A Love Laid Bare (5 page)

He meant it, she realized. He was close to losing
control, and she moved back without any protest. After all, what
right had she to impose on him? She was in the wrong here, and it
was she who deserved to suffer for it. She watched him walk away,
and then gently closed the door behind him, praying Summerton was
still waiting.

***

The earl sucked a shuddering breath into his lungs
and on feet that felt sodden with treacle, made his way downstairs.
He had Summerton to face yet and was not sure of his ability to
speak any sense at all, but with his usual tact, the viscount had
but to hear his one bewildered comment, “I have a daughter,” before
he, without a word, led Halcombe out to the cab and took him to his
home.

Numbly, Halcombe followed Colin into his study,
picked up the offered glass of brandy with a surprisingly steady
hand, and watched as he lit the fire. Perhaps it might ease the
chill encasing his bones, but he feared it would take more than a
fire to warm him.

Her words echoed over and over in his head. “
I
thought you would be glad to be free.” Why? Why did she believe
that
?

“Do you want to talk about it?” Summerton questioned
after a long silence.

“Yes…no.” Halcombe shrugged and shook his head to
clear it. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“I am not prying. You don’t need to tell me a thing,
but sometimes it helps to share a problem with a friend.”

There was no pity or sympathy in Colin’s expression,
just a patient look that said he was ready to listen impartially.
It was one of the things Halcombe most valued about the man, this
deep-rooted belief he was no one’s judge, and the strength to hold
to it.

“Frances has been living in Portugal with her
aunt—Nesbitt’s sister. After, she claims, a long stay in France.”
He repeated what Frances had told him, which was not much now he
thought about it. “She has a child with her; a little girl who she
claims is my daughter.”

“Do you think Frances is lying?”

“No, I believe her,” Halcombe replied with a short,
mirthless laugh. “It seems I am an instant father.”

“Do you feel it a bad thing?”

Summerton’s soft-voiced question jerked a vehement,
instant denial from Halcombe. “No! I want children, have for
years.” The thought of all he had missed, that tiny person in his
arms, the first faltering steps—Frances swelling with their
child
.
It hurt, unbearably so, and underneath the mingled
pain and anger, a sense of bewilderment that had left him adrift.
Was she pretending all the while, that she cared for you?
He
quickly dismissed the idea. It was not possible he had been
deceived by her sweet response to him, her delight in his caresses.
Whatever had turned her against him, he knew at least the physical
part of their marriage was real.

“Will you keep the child, then?”

Halcombe started, drawn back to his surroundings with
a disconcerting rush. He tossed back the contents of his glass and
set it aside with a force that threatened to crack the delicate
crystal. He raised his brows in mock surprise. “Of course. She is
my daughter.”

“And Frances?”

The earl stood and smiled grimly at his friend. “Why,
I’ll have her as well. She is mine, after all, and it pleases me to
keep her—for now.”

Frances accepted the letter from the footman and
stared at the neatly folded paper with something approaching
terror. Richard’s bold, distinctive handwriting was unmistakable.
He was going to reject her, take Flora from her. How he must hate
her. The pain in his eyes when he saw his daughter—dear, sweet
heaven, he was never going to forgive her for keeping Flora from
him. The fact that he had not loved
her
was no reason to
believe he would not love his child. She should have known.

Frances brushed away the threatening tears. The truth
of it was she had scarcely known him at all. She thought she did,
after those precious hours spent together at her father’s house,
walking along the cliffs, discussing books, history, and politics;
she had even begun to teach him to sail.

During that time, Papa was already sliding into an
illness from which he would not recover, but on days when he was
well enough, they joined him for a meal and those long discussions
they all so enjoyed. It was an idyllic time—and completely spoiled
by marriage. Sometimes she wished they had never wed and she had
only those wonderful memories.
Which is a remarkably stupid
thought, since you would not have Flora or the wonderful memories
of those nights in Richard’s arms.

She sank into a chair and scanned the note, aware of
Livvy’s watchful eyes, so full of worry.

