A Love Laid Bare (4 page)

“Grillon’s? Why are you taking me to Grillon’s?”
Halcombe frowned at the man seated opposite him in the hired cab.
“Does this have to do with your ‘mystery’? I don’t have time for
this, Colin. I need to get to the Chancery today. I told you last
night I want to find out if there is anything that can be done to
have Frances declared legally dead. I refuse to live in limbo for
an entire seven years!” There was an odd expression on his friend’s
face and the sudden realization it was worry was unsettling.
Summerton had an annoying ability to keep his thoughts hidden, but
something had sorely disconcerted him this time.

“This is more important. There is someone you must
see.”

The curt comment had an air of finality that told
Halcombe he would get nothing else in the way of explanation. He
bit back an impatient retort. It was a short trip to the hotel. He
would find out soon enough.

The viscount was fidgeting by the time they reached
their destination. The vehicle had barely come to a stop before he
jumped out. He waited with obvious impatience for Halcombe to
descend, waved away the hovering footman, and strode up the steps
and into the lobby. “This way,” he said tersely over his shoulder,
and walked toward one of the private parlours the hotel maintained
for its guests.

“What the devil is going on?” Halcombe stopped
abruptly. He’d had enough.

Summerton turned to face him and laid a hand on his
shoulder. “I agreed to tell you ahead of time, but I simply cannot
do it. You should learn this first hand. Brace yourself, my
friend.” His fingers tightened briefly before he swiftly walked
away.

Halcombe stared after him. What had gotten into the
man? He did not believe he had ever seen the unflappable viscount
so rattled. Frowning, he turned and opened the door.

At first glance, the room appeared to be empty of all
but the usual fittings—a writing desk, several chairs, and a side
table holding a lamp, some decanters, and several glasses. He
stepped inside, his gaze falling on the woman who stood motionless
by the one window, her back to him. There was something familiar
about that straight, slim form and a strange sense of disbelief hit
him. Was it possible…?

“Frances?” he said hesitantly, fearing he was
mistaken, that the woman was some stranger Summerton wanted him to
meet.

“Richard.”

She turned to face him, her clear, musical voice
unmistakable.

It
was
his wife. His long lost, presumed dead
wife! Shock speared through him and his step faltered, his heart
thudding painfully in his chest. “You are real,” he said in a voice
tinged with wonder. He forced his feet forward, half expecting her
to disappear, that he would wake up and she would be gone. The
feeling of relief that threatened to overwhelm him was almost more
than he could bear.

His hands shook as he cupped her face, traced her
brows and the curve of her cheeks, the skin warm and smooth under
his fingers. “I can scarcely believe it.” He drew her close,
wrapped his arms around her, and buried his face in her hair. It
was not a dream. She was here, in his arms.

“We thought you dead, drowned,” he said huskily.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“It is hard to believe, after all this time, that you
are alive, truly here in my arms.” He eased back, gently touched
his lips to hers, and felt her tremble as she slipped from his
grasp.

He stared at her, baffled by her seeming indifference
and realized she had stood passively in his embrace, as if it meant
nothing. Her eyes were clear. No tears of joy marred their
luminosity, no excited flush coloured her pale cheeks and
bewildered, he shook his head.

“You are missing for going on two years and that’s
all you can say? I’m sorry? No ‘I am so glad to see you, so happy
to be home. I’ve missed you terribly?” She was backing away, and he
put a hand on her arm to stop her retreat.

“What is going on here, Frances? I am so relieved and
joyous to see you I can barely speak coherently and you stand there
unmoved.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“You’re sorry.” Halcombe felt the intense joy begin
to fade. This was
wrong .
He tried to comprehend the bizarre
situation, struggled to understand and to believe she did not care.
“You disappear for months on end, show not a modicum of happiness
at being reunited with your home—your
husband,
and say “I’m
sorry” with as much concern as you might feel declining an
invitation!” He walked away and then turned back, cursing softly.
“Damnation, where the
hell
have you been all this time?”

“France, and then Portugal, with my father’s sister,
Olivia.”

