A Love Laid Bare (26 page)

Not for the first time, Frances regretted her
tendency to be overly impatient. If she had only waited! But that
was the problem. She was tired of the endless waiting—for his
attention after their marriage…for Flora to be born…for a chance to
be rescued…for a comfortable house to live in…for the expansion of
their little family! And she was most definitely tired of waiting
for him to forgive her.

You may well be an old lady by then, Frances, so
scratch that from your list.

Halcombe was lingering over his ale, probably to
annoy her, and Frances had no patience for it. She laid her napkin
on the table and rose. “If you will excuse me for a few minutes, I
will join you in my office shortly.” Not staying for his agreement,
she hurried away and ran upstairs. She needed to use the commode,
wash the ink stains from her hands and tidy her hair. Her
appearance might not be of importance to Halcombe, but it mattered
to her.

“You need every asset you can find,” Frances muttered
as she walked along the passageway that led to her office a short
time later.

Halcombe was not seated at her desk, which she had
expected of him. Some of her tension eased at the small courtesy
and Frances went to stand behind it. He had also taken the time to
freshen up, she realized, noting his jacket and cravat. Ignoring
the speculation in his eyes as she unlocked the drawer and removed
an account book, she sat down. If he did not keep his own personal
papers locked away, he should.

“What would you like to see first? The household
accounts are here in this ledger.” She removed a second ledger from
the drawer. “These accounts are my personal funds from the trust,
which you are already familiar with, I’m sure.” She looked up then
and snapped at him. “Do sit down. It is not comfortable to have you
looming over me.”

He paused to look at her for a moment before dropping
into the chair in front of her desk.

“And your comfort is of prime interest to me?” he
drawled.

“Apparently not,” Frances shot back, unreasonably
hurt by the comment.

Halcombe’s sardonic smile was another blow to her
confidence. He slouched in the chair, crossed his long legs at the
ankles, and laced his fingers together to rest his joined hands on
his chest.

It was a deliberate slight. Frances lowered her gaze
to the book in front of her. She would not allow him to intimidate
her. She would
not
! He could stare at her as long as he
wished. She did not have to look at him to know his eyes were cold
and hard. She
felt
it, an icy prickling that crept over her
skin, and she forced herself not to shiver. The silence lengthened
until Frances wanted to jump out of her chair and
throw
one
of the ledgers at him.

Halcombe reached over and closed one of the books
with a clap that shattered the silence. Frances’ heart jumped and
she jerked back.

Clap! The second book slammed closed as well.

“The
other
account, Frances, the one that
records all of your expenditures since you returned to England.” He
bit out the words. “Do you think I’m a fool? You may have lived on
your aunt’s bounty, and I am beginning to doubt even that, but you
would not spend her money on this house. Or that impressive
wardrobe you brought here.”

Halcombe rose, planted his hands flat on the desk and
leaned over her. His voice turned soft and silky, a hint of both
anger and threat threaded through it.

“Where did the money come from, Frances? What exactly
did you have to do to get it?”

She glared at him with burning eyes, sickened by the
hateful implication in his words. That he could suggest such a
thing filled her with rage. She slapped her hands on the desk
beside his.

“I earned the damn money! I
worked,
had a
business
, and it was not selling myself, if that is what you
are insinuating!” Frances yanked open the drawer, pulled out the
remaining ledger, and thrust it at him. “Read it, burn
it—
eat
it if you want! I…don’t…care!”

She threw the last words at him like razor-sharp
arrows. Blinded by tears—a weakness she
despised
—she
stumbled to the door and wrenched it open.

“Bloody hell.” Halcombe reached her in two long
strides, lifted her off her feet and kicked the door shut.

“Put me down!”

She beat her fists on his shoulders, twisting and
turning with a frantic abandon that shocked him. Halcombe swore
quietly and steadily as he caught her flailing hands, set her down,
and pinned her arms to her sides—and still she fought him.

“Frances, stop it.” He tightened his hold on her. “I
swear to God, if you kick me again I’ll turn you over my knee.”

