turned up, he appeared
entirely at ease. His dark hair, a little disheveled, contrasted
with Flora’s strawberry blond curls. Frances knew that when she
greeted them, two pairs of bright blue eyes would simultaneously
peer up at her.

Richard loved the child. It was so obvious a thing
that she wondered why she even remarked upon it. And the love was
fully returned by his daughter—
their
daughter. The truth of
this twisted and turned inside her. Never could she separate them,
no matter what she and Richard made of this marriage.

She walked toward them, smiling at Flora’s attempt to
parrot her father.

“Elephant.”

“El’phant.”

“Sheep.”

“Shee’!”

“Monkey.”

Flora grabbed one of the monkeys in Halcombe’s hand
and jumped it up and down.

“’..kee, ‘kee,’kee!”

“The monkey will be lonely if he cannot stay with his
friend,” Frances said, coming forward and crouching down beside
them. She took the monkey, set it on the ramp with its partner, and
kissed Flora’s cheek. “Good morning, pet. You are having fun, I
see.”

Flora launched herself at her mother who, without
Halcombe’s prompt support, would have crashed to the floor.
“Mama!”

The earl stood abruptly, and scooped Flora up.
“Careful, child. You don’t want to hurt your mother.” He held out a
hand to Frances.

“Thank you. She is sometimes over exuberant,” Frances
said. Shying at the unexpected expression of concern in his eyes,
she brushed at her skirt. “It is a wonderful Noah’s Ark,” she
continued, anxious to fill the sudden, awkward silence. “Where did
it come from?”

Flora wiggled to get down. Richard set her on her
feet and he and Frances watched as she dashed off to play with a
pile of blocks in one corner of the play area. He selected one of
the animals that stood on the deck—a giraffe, Frances noted—and
idly turned it in the palm of his hand.

“It was made for my father by one of the craftsman on
the estate. I remembered playing with it when I was a boy, so I
made arrangements to have it cleaned and repainted.”

Frances stared at the long, strong fingers that
fondled the tiny wooden creature, recalling the times she had felt
the same light touch on her own skin. Heat began to gather in her
belly and her breasts, and she kept her gaze resolutely on the toy.
“It was beautifully done,” she said “and very thoughtful of you.”
She collected several pairs of animals and placed them along the
gangway.

“Frances.”

Frances settled herself with a quick, quiet breath
and looked at him, praying her face held nothing but a friendly
interest.

“I am surprised to see you here, sir. Can it be you
are at times guided by the weather?” she said airily.

Whatever she thought was in his eyes earlier was now
gone. The noncommittal expression he habitually wore was back in
place, and the moment had passed.

“I had thought to take advantage of the rain and
spend some time reviewing the improvements on your list. Perhaps
bring in one of the carpenters to advise us.” He paused, and raised
his brows. “If you are interested.”

Frances smiled, unable to completely conceal how much
she welcomed his suggestion, but she managed to keep her tone as
casual as his. “I would be happy to do so. If you will appoint a
time?”

His mouth quirked. Her attempt to conceal her
enthusiasm was unsuccessful, it seemed. For once his expression
held no animosity and smiling again, Frances touched his arm.

Halcombe stared at her for a long moment, regarded
the hand resting on his arm, and gently removed it. “You will want
some time with Flora, I expect. Shall we say half an hour from
now?”

“Of course.” Absurdly hurt by his subtly dismissive
gesture, Frances nodded coolly and moved away. She should have
known
he would not have miraculously changed overnight, and
fool that she was, had deceived herself into believing otherwise.
You have no right to resent his rejection and if you allow it to
bother you, then you are an idiot.
Frances suppressed a sigh.
So she was an idiot. It could not be helped. Her feelings for her
husband were not something she could simply cast aside. She stood
quietly and waited near the doorway while Richard placed a kiss on
Flora’s head and said goodbye.