A Love Laid Bare (13 page)

The firm press of his mouth on hers was stunning and
so far from her expectations that she shivered in response. Frances
began to protest, only to have his tongue slip through her parted
lips. She should stop him, but it felt so wonderful. The tang of
malt on his lips, the scent of new-mown grass that clung to him,
the smell of
man
, teased her senses, beguiled her, and it
took every bit of her willpower to twist from his hold. “Nor is
that an answer, my lord,” she gasped, keeping her back to him.

“An answer of sorts,” he said obliquely.

She heard a quick catch in his breath—an oddly
satisfying sound—as he turned to walk away.

“Do as you wish with the house. My steward will
provide you with what funds you require.” The door slammed behind
his brusque orders.

Frances sank into a chair and buried her head in her
hands. Things would be so much easier if she did not love him. If
only she had never overheard that conversation so long ago!
Blissful ignorance had much to be said for it. But Frances knew
that some way or another she would have learned the truth.

***

In the early weeks of her marriage, Frances had
discovered that the library was seldom occupied. Halcombe preferred
his study when he was actually in the house, and his mother had no
interest in reading anything other than fashion magazines. The
dowager had made clear her disapproval of overly educated females
and often accused Frances of being a bluestocking. It was one of
many disparaging remarks Frances found easy to ignore. She was not
ashamed of her education.

The library had become her sanctuary, and her latest
skirmish with Leticia had sent her fleeing for the book-filled
room. She closed the door behind her and breathed in the pleasantly
familiar odor of paper, leather, and the faint wisp of wood smoke.
There was no fire today—none was needed in this warm weather—but
she looked forward to curling up in one of the oversized chairs
placed by the hearth come winter.

Frances roamed the room, stopping here and there to
remove a book from its shelf and riffle through the contents. The
rows of words, marching so sturdily across the crisp pages, were a
delight she never tired of. Some of it was drivel, of course, but
much was worthwhile. She wished Richard had time for those long
conversations they had enjoyed before their marriage. He, at least,
appeared to appreciate her knowledge, and she wanted to discuss
some of the things she had read recently. Alas, the man never
seemed to have a free minute.

Frances understood the importance of setting the
estate to rights. From what little she’d been told, the late Lord
Halcombe had sadly neglected the Manor holdings during his last few
years. Now her husband was out most of the day. His mother dined
with them, of course, but the dowager preferred that the
conversation center on the latest gossip and fashion trends rather
than on anything of substance. After the meal, Halcombe disappeared
into his study to pore over accounts and Frances was left with
Leticia.

The estate needed a good steward, Frances thought,
while paging through a book on husbandry. Halcombe’s secretary
appeared to do little besides kowtow to Leticia. Frances disliked
the man. He was…shifty. That was a good word for him. She wandered
over to the huge dictionary. Nestled on its handsome mahogany
stand, the book was a wonder. She often skimmed through it,
sometimes choosing a word new to her. Ah, here it was. Shifty:
deceitful or evasive. It fit nicely. Easton never looked one
straight in the eye.

Shrugging off thoughts of the disagreeable man,
Frances eventually chose “Lyrical Ballads”, a collection of poems
by Coleridge and Wordsworth. She had read and enjoyed it
previously, but after a long walk in the sun, she was not inclined
to exercise her mind unduly. She climbed up the ladder to the loft.
It was somewhat warm there, but a settee was tucked in one corner
under a window just large enough to provide adequate light. She
stretched out and began to read.

She had read, napped, and was again deep into her
book when she heard the library door open. The sound of voices
floated upwards to her snug aerie. Was someone searching for her?
It was doubtful. Leticia was out making calls on her friends.
Frances’ refusal to accompany her was the cause of their latest
disagreement, in fact. Halcombe was also out. Curious, but with no
desire to be found, Frances lay still. Most likely it was one of
the maids.

“If you will wait in here, Lady Merton, I will let
Lord Halcombe know of your arrival.”