“France? What in God’s name were you doing in France?
You just upped and sailed away without a word to anyone, letting us
all picture you at the bottom of the sea? You cannot possibly be
that callous. Not the woman I married. Do you have the least idea
what you put us through?” His voice was harsh and she flinched.

“It was not like that at all,” she protested, visibly
trembling, every bit of color leached from her face. “I never
intended to disappear. There was a sudden storm and the boat
capsized. Some French fishermen picked me up, but I had hit my head
when a wave knocked me into the mast, and I was barely conscious.
He took me into his
home
, the Captain, at great risk to his
family—to his entire
village—
and his grandmother cared for
me for months. When I was able to travel, he agreed to take me to
Portugal.” She paused and took a quick breath. “I knew Aunt Olivia
would reward them handsomely, but the voyage was difficult and I
fell ill.”

“But you did recover,” he said in a careful voice,
afraid that if he lost control he would start shouting. Or worse,
give in to his desire to kiss her senseless. It made him feel sick,
that he still wanted her, when it appeared she shared none of his
anguish.

“Why did you not write, tell me where you where? That
you were alive?”

She bit her lips and swallowed before she whispered,
“I thought you would be glad to be free.” Her words dropped into
the tense silence like stones.

A knife to his heart could be no more painful. For
months he’d thought over every day of their lives together. That
she was less then content, he’d sensed, but put it to her youth, a
new home, his mother. Never had it occurred to him she could
imagine such a thing.

“I don’t know what I did to make you think that. I
know I don’t deserve it.” It was an effort to get the words out, to
force his stiff lips to function; it was impossible to look at her
another moment. Halcombe half-stumbled to the table to pour a glass
of whatever was in those decanters. Port, brandy, he did not care
which.

It was brandy. He emptied the glass in two gulps. The
fiery liquid burned its way down his throat and he gasped, but it
settled into his stomach with soothing warmth. He poured another
and gripping the glass tightly, turned to face her. Outwardly calm,
she stood where he had left her, but her eyes were suspiciously
bright and her hands were curled into fists at her sides.

“If you believed that, why did you come back? You
could have stayed hidden, let the courts officially declare you
dead, and I’d never have suspected otherwise.” He smiled grimly.
“Ironic, isn’t it, that one of the reasons I am in London is to
petition to do exactly that?”

“I feared you might remarry, and any children….”

“Would be illegitimate,” he finished for her. “Noble
of you,” he sneered. “And now that you’ve made this great
sacrifice?”

“It depends upon you,” she said, and swayed.

He tossed his empty glass onto a chair and was beside
her in two strides. “Blast it, Frances. Sit down before you fall
down.” He half carried her to a settee, pushed her onto it, and
returned to the table to splash some brandy into a glass.

“Here, drink this.” He held it to her lips.

“I don’t care for spirits,” she protested with a
shudder.

“Nevertheless, you will drink it.” He wrapped her
hand around the crystal and waited until she took a small swallow
before he pulled up a chair and sat down. Her gaze was fixed on the
glass, and he used the opportunity to study her. She had changed,
though he couldn’t quite decide how at first. Her hair was dressed
the way she usually wore it, swept up into a knot and fastened with
a decorative comb. She was thinner, perhaps, though it was
difficult to judge in that costume. The creamy skin and full,
pink-tinged lips were the same, but there was a distinction to her
features now, her cheekbones more prominent. That was it, he
suddenly realized. No remnant of childish roundness remained on her
face. She was all woman now; mature, composed, with no evidence of
her youthful
joy de vie
.

“Summerton did not tell you, did he?”

The quiet question pulled him from his thoughts.

“That you had come back? No. He said I deserved to
learn of it firsthand.” He looked at her curiously. “Is that why
you went to him? So he would be the one to tell me?”

“Yes, I thought it might be less distressing for
you.” She raised her head. It appeared the momentary weakness was
past. Some color had returned to her face and her luminous
sea-green eyes were clear and dry.

“It would not have been,” he said shortly. “Nothing
could have prepared me for this.”