“It’s from Richard,” she said, quite unnecessarily,
since no one else knew she was here, except Summerton, and judging
from the expression on his face this morning, the viscount wanted
nothing to do with her. “He wants me to meet him this evening.
Summerton has offered us the use of his home so we can speak
privately.”

“Does he? And you are agreeable to this?”

There was a world of speculation in her aunt’s voice.
Frances glanced at her and gave her a resigned smile.

“I don’t believe it to be a request, Aunt Livvy. He
says he will call for me at seven, which is only a bit more than an
hour from now.” She tipped her head. “Perhaps you and Charles can
dine here at the hotel. Nancy will be here with Flora, and it saves
you from eating alone.”

Olivia stared at her, brows raised. “A thoughtful
suggestion, my dear, although I’ve eaten alone many times and
managed quite well.”

There was a distinct twinkle in her aunt’s eyes.
Frances smiled sheepishly. “Of course you have. This whole business
has driven every bit of common sense out of my head.” She rose,
laid the message aside, and glanced down at her gown. “I must
change and see to my daughter.”

Olivia stood and put her hand on Frances’ shoulder, a
grave expression replacing the earlier humour. “You do not have to
go. There is no reason why he can’t meet with you here if it will
be more comfortable for you. Frances, he cannot force you to do
anything.”

“Oh, Aunt Livvy, you know as well as I do a wife has
no standing in the law. He can force me to do almost anything he
chooses. I’d prefer not to antagonize him unnecessarily. This
meeting is so important and better done where there is no chance of
interruption.” She took her aunt’s hand in hers and pressed it
gently. “Richard is a good man, Aunt. He will do me no harm.” She
moved away, ignoring Livvy’s soft-voiced comment.

“Not physically, perhaps, but hurt,
nevertheless.”

Frances shivered and hurried into her bedchamber. She
did not believe anything could be much worse than it was now. She
had to know what he planned to do, if there was any chance at all
to salvage something of their marriage. She sank down on the bed
and buried her face in her hands.

It had all begun so wonderfully.

***

Sussex, 1807

To Frances, it had almost seemed that one of the gods
had stepped out of the pages of her mythology book. Not one of the
oversize blond warriors, but an arresting, mysterious Poseidon or
Dionysus, with hair black as midnight and eyes as piercingly blue
as a summer sky. His smile flashed white across a lightly tanned
face when he saw her staring at him through the window, and she saw
the amusement in his eyes. Frances felt heat creep up her neck and
face and hurriedly averted her head. The heavy thump of her heart
almost drowned out the voice of the housekeeper greeting the
stranger, and she pressed her hands to her breast.

Who was he?
They had few visitors and Papa
always informed her when someone was coming. Why had he not this
time
?
She sat still until she heard the study door open, the
distant voice of her father, and the snick of the door closing
before pushing back her chair. The urge to see the stranger again,
to speak to him, drove her to her feet in a rush. Surely Papa would
send for her and here she was, with her hair loose and clad in a
schoolgirl’s dress she’d had for years.

Frances flew from the room and up the back stairs to
her bedchamber, calling for her maid to come help her change. She
ran her fingers though her hair, grimaced, and picked up a brush. A
simple twist had to do, and after a few strokes, she swept it up
and secured the knot, finishing just as her maid appeared.

“You wanted me, Miss Frances?”

“Yes, Peg. I need to change immediately. We have a
guest.” Frances turned her back and waited impatiently while the
buttons were undone, then slipped out of her dress. “I think the
blue muslin, please.” She poured some water into her bowl and
washed her face and hands while Peg laid her dress and petticoat on
the bed. A simple round gown, but Frances thought it becoming.
Truth to tell, she did not have all that many gowns. She fastened a
simple chain and the locket that held her mother’s picture around
her neck, frowned at her reflection in the mirror, and blew out a
resigned huff.

“You look very nice, miss,” Peg assured her. Frances
wrinkled her nose. She’d prefer to look beautiful, enchanting,
stunning, anything other than ‘very nice’, but she did not and that
was that.