Halcombe was never sure afterward, when she suddenly
collapsed against him, whether she believed him or had even heard
him. He looked around the sparsely furnished room, spied a settee
in a dim corner, and keeping a wary grip around her shoulders, put
an arm under her knees and carried her to it.

Holding her securely in his grasp, Halcombe sat down
and settled her in his lap. She was quiescent now, and only the hot
tears seeping into his clothes revealed her distress. He did not
believe he had ever seen her cry. Her breath came in little
shuddering gasps that shook her slight shoulders. She was
surprisingly thin. He’d remarked upon it before—that she ate too
lightly.

He felt disturbingly helpless, without a notion of
what to do next. It did not seem wise to talk to her. What was he
to say in any case? His comment
had
insinuated that she came
by the money dishonestly—or worse. And he knew this was impossible.
Not Frances
. He never meant it, never even truly thought it.
She just made him so
angry.
All the secrets he felt she kept
hidden under that infuriating calm composure goaded him into saying
things he regretted the instant the words left his mouth—anything
just to ruffle that calm exterior.

He managed to get his legs on the wretchedly
uncomfortable settee and partially drape Frances over him until he
was able to lean back. Her breath had steadied somewhat, and he
thought the flow of tears had lessened. Shifting carefully, he
freed one arm and moved her head so that it rested on his shoulder.
The tidy knot had come undone and her hair lay in tangled lengths
upon her back. Her eyes were closed, the thick eyelashes dark with
tears. If she fell asleep, which he thought possible, since she was
limp now and quiet, he’d carry her to her bedchamber.

The time passed slowly, allowing him too much time to
think. What had Frances meant when she said she had a business?
What kind of business? Women did not do such things—not the ones he
knew anyway. Is that one of the reasons she had stayed in Portugal?
Because he would have stopped her? Halcombe was not sure how he
felt about the idea, or what his reaction might have been if
Frances had disclosed to him when she first returned that she had
her own business. It was something that needed clearer thought than
he was capable of at the present.

Once satisfied that she was asleep, the earl
struggled to his feet and carried her from the room. Cutting off
the surprised butler’s questions with a soft-voiced, “Your mistress
is not feeling well,” he continued on his way. No doubt the entire
household had heard them shouting and speculation was running
rampant. He did not give a bloody damn for it.

Halcombe dismissed Frances’ startled maid with
instructions to tell Nancy the countess was unwell, and that she
would not visit Lady Flora this afternoon. Then he gently laid his
wife on the bed. Removing her clothing was the first task and this
was accomplished with far less effort than he’d expected. Her
malleability was, in fact, almost alarming and several times he put
a hand on her breast to assure himself that her heart beat
steadily. When only her shift remained, he eased her under the
covers.

Not knowing how long she might sleep, he closed the
heavy damask drapes and lit a lamp, turning it low before he went
on to his room. He needed to change his coat and shirt, pay Flora a
visit, and have a meal sent to Frances’ bedchamber—for him, since
it was unlikely she wanted anything more to eat today. Cook surely
had some soup on hand if she did.

Indeed, Frances was still asleep when Halcombe
finished his meal. Keeping his beer at hand, he sat in the chair he
had placed next to the bed. She was close to awakening, he
believed. In what kind of state was worthless conjecture, but he
did not want her to wake alone.

He shrugged. It may be that he was the last person
she cared to see when she opened her eyes. A pity, if so. He was
here now, and here was where he planned to stay.

Frances reluctantly floated to the surface of the
grey fog that filled her head. Dear sweet heaven, what had she
done? Shouting and raging like a denizen of Bedlam, striking at
Richard…kicking him? It was almost more than she could bear, to
have behaved so badly. She felt the hated tears gather in her eyes
and turned to burrow her head further into the pillow. She could
not face him, and he was here. She felt him, smelled him—heard him
breathing. Mortified and humiliated by the entire episode, Frances
prayed he would disappear before she opened her eyes.
Go away!
Please go away. If I pretend to be asleep…

Frances forced her breath to steady and deepen. She
relaxed the hands clutching the sheets. It was quiet, so much so
that the clink of a glass being set on a table sounded loudly. She
heard the faint scrape of Richard’s shoe when he seemed to change
position and felt the stir of air from his movement. Maybe he was
leaving.