“No, I don’t suppose so,” she murmured. “Richard,
there is more that you need to know. Will you come upstairs with me
for a few minutes? Please?” She set aside the glass and rose.

His mouth tightened. “I’m not sure I can stand any
more revelations today, but perhaps it is best to have it all
over.”

“Thank you. Our suite is on the third floor.”

***

Frances walked beside him through the lobby,
oblivious to the other guests, although she felt some relief when
she glimpsed Summerton sitting with his newssheet in a quiet
corner. If the rigid expression on Richard’s face was any
indication, he would need the support of a friend, especially after
he learned of his daughter. Her heart ached for him. How could she
have treated him so badly? The shame and sorrow of it lay leaden in
her breast, and it took all her fortitude to climb the several
flights of stairs and walk the length of the corridor to her
suite.

She knocked and opened the door. Livvy stood by the
group of chairs placed near the window, an expression of polite
inquiry on her face, and no hint of the avid curiosity and deep
concern she was surely feeling. Bless Aunt Livvy. One could always
count on her. The thought gave Frances strength enough to make
introductions as if this were the most common of situations.

“Richard, may I present my aunt, Olivia Blake? She
kindly offered to leave her home to accompany me to England.”

“Lord Halcombe. I have heard a great deal about
you.”

Halcombe took her outstretched hand in his and bowed.
“Mrs. Blake. A pleasure.”

The expression on his face was anything but pleasant,
and Frances saw the ironic gleam in Livvy’s eyes.

“There is someone else you should meet,” Frances said
hastily, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I will go and get
her.”

Olivia stopped her with a light touch on her arm.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I believe Flora has heard your
voice.”

Frances swung around at the sound of feet running
into the room and crouched down, her arms held wide to catch the
small body racing toward her.

“Mama, cows!” Flora dashed across the room and flung
herself at Frances.

Frances picked up the child and straightened. “Did
you see some cows, pet? I’m glad you had fun today.” She turned to
Halcombe, almost faltering at the dawning comprehension on his
face. Her hand trembling, she smoothed Flora’s curls from her
forehead and took a steadying breath.

“My lord, this is Flora, our daughter.” Frances saw
his entire body stiffen, his sudden step back. Every sense she
possessed was aware of the man who stood so rigidly in front of
her, she thought he might shatter if anyone touched him.

He stared at Flora, disbelief loud in his choked
words “Daughter.
Our
child?
”

Unconsciously, Frances’ arms tightened. She was not
sure if he doubted Flora’s parentage, or couldn’t believe she had
not told him he was a father. The question was answered by the
anger filling his eyes. He knew she was his, sensed it somehow.

“Yes, our daughter.” Frances said. Her voice, sharp
with urgency, seemed to penetrate the state of stunned surprise
that held him silent. Frances watched as he wrapped a careful air
of quietude around him. It cost him, that effort. Frances saw it
and her throat filled.

He reached out and took Flora’s hand in his. “Hello,
Flora. That is a very pretty dress you are wearing.”

Flora stared at him, blinked and then patted her
dress. “Me pretty.” She smiled widely. “Me dance?”

“I would like to see you dance, but not just now.
Perhaps another time.” He squeezed her fingers gently, released
her, and moved away.

Frances exchanged a look with Olivia, handed Flora to
her, and hurried after him. “I know this has been a shock…”

“A shock?
That
my dear wife is too paltry a
word!” His voice was so harsh she shivered. “Try bowled over,
ambushed, dumfounded and so
angry
I can barely stand to
speak to you. How could you keep this from me?”

Along with the fury in his eyes she saw such a depth
of betrayal that anguish seized her heart.

“I am so very sorry,” she whispered. “I never thought
you…”

“Apparently you had no thought of anyone but
yourself,” he said, and she flinched.

He stared intently at her, and then raised his hand
and with exaggerated gentleness moved her aside. “I cannot talk to
you now, Frances. When I am more accustomed to fatherhood and
having my wife return from the dead, I will contact you.”