“Thank you.” She picked up a shawl and hurried
downstairs. The door to the study was closed. Her stomach wobbled
with nerves, anticipation—she was not sure what the fluttery
feeling signified. She wandered into the small parlour where she
had her books and desk, too unsettled to sit, but it was no more
than a few minutes before she heard her father’s voice.

“Frances?”

“Coming.” She took a deep breath, wiped her damp
palms on her skirt, and set her expression into one of mild
friendliness. A quick peek in the mirror assured her that her face
reflected none of her inner turmoil, and she walked confidently
across the hall.

“Lord Halcombe, if I may introduce my daughter,
Frances. Frances, Lord Halcombe. His lordship has had some rare
books come into his possession he thought might interest me,” Mr.
Nesbitt said, waving her forward.

Smiling, Lord Halcombe rose and bowed. “Miss Nesbitt,
a pleasure.”

“My lord. I am pleased to meet you.” Goodness, he was
even more comely close up! Somehow she managed to curtsey and take
the few steps to the chair beside the desk without stumbling,
stuttering or otherwise making a fool of herself. She studied him
surreptitiously from under her lashes, hardly attending to the
conversation that would normally hold her attention. She was her
father’s daughter, after all, and enjoyed nothing better than to
discuss books.

Lord Halcombe seemed truly interested in what her
father was telling him. He was not just being polite, and spoke his
own opinions in a firm, deep voice that made her feel all
shivery.

You are being quite silly, mooning over a man you
just met, who will have no interest in an unsophisticated country
girl. You would do better to listen and contribute to the
conversation.

He glanced over at her, and she felt the beginnings
of a blush creep up her neck. Embarrassed, she turned her head and
concentrated on what her father was saying.

“I know of several collectors who will be interested
in the books you have mentioned, my lord. Depending on their
condition, they may bring you a tidy sum. You mentioned maps, as
well, that your father collected, I believe?”

“Yes.”

The terse answer surprised her, when up to now he had
been so agreeable; as did the hard look that appeared so fleetingly
on his face she almost thought she imagined it.

“I am not as well versed in the value of antique
maps, but I can give you the names of a few gentlemen who may be
interested.”

“Thank you. That would be most helpful. If it is
convenient, I will call again later in the week and bring those
volumes you mentioned as being of particular value.”

“Of course, of course. Whenever it suits you. I am
seldom from home.” Lawrence Nesbitt beamed at the earl and gestured
to his daughter. “Frances, call for tea. The man surely wants some
sustenance before he starts home. We’ll have it in here. Afterwards
you can show him your garden; give him a chance to stretch his
legs.”

“Certainly,” Frances murmured. She rose, all too
aware of the burn in her cheeks, and hurried from the room. Heavens
above! What was wrong with her? It was not as if she had never
conversed with Father’s guests before.
No, but they were not
young, handsome and amused by your discomfort, either.
Frances
halted her headlong dash to the kitchen, leaned on the wall, and
fanned her heated face with her hand. The humour in Halcombe’s eyes
was not at her expense. That hint of self-mockery made her feel he
was aware of his effect on women, and he wanted her to join him in
his enjoyment of the situation. At least she hoped that was the
case. Sighing, she straightened and went to order tea.

The familiar routine of serving allowed Frances to
regain her composure, and she was able to join in the discussion
between her father and Lord Halcombe. The surprised admiration he
showed at her occasional comment was gratifying, and by the time
they left her father she was confident enough to talk to the man
without blushing.

“You sound quite knowledgeable, Miss Nesbitt. Do you
share your father’s interest in rare books?”

Frances glanced over at him and smiled. “Fortunately
I do, my lord, since it is Father’s obsession. He has taught me so
much. I enjoy helping him.” She led the way through the front door,
around the side of the house, and stopped at the wrought iron gate
that opened into the walled garden.

“It is not very large, but quite pretty, I think,”
Frances said as she lifted the latch.