A Love Laid Bare (25 page)

Flora looked up from her blocks and smiled. “Papa
go?”

“Papa go,” Halcombe repeated. He nodded briefly at
Nancy, who was now on the floor with her charge, and exited the
room.

Frances stared after him. It was unwise and
unrealistic—this dangerous longing she had to hear him say, “All is
forgiven.” He had not softened, but Frances knew she was partly to
blame for it. She had not yet been entirely open and honest with
him. There were many miles ahead on this path that they were
stumbling along, and they had to meet at the end as equals. They
must
…but how? She had long since realized that a nature such
as hers would never be content with a passive existence under his
rule. Nor did she believe
he
would be happy with her in such
a role.

Stay strong and don’t allow him to ignore your
love
. Just how to achieve this without argument, anger and hurt
was not clear—was, in fact, seemingly impossible. But better anger
than indifference. Frances smiled. She
did
have that
advantage. If there was one thing Richard was not, it was
indifferent.

***

Halcombe had suggested they meet in the library. He
felt it a more neutral setting than in his study, his wife’s
parlour or the adjoining office. Why she found it necessary to have
a separate room as an office, he had not yet determined. Granted,
Frances was active in managing the household—an understatement!—but
what else so occupied her time was a mystery and one he planned to
unravel today.

The earl looked up from the drawing he was examining
when she entered, her arms full of rolls of paper that he suspected
were additional building prints of the manor.

“More?” he asked, and tipped his chin toward her
burden.

“This is all I have found so far,” Frances said
somewhat breathlessly.

Annoyed by her small, tentative smile, which made him
feel a churlish boor, Halcombe frowned. “It seems to be plenty,” he
groused, but he moved forward and took the ungainly load from
her.

Frances stiffened and her smile faded. “I don’t
expect to make changes to every room, sir. It’s merely that I find
the history of the house quite fascinating.” She retrieved several
sheets of paper from the bottom of the rolled prints that he had
tossed on a nearby sofa. “Here are my suggestions, which I believe
you have already seen.”

Halcombe took the proffered lists and summoned a
smile, not so much one of apology as an offer of détente. She was
not an enemy after all, and he had no desire to make her one.

“Yes, I have. And I have also discussed the
improvements with both Mr. Compton and the head carpenter, Matt
Bolling. There are some problems of which you should be aware.”
Halcombe gestured toward another table that held the diagram he had
been studying earlier. “Please.”

Frances looked at him warily, and then nodded, but
her stony expression softened and she walked over to join him. She
examined the print carefully. “Is the problem in the area between
the kitchen, pantries and the dining room?” she asked, as her index
finger touched down upon each room.

She had graceful, slender hands—something he had
often noticed—with long, shapely fingers and delicate wrists. They
had a surprising strength, those hands, yet they were also capable
of imparting a warm, gentle touch, like that which she reserved for
Flora—and also for him. He imagined her hands sliding smoothly over
his shoulders and back, locking behind his head to pull him
close…

Enough! Last night was simply the lamentable
consequence of over imbibing. A mistake he had no intention of
repeating.
It’s said the road to hell is paved with good
intentions, Halcombe. If so, the last thing you need or want is
more hell in your life
.

Pulling his attention back to the drawing, he pointed
at the wall between the kitchen and the maze of small rooms that
were currently used as pantries. “This is a bearing wall, and
seeing as it is some three feet in width, it is not something that
can be removed. I know that you want easier access between the
kitchen and dining room—a meritorious idea—but it cannot be
achieved in this manner.” He looked at Frances then, noted her
forehead furrowed in concentration and the tip of her tongue curled
over her upper lip, and this time his smile was genuine. She looked
much like Flora when the child was engaged in a weighty task.

“May I?” Halcombe pushed aside the various books he
had used to secure the corners of the drawing. The large sheet of
paper rolled inward on itself and he removed it from the pile and
repositioned the books on top of the next sheet to hold it
down.

