A Love Laid Bare Read online

  The gentleman who stepped inside the salon had such a look of amazement on his face that she wanted to laugh. It was almost worth everything she had gone through to see this usually impervious man display any kind of emotion. She took a few steps forward.

  “Lord Summerton.”

  “Frances? Frances, my God, it is you!” He crossed the room in a few long strides and took her hands in his. “I did not believe it when I saw your card. Where in God’s name have you been? Does Richard know?” He shook his head and answered his own question. “Of course not, he would have told me. But what are you doing here?” Summerton sucked in a deep breath and grinned. “Listen to me. I sound half-cocked, which I suppose I am. Come, sit down.” He led her to a sofa, waited until she was seated, then sat beside her. “You look well. Different, somehow, but well.” He ran a hand though his hair. “We thought you dead! Did you know that? Where the devil have you been?”

  His expression hardened and there was more than a little reproach in his eyes. A chill prickle ran over her skin. If Summerton was so immediately judgmental, just the thought of her husband’s reaction was enough to start her stomach churning. She wanted to race from the room and take the first ship back to Portugal—not face the furious storm that was about to burst over her. Too late, Frances. Much too late to cry craven now. You deserve whatever comes. See it through.

  She allowed herself one soft sigh and gathered up the remnants of her courage. “I’ve been in France and Portugal.”

  “France! How…?” Summerton paused, blinked, and leaned back, his stunned expression exchanged for one of icy calm. “No, don’t tell me. Richard deserves to hear this first. The man has been to hell and back since you disappeared. Contacting him should have been the first thing you did.” He hesitated, looked aside for a long moment, and then returned his intent gaze to her face. “Why have you come to me? What is it you want, Frances?”

  His voice was as cold as the look in his eyes. Frances bent her head and stared at the hands clenched in her lap. Perhaps she should have gone directly to Richard instead of imagining that an intermediary would ease the shock of her return. What was the protocol for coming back from the dead? She suppressed a half-hysterical peal of laughter. No book on the proper behavior of ladies would provide her with instructions for this situation and it appeared she had already made a grievous error.

  Nevertheless, she was here. She raised her head and faced Summerton’s watchful eyes squarely. “I wanted your advice on the best way to approach Richard, some way to better prepare him for my appearance.” You were a fool to think anything will make the return of a supposedly drowned wife easier. Or the discovery that he has a daughter!

  “Nothing on God’s earth will prepare him,” Summerton said curtly. “I suggest you contact him at once, before news of this gets out.”

  Frances nodded, disappointment flooding her. Why should he help her? The man had no reason to oblige her and was staunchly loyal to Richard. “Yes, I suppose showing up on his doorstep won’t be any worse than if you gave him warning. I will make plans to go on to Sussex as soon as possible.”

  A silence loud with unspoken recriminations filled the room. Frances felt the weight of it and found it unbearable. She stood and began to pull on her gloves. “Thank you for your time, my lord. I know I can count on your discretion in keeping this quiet for a few more days.”

  Summerton stared at her with open speculation, then got to his feet and raised a brow. “Why, that won’t be necessary, Lady Halcombe. Your husband is in London.”

  His mocking smile hurt. Frances’ lips trembled. She was to have no reprieve, it seemed, but at least she would not have several days of anticipation to endure. She turned away and moved toward the door.

  “Where are you staying?”

  Surprised at the question, she paused and looked back at him. “I don’t believe there is any reason for you to know that, sir.” Dismissal edged her voice. “Good day.”

  “There is if you want my help.”

  She turned to face him. “I thought you wanted no part of it.”

  He shrugged. “I changed my mind. What is it you want me to do?”

  Frances’ heart pounded—slow, heavy thuds that she feared might be audible. She had not realized just how disheartening his refusal was.

  “I would like you to arrange a meeting with Richard, somewhere we can talk privately—and tell him beforehand that I have returned to England.” She hesitated for a second, trying unsuccessfully to read something in the viscount’s expression, and then continued. “I am staying at Grillon’s. They have suitable private rooms available.”

  “You will speak to him this afternoon. I will send word as to the time.”

  “Very well.”

  It was an order, but she made no protest. She was too relieved that he had refrained from further questions. She picked up her hat and left the room, not caring if it was rude. She had to get away from this house and its unfriendly owner. She needed some time alone to prepare for an encounter that would surely be far more harrowing than this distressing interview—an encounter with her long unseen husband, Richard Henry Ehlman, Earl of Halcombe.

  Chapter Six

  “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 s
kin 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 sile
nce. “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.