“I know you are awake.”

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat beside
her. His hand rested on her back, and she wiggled deeper under the
quilt. “Go away. I don’t want you here,” Frances muttered, her
voice muffled by the pillow.

“Unfortunate, because I am not leaving,” Halcombe
said, gripping her shoulder and turning her to face him. “Look at
me, Frances.”

She covered her face with her hands. “No! I cannot.
I’m too ashamed.” She tried to roll over.

“Of what? Losing your temper? Don’t be absurd.” The
earl pulled her hands away from her face. “Open your eyes,
Frances.”

He held her loosely but securely, his hands keeping
hers on the pillow. Frances knew that further protest was not only
futile, but it made her seem even more the fool than she already
was.

He looked, she thought…amused? No mistaking the smile
quivering on his lips, and if the laughter did not quite extend to
his eyes, they held an unaccustomed warmth that somehow made it
easier to say the needed words. “I am so sorry. I was absolutely
horrid.”

“No more than I.” He brushed aside the strands of
hair that clung to her forehead and temples. “What I said,
unconscionably so, I never thought for an instant of you.”

He moved back a little, pulled her upright, and
cupped her cheek with his hand. “When you shut me out, close
yourself behind some kind of wall, all I can think of is tearing it
down. And I say things I should not.”

Frances leaned her head against his hand for a moment
and sighed. “I am sorry,” she said again and then moved to separate
them. She looked around for her peignoir. “I need to get up.”
Avoiding his gaze, she waited until he handed it to her, and then
slipped her arms into the sleeves without getting out of bed.
Feeling at least minimally covered, she slid to her feet and
hurried to the adjoining room. Why she felt bothered by him seeing
her in her shift was unexplainable. He had seen her naked many
times, including last night.

Frances pressed her hands to her eyes. Was it just
last night that they had laid together? Almost impossible to
believe when a few hours later the war between them had so swiftly
resumed. Or perhaps the lovemaking was less a truce than a skirmish
during battle—wonderful as it had been, it was not a gentle
union.

Frances stared with horror at the wild-eyed woman in
the mirror. Her hair was a rat’s nest of tangles. Red rimmed her
eyes and stained her cheeks in startling contrast to the underlying
pallor. She grabbed a brush and applied it so zealously that it
stung her scalp, then splashed water on her face until some of the
colour subsided.

She tied the sash of her peignoir tightly. Frances
had no clothes in here and did not want to dress in front of her
husband. She also had no expectation that he had gone away. “You
are not that lucky,” she muttered and several deep breaths later,
emerged from the room.

Richard stood just outside the door that opened onto
the corridor. He spoke to someone in a low voice, and then stepped
back inside. He had a large tray in hand, and he carried it to a
small table. The table from her sitting room, Frances noted. The
bench from her dressing table sat on one side, her boudoir chair on
the other.

“I thought you might want something to eat. You ate
little of your midday meal,” he said, lifting the covers from
various platters and dishes. “At least have some soup,” he added
when she hesitated.

The food smelled…good. Prepared for nausea, Frances
was surprised that she actually felt hungry and even more surprised
that she wanted to eat. “Thank you, I will have some soup.” She
chose the bench, leaving the chair for him, although it was a close
fit for his larger frame.

Richard picked at some cheese while she drank her
soup, a hot, thick broth that soothed her throat and stomach. “Good
gracious,
Flora
…,” she said with a sigh when her bowl was
empty. Frances had missed the afternoon playtime, she realized, and
felt guilty because she did not run at once to the nursery.

“Nancy has been informed that you are indisposed. I
have told Flora you will see her tomorrow,” Richard said, and
seeing the glint in his eye, Frances thought it unwise to make any
attempt to go. In truth, she did not feel equal to the antics of
her daughter.