“As you know, all that remains of the original
building is the great hall tower, for which we should be grateful,”
he said with a laugh. Frances gave him a puzzled look and in answer
to her unspoken inquiry, he added, “It was not the most comfortable
way to live.” He grinned. “Very drafty and damp, I believe.”

Frances smiled, and her eyes met his in good-humoured
agreement. “No doubt,” she allowed.

The earl forced himself to ignore the appealing look
of amusement on her face, and clearing his throat, he continued. “A
fire damaged most of the structure to the right of the tower. It
was torn down and replaced with this wing sometime in the fifteenth
century, and now contains the formal drawing room, a lesser drawing
room, this library, and what was once a music room and is now
empty. All this area, if I understand correctly, you wish to
refurbish with paint, wallpaper, draperies, and so on, along with
the guest bedchambers above.”

“Yes.” Frances leaned one hip on the corner of the
table, her eyes moving from the drawing to his face. If she was
bored with his instruction, she gave no indication of it.

He covered the diagram of the wing to the left of the
tower with his hand. “This presents more of a challenge. The
then-earl was more politically inclined than most of us and spent
some time at Elizabeth’s court. In hopeful expectation, he decided
to modernize the house and make it fit for a monarchial visit.”
Halcombe’s mouth pulled back in a wry smile. “The Queen did come,
almost bankrupting him in the process, but I suppose he was
satisfied that his hope had at least been realized.”

Frances’ brows rose and she blinked. “Our bedchambers
were built for Queen Elizabeth and her attendants?”

“Along with the row of chambers on the opposite side
of the hall, yes—several of which now make up the nursery suite.”
He hoisted himself onto the corner of the table opposite Frances,
braced his body with one arm, and leaned forward. “All but this
small section is new,” he said, pointing at the house print.
Shrugging, he gave her a sly glance. “New being a relative term, of
course.”

“Of course,” Frances said dryly, but her eyes gleamed
with humour.

Halcombe dragged his gaze from her face, now bright
with laughter, and let it drift over the soft strands of red-tinged
hair that had escaped the knot at her neck. He lingered on the soft
flesh beneath her ear—an area that he knew was tender and
delightfully sensitive. A memory he was
not
going to dwell
upon, and he hurriedly continued with his explanation.

“His was not the most capable of architects, which
explains the uneven joining to the tower, but at least he had the
good sense to use stone rather than the wood and lathing design
that was so popular then. Unfortunately, his taste ran to a series
of almost useless—at least to more modern tastes—small chambers,
with the exception of the large drawing room at the front and the
dining room behind it. Most of these little rooms were then
converted to pantries, excepting my study and your sitting room and
office.”

Frances’ brows narrowed, in thought rather than
disapproval, Halcombe guessed, and stood. She moved to his side and
circled the area in question with one finger. Her arm brushed his
and the floral scent of her soap teased his nose. She was
close…
too
close. He straightened and casually edged back,
relieved she did not appear to notice.

“So what you are saying is we cannot open the wall
between the dining room and the rear kitchen. Food still must be
carried along this passageway—one that leads outside and is cold
and drafty—and through five additional rooms the size of large
closets.”

He nodded and took the opportunity to put some
distance between them. “The wall must stay, I’m afraid.” Halcombe
walked to the door, opened it and requested that someone ask
Bolling to come in. “There are, however, other options.”

“And they are?”

“Bolling has some ideas on it. We will wait for him,”
he said, his voice unintentionally hard. This meeting had gone on
far too long for his comfort. Heat pooled in his groin and his jaw
clenched. The room was too warm. Damnation,
he
was too
warm.

Frances glanced at him, and her expression cooled to
indifference. “As you wish.” With her back very straight, she
walked to the window and stared out at the rain.

Halcombe returned to the table and glared at the
drawings that were spread out over it. Devil take it, he had no
reason to feel as if he had just kicked a puppy. All this
renovation was entirely
her
idea and he had no obligation to
feign interest in it. But the tension was almost another presence
in the room, and he welcomed the knock on the door that signaled
the arrival of the head carpenter.

