A Love Laid Bare (6 page)

It
was
a beautiful garden. Roses climbed the
walls, not yet in bloom, but promising an abundance of colour in a
few months. Pinks, Sweet William, and daffodils lined the stone
path meandering gracefully to the gnarled apple tree that stood in
one corner. It was dappled with fat buds that would blossom and
send petals drifting like snow over the tiny patch of grass that
held a wooden bench. Bluebells and snowdrops nodded in corners,
spread in profusion around the tree, and a small pond gleamed to
one side.

Lord Halcombe followed her through the gate and
halted abruptly, with the same appearance of amazement on his face
every other visitor wore when seeing this garden for the first
time.

“This is incredible! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a
more beautiful setting.” He looked down at her and shook his head.
“It had to take years of work and planning. Somehow I cannot quite
see Mr. Nesbitt out here toiling away. You must have a talented
gardener.”

Frances chuckled at the idea of her sedentary father
doing more than strolling along the path and drowsing on the bench.
“No, we don’t have a gardener, although several of the local lads
come in to help with the heavier tasks. My mother was responsible.
She designed it and planted many of the shrubs and flowers years
ago. I always loved working out here with her, and after she died,
I took it over entirely.”

“She deserves a great deal of praise. You both do. It
is lovely and I am glad you shared it with me.” He smiled at her,
the first real smile she had seen on his face, and her breath
caught. “I wish I had more time to enjoy it, but I’ve several
hours’ ride to my home and don’t care to be on the road after dark.
Perhaps when I return?”

“Of course. Have a safe journey, my lord.” It was all
she could manage to say. In a daze, Frances curtsied in response to
his bow and watched him stride away. She knew her father would have
already sent word to their groom, and indeed, once she had rushed
around to the front for one last glimpse of him, she saw Tim
waiting with his lordship’s horse. She stood there, rooted to the
ground, until the earl was no more than a dark spot far along the
road. “He said he would return,” she whispered, and somehow she
knew her life would never be the same again.

***

And you were right about that, if little else
.
Drawn back to the present, Frances raised her head and got stiffly
to her feet. Flora was waiting and she had yet to wash and dress.
Nothing was served in dwelling on the past. It could not be
changed. She had made her choices and now she had to live with
them.

Frances nervously smoothed her skirt as she waited in
a corner of the hotel’s ornately decorated lobby. She was somewhat
beforetime, but Richard was always punctual, and she was too
unsettled to remain upstairs. The concierge knew where she was. She
wanted a minute or two to just
look
at her husband,
unobserved, before they met. Had he changed as little as she
remembered from their earlier meeting?
Confrontation
, she
corrected herself, one too fraught with emotion to allow much
objectivity. She did not believe the evening ahead would be less
so. Frances smiled thinly.
At least on your part. You never were
able to distance yourself from him. He still rouses that ache of
love and longing you felt from the minute you first saw
him.

Frances’ stomach lurched and she swallowed the bile
burning in her throat. She daren’t let it show, not allow him to
know how he affected her. He had not wanted her love before and
would not believe in it now.

She steadied her breathing. She could do this. If she
was capable of dealing with a crew of French fishermen when half
drowned and scared senseless, she could manage one obstinate man,
however formidable.

Halcombe crossed the lobby with the same long-legged,
confident stride she remembered and stepped up to the desk. There
were a few more lines around his eyes, but other than the hard line
of his mouth, he appeared much the same; fit, and lightly tanned.
He must still be in the habit of working outside.

He spoke to the clerk, who pointed in her direction,
and turned toward her, his expression so carefully neutral she
winced, grateful for the veil hiding most of her face. With a
studied calm she did not feel, she stepped forward.

“You are precisely on time, as usual.”

“I’m surprised you remembered.”

And first blood to him.
Frances glanced at his
set face, rested her hand on his upraised arm, and refrained from
comment. If he chose to snipe at her, so be it. Though it did not
bode well for the evening, even if she did deserve it.