Frances’ eyes widened. She had met Lady Merton for
the first time this past Sunday, after church. Why was she here,
and calling on Halcombe, of all people? He was never at the house
this time of day. She heard the door open and close again and then
footsteps with a heavier tread.

“I received your message but was uncertain as to the
reason for it. Why are you here, Victoria?”

Gracious, that was Richard’s voice. He
was
home.

“Richard! My darling, I expected you to come to me as
soon as I returned from London!”

Frances heard the rustle of the woman’s skirt,
followed by a long silence.

“Oh, my love, I have missed you so,” Lady Merton
said.

Frances searched for a word to describe the woman’s
soft, silky voice. Croon. Yes, that suited. She had never had
occasion to use so flowery a word and she smiled to herself, but
any amusement was fleeting.

“Victoria, this is neither the time nor the place for
this. My wife…“

“That child! She will not possibly satisfy you.” Lady
Merton’s voice shook. “How could you marry some nobody, when you
had promised to wait for me? Surely you knew how ill George
was!”

“I made no promises,” Halcombe said flatly.

“You did! We agreed that once I was free to marry
again, you—”

“Victoria!” Halcombe snapped. “You chose to marry
Merton! Over me, I might remind you. Did you really think I would
wait for the man’s death like some ghoul?”

Frances heard the sound of agitated footsteps and was
tempted to sneak out to the railing. Dread held her in place.

“That is a horrid thing to say! I never thought such
a thing, but George was so much older than I, and not in the best
of health. It is not unreasonable to feel it was no more than a
matter of time before he was gone. And I only married Merton
because you were off running around Europe,” Lady Merton said. “How
could I be sure you would even
come
back
?”

“I think it was a reasonable supposition,” Halcombe
said impatiently.

“Perhaps it was, but I was afraid,” Lady Merton said
in a low voice.

Frances heard a soft sob and pictured the woman’s
beautiful face wet with tears—no doubt
she
never got all red
and blotchy from crying.

“Victoria.” Halcombe said, more warmly. “I am sorry
my absence distressed you, but you knew I had to go. It was you who
refused to marry before I left for Europe, and you who chose not to
wait for me.”

“I was wrong!” Lady Merton cried. “I loved you. I
still
love you. I told you when you returned how ill Merton
was, that I would soon be free.”

“But you were not free then,” Halcombe said, “and the
needs of the estate were too great. My father had all but ruined us
with his insane obsession with rare maps. I had to acquire money—a
great deal of it.”

“And that simple schoolgirl provided it, I
suppose.”

Frances flinched at the scorn lacing the woman’s
voice. She pressed her hands over her ears. She did not want to
hear anymore, but she was frozen by some horrid fascination.

“Yes.”

Quiet, firm, the single word hung in the air and rang
painfully in Frances’ head.

“She doesn’t have to come between us, darling. I know
you want me…
love
me. Come to me tonight. I
need
you.
You don’t understand how lonely my bed feels.”

There was another long silence. Frances pictured them
locked in a passionate embrace.

“Enough, Victoria. This is not the place to discuss
this. Someone may come in at any moment.”

Halcombe’s voice seemed to emanate from a great
distance. Frances wondered if she was going to faint. Her head swam
and the sound of the door closing came dully through the roaring in
her ears.

You have to be standing up to faint. No one can
faint lying down
.

If she did not swoon, she might very well be sick,
right here on the thick carpet. With aching care, Frances eased
upright and forced air into her lungs, in and out, until the nausea
eased and the chill that gripped her lessened.

She felt so incredibly
stupid
. Lady Merton was
right. She was a silly child, to think Halcombe had married her for
more reason than her dowry—how on earth had she ever deluded
herself into believing he
cared
for her? It was not
surprising she saw so little of him. She had no place in his life,
was no more fit to be his countess than—than a housemaid!