Bolling was a thickset man of middle years, with a
healthy shock of brown hair and alert brown eyes. Born on the
estate, he was a skilled craftsman who had learned his trade from
his father and uncle; both were talented carpenters who were still
active, although they had taken lesser roles in the past few
years.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Hat in hand, Bolling
bent his head to Halcombe and then turned to Frances. “Lady
Halcombe.”

Frances looked up and acknowledged his greeting with
a smile. “Mr. Bolling. I understand you are to tell me how to go on
with these alterations.”

A flush crept under the man’s deeply tanned face.
“Not
tell
you, madam, but I have some suggestions.”

Seeing his obvious discomfort, Halcombe intervened. A
widower, Bolling was not at ease around women, especially his
mistress.

“I’ve explained the problem with the wall to Lady
Halcombe, Bolling, but we have not spoken of the possible
alternatives. You can do that better than I. The drawing is here on
the table. I have some clean paper and a pencil on hand if you want
to sketch a picture of your plans.”

Halcombe relinquished his position to the older man.
Settling into a chair near the table, he stretched out his legs,
and listened to the lively conversation. Frances paid close
attention, a charming little frown creasing her forehead as she
struggled to understand Bolling’s more technical descriptions. The
two of them got along very well, Halcombe noted, and he turned his
thoughts elsewhere.

The current project was not the only matter he
intended to discuss with his wife today. He suspected this future
conversation would be much less amicable. Any discourse concerning
money often was, in his opinion, and he had questions Frances may
not welcome. They
would
be answered, however.

Drawn from his reflections by the realization that
the conference between Frances and Bolling was now at an end,
Halcombe stood and added his thanks to his wife’s.

“Are you satisfied with the plan?” he asked her.

Occupied in rolling up the house prints, Frances
nodded, keeping her gaze on her task. “Yes. It is not ideal, but it
will be a great improvement.”

She set aside Bolling’s rough drawings—to keep with
her, he imagined—and placed these smaller rolls with the others.
Frances had an exceedingly tidy nature. He felt sure her account
books were just as precisely kept. In fact, he looked forward to
seeing them. She, he felt equally sure, was not going to like him
doing so.

“Good.” He hesitated, and watched as she stepped
toward the door.

“There is another matter to be discussed today and
one of the reasons I stayed in,” he said, just before she reached
it.

She swung around, a wary look on her face. “Yes?”

“It is time we talked about money,” he said blandly,
arching a brow. “
Your
money, Frances.” He moved forward and
gripped her elbow. “Some refreshment, first, and then I will look
over your account books.”

She hesitated and he thought she was going to refuse,
but her pause was brief. She pulled from his grasp. “Very well,”
she said brusquely, and swiftly walked away.

Relieved at her agreement, since he did not relish
the idea of locking her in her bedchamber while he reviewed her
records, Halcombe followed her from the room. Then again, maybe he
was being rather shortsighted about this small victory. It appeared
that he had just lost an opportunity to carry her upstairs, toss
her onto the bed…and…He sighed uncomfortably. Perhaps that was a
scene best not imagined.

The food was dry and tasteless in her mouth and what
she managed to swallow under Richard’s sharp attention felt like a
lump of coal in her chest. Frances drank some water in an attempt
to wash it down and glared at the small amount of food that
remained on her plate. She would not eat another bite of a meal she
had not wanted in the first place. Her stomach was already knotted
with anxiety over this upcoming conference with her husband.

Her money
. What did that mean? The amount her
father had settled on her? Halcombe was more than familiar with the
terms. He had agreed to them! The money from the estate she was
spending on the house?
You know very well he will ask about the
funds you brought home from Portugal. It was stupid to have spent
any of it on the house, when he was certain to find out you did not
draw it from the trust or the estate.