They were both silent as he handed her into the
waiting carriage, climbed in after her, and took a seat on the
opposite bench. She felt his eyes on her, but as it was not yet
completely dark, she feigned interest in the passing scene. They
made the short journey without a word spoken.

Summerton’s taciturn butler, who was no more
unbending tonight than he had appeared that morning, showed them
into a small parlour. Furnished informally, the room held a
scattering of commodious chairs, a sofa, and a small table laid for
two. A silver bowl centered on a sideboard held the roses that
scented the air, and again she wondered if the viscount’s mother or
sister was responsible for the feminine touch. Or perhaps he
entertained his lady friends here. A picture of the handsome lord
dining intimately by candlelight with his ladylove flashed into her
mind. Frances banished the fanciful image impatiently, but the pang
of regret that she and Richard had never dined thusly was sharp,
and she put her back to the table and moved to finger a rose
petal.

“This is quite charming. Please convey my gratitude
to Lord Summerton. It is generous of him. I hope we have not driven
him from his home.”

“Colin is out most evenings. I’m sure this is a minor
inconvenience,” Halcombe replied with a shrug. “Take off your hat,
Frances. No one will see you here, if hiding is the reason you are
wearing that ridiculous veil.” He walked over, poured two glasses
of wine from the decanter that was on the sideboard, and brought
one to her.

Frances laid her hat and veil on a chair, along with
her wrap and gloves, and hesitated before she lifted the glass from
his hand. Tempting as it was, she needed her wits about her
tonight, and she had eaten very little all day. “I thought it wise
to be somewhat discreet,” she said. She took a sip, not surprised
it was an excellent sherry, and he confirmed her suspicion that it
was from her aunt’s vineyard with his next comment.

“Colin thought you might be more comfortable with a
beverage from Portugal, considering your apparent affinity for that
country. In fact, I believe it is from the Blake winery.”

His insincere smile was worse than a sneer. Frances
raised her glass to her lips to hide her dismay. Was this to be the
tenor of their evening? A succession of hurtful words? She shook
off the urge to flee and gave him a bland smile. “Why, yes it is.
How thoughtful of Lord Summerton. I’m sure Aunt Livvy will be happy
to send him a selection of our wines to show my appreciation.”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable, and then
went to ring the bell. “We’ll eat now,” he said curtly. He gestured
toward the table. “Sit down.”

She doubted she could swallow a morsel, but walked
over, set her glass on the table, and sat. She should have waited
for him to seat her, she supposed, but she was not ready to have
him so close. The small size of the table was going to be enough of
a trial. To have him behind her, feel his breath on her bare neck
and breathe in the male scent of him, was not something she could
bear at the moment.

The almost immediate response of the two servants
that entered, laden with trays, was a welcome interruption.
Halcombe waited until they finished serving before he joined her.
It was just as she had guessed. His legs were so near the fabric of
his trousers brushed her gown. Frances glanced at him and picked up
her fork. She wanted to edge away, but the knowing look in his eyes
almost dared her to move. It was a weakness she refused to
allow.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Much to her
surprise, Frances managed to swallow a portion of the food on her
plate. Halcombe, of course, had no trouble eating.

“How long have you been here in London?”

Startled, Frances eyed him warily. If she admitted to
several days, would he be angrier? Could he be angrier? Possibly,
but not likely, and this was a stupid thing to worry about.

“We arrived two days ago, but I wanted to give Flora
a chance to rest before we traveled to Sussex. I had no idea you
were in London, of course.”

“Ah, yes. My daughter. When exactly was she born,
Frances? You did not mention it earlier.”

His expression was so dispassionate, so unfeeling,
that she felt chilled. She rubbed her bare arms. “
Our
daughter was born in January ‘08,” she replied, meeting his cold
gaze straightly. She waited, bracing for the next question, as he
counted it out in his head.