He likes you well enough at night.
Perhaps he
did, but that was not much consolation. Frances did not know much
about men’s needs, but she suspected affection was not a necessary
condition when it came to bedding a woman.
An heir and a
spare
and then he will be done with you.
No wonder he
did not share her bed
.
Instead, he came to her and slipped
away once she was asleep. Never had he stayed the night—and she
thought it merely the way of things among the aristocracy.

More fool you, Frances. Halcombe does not want to
stay. He is not a man much constrained by society’s rules.

Frances sat for some time before fishing a
handkerchief from her pocket and wiping her eyes. The afternoon was
waning. She could not stay here forever. An appearance at dinner
was beyond her, however, and after making her way to her
bedchamber, she sent word by her maid that she was indisposed. Let
Halcombe think what he wished.

***

“Mama, mama!”

Recalled to her surroundings by the sound of Flora’s
voice, Frances lifted her head and fiercely scrubbed the tears from
her cheeks. She never did discover what Halcombe had thought of her
supposed indisposition that night. The next day word came that her
father was desperately ill. Her husband was, of course, not
available, and her single thought had been to get to Clifftop as
swiftly as possible. She had left him a note, and she wondered
vaguely whether he ever received it. Perhaps not, as he said.

It hardly mattered now.

“I shall have another dinner party.”

Lady Merton made the announcement as if she were
addressing a gathering of her peers, rather than lying naked in her
bed with her lover. Amused, Paul Jensen hid a smile. Victoria
continued to entertain him, which he had not expected. Granted, she
was
willful, spoiled, and overly obsessed with her neighbor,
Lord Halcombe. The wealthy viscountess also possessed a childlike
naiveté at times, could be generous, and was a talented bed
partner.

She had aged well, Jensen thought, fondling the firm
breast under his hand. Like many young men, he considered any woman
older than he past her prime, and she had five years on him. Her
face showed little of her thirty years. The fair skin remained
smooth and unlined, and only a hint of chronic dissatisfaction
around her lusciously full mouth marred an otherwise perfect
countenance.

“Why put yourself to the trouble?” he said, rolling a
nipple between his fingers until he felt it harden in response. “I
understood you had a party here right before I arrived. We’ve had
so little time for
us.”

Lady Merton swatted at him, but her effort to push
him away was half-hearted at best. When Jensen bent his head to lip
and suckle the stiff peak she gasped, and arched toward him.

“We have spent much of the past few days in bed,” she
protested weakly.

“So we have,” he said. “And most enjoyable it has
been, too.” He slid his hand over the curve of her hip to the nest
of hair between her legs. She was wet, as he knew she would be. He
pinched her sex lightly, swallowing her moan with a long kiss.
Positioning himself atop her, he nudged her thighs apart with his
knee, and rubbed his cock against her, smiling slyly. “If you
prefer not to continue, I can go away.”

She wound her arms around his neck in answer. “Just
try it,” she said, her voice husky with passion. She raised her
hips to invite him in.

It was fast and hard this time, the way the lady
preferred her lovemaking. Jensen did not always accommodate her in
this regard, choosing at times to extend the foreplay until she was
writhing beneath him and pleading for release. He had to exercise
some
control in this situation. Even knowing she could
dismiss him at any time, it was not in his nature to be
subservient.

When he was spent, Jensen withdrew, rolled onto his
back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Tell me why you want to
have a party.”

The viscountess slid from under the coverlet, sat on
the side of the bed, and reached for her peignoir. “It is the
neighborly thing to do, seeing that Lady Halcombe has miraculously
returned from what was believed to be a watery grave. Naturally,
one must welcome her back.”

“Watery grave? The woman was lost at sea?” Jensen
tried his best to sound surprised. He had heard the story, of
course, and had conducted some research of his own. Lady Halcombe’s
astonishing reappearance, with daughter in tow, after so long an
absence, was the talk of London whilst he was there. Rescued by
some fishermen, stranded in France, pregnant, and at last making
her way to Portugal and thence to England to rejoin her loving
husband—the story was on everyone’s lips. He suspected there was
more to it than anyone realized and he admitted to being curious
about the intrepid countess.