by Anne O'Brien
She raised her chin and turned away to find Ambrose, who had offered to procure for her a glass of wine, beside her. They stood in a window embrasure, Frances endeavouring to cool her heated cheeks in relative privacy, sipping the bubbles. She looked at him and sighed a little. They were in perfect accord and he did not pretend to misunderstand her.
‘I suppose he has broken many hearts in the past.’
‘Yes …’ Ambrose smiled wryly ‘… but not intentionally, I think. He would not be so cruel.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t let him break yours.’
She tried to stem the rush of emotion that lodged in her throat on being shown such unexpected sympathy.
‘You are very understanding.’
She held out her hand after only the slightest hesitation and Ambrose took it, holding it warmly between his own.
‘He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know. Don’t judge him before you know him better. He is the best friend a man could have and the last months have not been easy for him. He has lost much and gained little. He has not found it easy to come to terms with Richard’s death and he blames himself.’
‘And, if the truth be told, I have not made the situation any better for him, have I?’ There was no self-pity in Frances’s eyes, merely acceptance. It touched Ambrose’s heart, so much so that for once it prompted him to take the Marquis to task for being so blind to the feelings of those around him. He pressed Frances’s hand in sympathy.
At which unfortunate point, the friend under discussion materialised at Frances’s elbow, looking anything but amicable.
‘It is late. If I may interrupt your tête-à-tête, I will escort you home, my lady.’
‘Of course.’ She withdrew her hand from Ambrose’s light clasp and made to follow, but Aldeborough stood back to allow her to go ahead to join the Dowager and thus give him the opportunity of a few words with Ambrose.
He was cold and dangerous, anger shimmering around him. It drove him to utter the first thought that came into his head.
‘If you were anyone else, I would call you out!’
‘And I would refuse. Don’t be ridiculous, man. There was no impropriety in my conversation with Frances.’ Ambrose’s response was as deliberately casual as Aldeborough’s was heated. He was more than a little interested to note Aldeborough’s reaction.
‘I do not expect to see you holding my wife’s hand in the middle of a ballroom.’
‘If you had not been encouraging your latest flirt, Hugh, you could have been holding her hand. And she would have enjoyed that much more.’
‘I don’t flirt!’
‘And neither does Frances. If we were anywhere else, I would plant you a leveller.’ Ambrose smiled, enjoying his success in provoking his friend. ‘It is a pity you can’t see what’s under your nose.’
‘And who gave you permission to call my wife Frances?’
‘You did!’
Aldeborough’s fury grew as he knew he was in the wrong. ‘Go to the Devil.’ He turned on his heel to stride after his wife.
Ambrose watched them leave the ballroom. Hugh was exhibiting all the symptoms of a jealous and possessive husband if he did but know it. Ambrose shrugged and went in search of some convivial company with whom he might play a hand of cards, a thoughtful expression in his eyes. He hoped Frances had the courage to stand up to the irate Marquis. The outcome might be interesting. Ambrose thought that Hugh might just have met his match.
She knew that it was not in his nature to allow the matter to rest or his anger to grow cold and she was afraid. She did not know what he and Ambrose had said to each other, but her husband had left the Taverners’ town house in a towering fury. The atmosphere in the carriage was white hot with a tension that all but crackled in the air. The Dowager had appeared oblivious, filling the silence with inconsequential but often malicious comment on those present at the ball. Frances answered as required, all the time aware of Aldeborough’s brooding presence. Juliet prattled about dresses and dancing.
Her maid removed her exquisite gown with care, unpinned her hair, replaced the pearl set in its velvet case and wished her mistress goodnight. Frances, troubled by all she had learned that night, paced the floor, the silken lace folds of her robe swishing round her feet. She kept her own anger stoked inside her, reliving her first sight of her husband pressing his lips to that woman’s jewelled fingers, refusing to acknowledge the underlying shimmer of nerves across her skin.
He entered with his usual feline grace, but without his usual courteous knock. He closed the door quietly, far more sinister than if he had slammed it, and turned the key in the lock. It spoke of an iron determination not to be gainsaid and made Frances catch her breath. He had taken time to divest himself of his evening finery and was now clad in a sumptuous blue satin dressing gown. The expression on his face was not a pleasant one.
She was left standing in the centre of the room in mid-pace, feeling foolish. This determined her not to be put at a disadvantage so she turned to face him, feigning a confidence which she did not feel.
‘I see that you were expecting me, Madame Wife!’
‘Yes.’ She raised her chin higher.
‘I did not expect to have to say this. I will not have you flirting with other men. Do you understand me?’
‘I do not flirt with other men.’ She was swept with a sense of outrage that she certainly did not have to pretend to. ‘I have never flirted in my life. Your accusations are groundless.’
‘So what exactly was Hanwell doing, holding your hands, kissing your fingers? And then I find you in a secluded conversation with Ambrose! It seems that I misjudged the woman I married.’