“You were three months along and had not seen fit to
tell me?” He stood and roughly pushed the chair aside. “Devil take
it …. Did you know?”

“I suspected, but was not sure. How would I know such
a thing, inexperienced as I was?” Frances rose and clutched the
table edge for support. “I wanted to be certain before I said
anything, but my father took ill and it was all I could think
about.”

“You could have asked my mother,” he countered.

“No, I could not,” Frances said in a tone that dared
him to contradict her. Her poor relationship with Leticia, who had
disliked her from the first day she set foot in the Manor, was no
secret to anyone.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed in a pained voice, unable to
deny it. “But why did you not come to me? I’ve had enough
experience with animals to at least recognize the signs, enough to
call in a physician anyway.”

Frances drew in a sharp breath and pressed fisted
hands to her breast. “Come to you? When might that have been, my
lord? You were out every day, not even coming in for meals most of
the time. Dear heaven, you did not even find the time to attend my
Father’s funeral.” Frances made no effort to keep the bitterness
from her voice. His failure to be at her side when she needed him
was a sorrow that never fully left her.

“I did not know! I swear to you, the service was over
before I found out about it.”

“You expect me to believe that? When I sent enough
messengers the whole county should have known?”

“I was in London!”

His shout echoed through the room. Frances stared at
him, appalled at the emotion that burned inside her. She had
thought those old hurts buried too deep to surface, but here she
was, raking them up, when she had sworn not to open herself to such
pain again.

Dropping her hands loosely at her sides, Frances
turned away, unable to bear the hurt and regret on his face. “I’m
sorry. I had no intention of bringing up the past. It hardly
matters now, anyway,” she said, keeping her voice level.

“Apparently it does.”

The short, terse answer was as jarring as the sudden
hard grip on her arm. Frances bit back a gasp when he spun her
around to face him. She was caught in his arms, felt the heat of
his body along the length of hers, and a shiver coursed along her
spine. Did he feel it, the weakness in her that made her melt under
his touch?

“Look at me,” he demanded, tipping her chin up. “Is
that why you stayed away, to punish me? A harsh sentence for
something beyond my control.”

“No!” She wrenched away. With an effort she feared
was visible, Frances stilled her trembling legs and gazed steadily
at him. The calm, cold expression was back in place, with not a
trace of his earlier wrath. The brief surrender to anger might
never have been.

“This is pointless.” Frances lifted and dropped her
hands in a helpless gesture. “Surely you have more important things
to say.” Unnerved by his intent gaze, Frances went to the table,
picked up her glass of wine, stared at the crimson contents, and
then set it down. She longed to be done with this, to be at home
with Flora snuggled up beside her. This horrible day seemed to
stretch on endlessly and she wanted it
over
.

She raised her head and met her husband’s eyes. “What
do you plan to do?”

“With you and our daughter?” He walked toward her,
his smile so smug, so coldly satisfied, she took a step back.

“Flora. Her name is Flora,” Frances said through the
lump in her throat.

He cupped his hand around the side of her face and
stroked along her jaw with his thumb. “Why, you and
Flora
will come with me, of course. Do you think I will allow you to
escape me again? You will be a very obedient wife, won’t you,
Frances? Accommodating in every way.” His fingers were on her
mouth, feather light as they traced her lips. “You would not care
to be separated from your child, I’m sure.”

She had barely enough breath to whisper, “no”,
chilled by the piercing look of promised retribution in his eyes,
and the flare of desire under it. The sudden force of his mouth on
hers, hot and demanding, her body tight against him, swept away any
thought of resistance. She clung to him, helpless under his
punishing kiss.

He drew back abruptly, his face hard and set, and the
tight grip he had on her shoulder was the single evidence he was
not completely unaffected.

“You will start by calling on my mother tomorrow
morning. With
Flora
,” he said curtly. “I’m sure Leticia will
be delighted to meet her granddaughter. We will leave for Sussex
immediately afterward.”