Her face paled at the injustice of it all. ‘How dare you! Ambrose danced with me when you would not! You seemed to be far too involved admiring Miss Ingram—and I was only holding Ambrose’s hand for … for comfort.’
‘If it is comfort you want, try me.’ He held out his hand imperiously, hiding the bitter jealously that lodged in his gut. It was riding him hard, to his disgust, but his control faltered as he remembered Frances, her eyes dark with pain that he had caused, offering her hand to his friend, who had had no compunction in taking it. The fact that he knew Frances to be totally innocent made not one bit of difference. She was his, and he would share her with no one.
‘Give me your hands,’ he repeated.
‘No!’ Frances hid her hands behind her back and shook her head. His arrogance spurred her on to the offensive.
‘I am surprised that you had the time to notice what I was doing,’ she reflected in a clear voice, shaking inside at her impetuosity. The result could be like rousing a sleeping tiger. ‘How could you possibly drag your attention away from the charms of Mrs Winters?’ Frances held her breath. What had possessed her to challenge him so openly?
Aldeborough stiffened as if she had struck him. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mrs Winters was pointed out to me by any number of people,’ she explained, with more intent than honesty, meeting his daggerlike gaze.
‘What do you know of Letitia Winters?’ His usual smooth tones had the edge of a blade to them.
‘Very little,’ she admitted. ‘Is there more I should know? It appears to be common knowledge that you enjoy her company more than a little.’ Frances turned her back on him and moved towards the fireplace, her shoulders tense as she awaited his reply, aware that she was playing with fire, but reckless enough not to care, carried along on a relentless wave of righteous indignation.
‘She has nothing to do with our marriage. She is not your concern.’
‘Then you have no right to question my behaviour, even if it was improper—which I do not to any degree admit! Charles and Ambrose have never treated me with anything but perfect propriety. You have no right to stand in judgement.’
‘I have every right. You are my wife. And so you belong to me, body and soul.’ He strode across the room, seized her shoulders and shook her with a barely suppressed anger
and clenched teeth. ‘If it is romantic dalliance you crave, then I will provide it. I have more expertise than Ambrose,’ he added with an arrogance that took her breath away.
He tore at the ribbons on her wrapper, pushing the fragile material from her shoulders so that it fell with a whisper of silk to the floor. He felt her flinch, saw her eyes become flat and distant, and was instantly flooded with a terrible mingling of anger and desire. It swept away civilised behaviour and the manners of polite society and returned him to the basic primeval need of a man to possess the woman who was his.
‘You seem unwilling to respond to my caresses with anything but tolerance. Perhaps I have not tried hard enough.’
She cried out involuntarily as the tangled emotions, kept at bay for so long, attacked her senses, but he silenced her by crushing her mouth under his, holding her lips captive with one hand twisted in her hair. He imprisoned her with his other arm, her body pressed firmly against his. He parted her lips, invading with his tongue, his mouth hot and hard. Here was no delicacy or gentle persuasion, no courtesy or consideration for an untutored bride, but intimate, demanding possession. The touch of his fingers burned through the fine lawn of her chemise and she was supremely conscious of the power of his body as he crushed her against him, breast to breast, thigh to thigh.
He unlaced her chemise and pushed it from her shoulders so that it caught at her elbows. His hot kisses blazed a molten trail, startling her in their intensity. She shivered. His hands ranged, carelessly, greedily, over her shoulders, her breasts, her back. He raised his head, eyes blinded with passion, to rake her pallor, and would have taken possession of her mouth once more when he caught a fleeting reflection of them in the mirror of her dressing table. He froze, eyes narrowed, fingers rigid. And then he startled Frances by abruptly releasing her, stepping back and away. Confusion swirled in her brain. Would he walk away and leave her in this tangle of emotion that she did not understand? She watched as Aldeborough walked to the side table and picked up a branch of candles.
‘Turn round.’ His voice was expressionless. He had his emotions well in hand, but it was still an order.
She backed away with a little shake of her head. She could not bear for him to see her shame and made to draw her chemise over her shoulders again.
He stretched out a hand to stop her. ‘No. Turn round.’ She could no longer disobey the stern command and turned, hesitantly, head bent, knowing what would be revealed by the unforgiving light from the candles.
He raised the light high, pushing the soft material down from her shoulders, exposing her back to the candles’ flames. The soft light glimmered on the welter of pale silvery stripes across her ivory skin, from shoulder to waist. The scars were well healed but evidence, undoubtedly, of beatings that had broken the skin. And on more than one occasion.
For one long moment he said nothing, did nothing, unable to take in the enormity of it. Then he touched the marks with fingers suddenly exquisitely gentle, tracing the lines of the scars as they criss-crossed the skin, no longer satin smooth as it should have been. How could he have missed such brands before? Probably because you never looked, never expected anything so vile, he admonished himself in disgust. All anger, all unwarranted resentment against her drained out of him, to be replaced by infinite tenderness and compassion. On impulse, he bent his head and pressed his lips to the ugly traces of cruel treatment.
‘Who did this to you?’ he asked in a low voice. But he knew the answer.
She shrugged as if it were a matter of small consequence. ‘My uncle.’ But he was not fooled. He had heard the catch in her voice and he had felt the trembling beneath his lips.
Slowly, carefully, fighting to gain mastery over the fury that surged through his blood, he put down the candles on the dressing table, readjusted her chemise over her back and shoulders, refastened the ribbon ties with extreme precision and took her by the hand. He led her to the cushioned couch at the foot of the bed where he seated himself and pulled her to sit beside him. She followed him, biddable as a child.
‘Can you tell me about it?’
She shook her head, biting her bottom lip, and pulled her hands away to clasp them tightly in her lap. For some reason that she could not analyse, the scars were degrading, as if the fault had been hers. She did not wish Aldeborough to know about them: she feared that he would feel less of her for causing them. It was bad enough that he should know, that whenever he touched her in future he would be aware of the ugly, disfiguring scars.
‘Tell me!’ he persisted, determined not to allow her to withdraw, shocked by the deep flash of fear in her eyes.
When she still remained silent he took possession of her hands again. ‘Frances, not all men are like your uncle. I will not beat you. I will never wittingly hurt you. Tell me about the beatings.’
She found her voice, a little husky and uncertain, but firm enough. ‘I did tell you, if you remember. My uncle … when I tried to run away. He tied me to the bed post and … well, as you can see.’
‘But this is more than one beating, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed.
‘He hurt you.’ He frowned as his mind failed to grasp the outrage of it.
She merely nodded, her teeth buried in her bottom lip.
‘But why?’
‘I don’t think he needed a reason. But it is true that I was not always very co-operative. Probably I deserved it—I was always made to believe so. Once I was late home—my horse had gone lame, but he thought I had tried to escape again and … I don’t want to talk about it.’
He was horrified at her calm acceptance of the punishments.
‘Nothing you did could have made such treatment acceptable! Was there no one for you to turn to? Your aunt or your cousin?’
Her gaze lifted to his, filled with mockery. ‘It was easier for them if they pretended it did not happen.’
He caressed her fingers, considering his next words.
‘Did … did your uncle touch you in any other way?’
She shuddered under his hands as his meaning became clear. ‘No,’ she whispered.
Relief washed over him.
‘Was there never anyone to show you any love, any affection, Frances?’ He knew the answer and could not bear it.
She shook her head, hiding her face from him.
‘You don’t like men very much, do you? And, in God’s name, who could blame you?’
‘I have had no cause to.’
He released her to rub his hands over his face. ‘I suppose I haven’t helped any. What can I do?’ He did not expect an answer, but her resilience surprised him.
‘You have nothing to blame yourself for. How could you? You rescued me from a life worse than you can imagine, giving me a home of my own and all this.’ She gestured to the room and her clothes. A delicate colour had returned to her face and sparkle to her eyes. ‘I have a life of luxury. And I am no longer afraid. I do not wake up every morning, fearing that … that I might do something wrong which would merit punishment. How could you ever realise how important that is to me? How could I possibly have any recriminations against you?’
‘But yet you still flinch from me. You accept my lovemaking, but without pleasure. I think that you still believe that I might beat you given any provocation. Do you find my touch so objectionable? Be honest with me, Frances.’
‘No.’ It was a mere whisper.
‘Look at me, Frances.’ She raised her eyes, dark with painful memories and suppressed tears that she would not allow to fall. ‘I promise on my honour that I will never hurt you.’ He smiled to try to lighten the tension. ‘I will never beat you or strike you or any of the other dreadful things you might envisage. Do you believe me? Do you trust me?’
She looked into his eyes, compelled by the brilliance she saw there. ‘Yes,’ she answered simply.
‘Probably you don’t—but you will.’ His tone was rueful. ‘I’ll make sure of it. No one will ever hurt you again.’
Frances resp
onded instinctively by catching his hand and pressing it wordlessly against her cheek. It took him by surprise, amazing him, stirring within him a confusion of guilt and frustration. And also a violent leap of fury. His fingers clenched into a fist as he imagined them around Torrington’s throat. That he should have damaged Frances, inflicted such cruelty on her, was not to be borne. He breathed deeply to rein in the anger that he could not express to Frances. And now he knew why she found it so difficult to respond to him physically. He sighed. He had a hard task ahead of him.
‘Come here.’ His voice and touch were gentle and brought the weight of tears into her throat. ‘You are exhausted.’ He lifted her in his arms, holding her close for a moment, then lowered her on to her bed. His intention was to leave her, but he could not, not when her fingers remained clasped to his. He felt a stirring in his heart that he could not name, but he knew that she deserved more from him at that moment than that he should walk away from her bed.
His eyes locked on hers. ‘Not all men are cruel and thoughtless. Let me show you.’
