Sins of Omission (22 page)

“Luke, please,” she whispered, unsure of what exactly she was asking for.

“Please more or please stop?”

Frances could see the seductive smile as his fingers slipped inside, nearly making her swoon with the intensity of the feelings he was evoking.

“Please stop,” she breathed.  “I can’t take it.”

“Has no one ever touched you like this,
cherie
?” Luke was watching her now, his eyes probing her soul, her memories.

“No, no one.”

“Not even your husband?” he suddenly asked.

Frances pushed him away as she felt a tightening in her chest.  She didn’t want to think of Lionel or remember anything he’d done to her, but her face must have betrayed her because Luke suddenly looked contrite, realizing he’d gone too far. 

“I’m sorry,” he pleaded as he tried to pull her back into his embrace, but Frances just pushed him away, harder this time.  Angry tears ran down her cheeks as she turned to flee. 

Frances ran toward the path, but Luke caught her before she had a chance to reach it.  “Frances, please, I’m sorry.  Why are you so upset?”

“My husband hurt me every day of our marriage.  He nearly beat me to death.  I wouldn’t be here if Lord Everly hadn’t intervened, so please, don’t ever ask about him again.  He’s dead, and I’m glad.  I thank God every single day that he can no longer get to me and claim me for his own.  Now, let me go.”

Luke didn’t let her go, but kissed her hard, pulling her against him until she felt his arousal through the many layers of fabric between them.  “I will never hurt you,” he whispered.  “Never.”

Frances ignored her instinct to run away and surrendered to Luke’s kiss.  She needed to feel loved and wanted, and Luke instinctively felt her vulnerability and knew it was the chink in her armor.  He didn’t slide his hand under her skirts this time for fear of upsetting her; just kissed her and held her until she began to relax and allowed her anger to dissolve. 

“Frances, let me come to you tonight.  It’s our only chance to be alone together before you go back to Paris.  Let me show you how much I love you.”

“I don’t know,” Frances replied stubbornly.  “What if Lord Everly finds out?”

“He won’t.  It will be our little secret.  I promise you won’t be sorry.  Don’t you want to know what it feels like to be loved by someone who worships you?  Say yes, sweetheart,” he pressed.

“All right.  Yes,” Frances whispered, sealing her fate.

Frances had been allocated a small bedroom at the back of a dim corridor.  It was sparsely furnished, and not much bigger than a garderobe.  She’d gotten out of bed several times over the past hour, first unlocking her door, then locking it, then unlocking it again in anticipation of her rendezvous with Luke.  She almost wished that Lord and Lady Everly were just down the hall which would make Luke’s visit impossible, but Hugo and Neve were on the other side of the building.  Their chamber was dominated by a large four-poster with hangings of golden-yellow silk elaborately embroidered with flowers and birds, and overlooking the gardens.  They would have no inkling of Frances’s transgressions, unless some busybody made it their business to tell them. 

Sabine was quartered on the upper floor with the rest of the servants, forced to share a room with three other lady’s maids who snubbed her at every opportunity.  They were employed by French nobility, not some English upstart and his dowdy wife.  Despite the frosty reception, Sabine wasn’t upset in the least, since the prestige of having been to Versailles would give her much-desired cache and elevate her standing among the other servants at the Everly residence.  It would also help her secure a better position once the Everlys no longer had need of her.  She wasn’t around to offer Frances guidance and moral support, but she would wholeheartedly approve of Frances’s assignation if she were. 

Frances’s hands shook with nerves as she heard stealthy footsteps in the corridor and watched in trepidation as the handle slowly turned.  She wasn’t afraid for her reputation, although she would hate to cause Lord and Lady Everly any distress; what she feared most was the actual lovemaking.  She knew Luke was nothing like Lionel and would never intentionally cause her pain, but would she be able to respond to him?  Frances had managed to endure a year of marriage with a man who cared nothing for her well-being or happiness, but was she ready to open up to someone who did?  The thought of being touched intimately frightened her despite enjoying Luke’s caresses in the park earlier.  What if she froze?  What if she were unable to please him?  What if all she felt was revulsion?  She so desperately wanted to love and be loved, and to enjoy that which brought everyone so much pleasure, but was it possible that her experiences with Lionel broke something within her, and made her incapable of ever giving herself to someone without fear?

Frances felt a little less panicked when she saw Luke’s sheepish smile as he quietly entered the room.  Gone were the wig and the elaborate suit of clothes which Luke had been wearing earlier.  Luke’s face was scrubbed clean of powder, and his natural hair was thick and wavy with a stubborn forelock that kept falling into his eyes.  He was wearing breeches and a shirt that was open at the throat to reveal a mat of curly hair.  His stockinged feet made no sound on the wooden floor as he slipped into the room and gave Frances a conspiratory smile as he set down his candle.

Frances held her breath as Luke turned the key in the lock before slowly approaching the bed.  Now that he was here, she was glad that she had worn her prettiest nightdress and had brushed out her hair and arranged it artfully around her shoulders.  Some women wore rouge on their cheeks and lips, but Frances didn’t need any; her lips and cheeks were rosy enough, especially now since she was blushing.  Sabine said that her former mistress even put rouge on her nipples before her lover arrived, but Frances thought that was just silly.  She suddenly remembered how Lionel forced her to use belladonna drops in her eyes to make them look wide and guileless, but pushed the memory away, annoyed with herself for allowing Lionel to violate even this private moment.  It would take her a long time to forget him, but she would be damned if she allowed him to ruin every good thing in her life.   

“May I join you?” Luke asked as he climbed onto the bed next to Frances.  She just nodded, momentarily unable to speak.  Lord Everly would be very displeased if he ever found out that she’d taken a man to her bed, but she was a grown woman; a woman who’d been married and had borne a child, Frances told herself defiantly.  She had a right to shape her own destiny, and she wanted to know what it was like to have a lover; one who actually wanted to make love to her, not brutalize her.  Luke claimed to love her and had offered marriage, so it wasn’t wrong.

Luke cupped Frances’s cheek as he looked into her eyes.  “Frances, I will leave if you ask me to.  I can’t bear to see you looking so frightened.  It’s as if you are having an internal argument with yourself, and losing,” he observed.  “Are you that unsure of your feelings for me, or are you worried about the impropriety of the situation?”

Frances was surprised by how accurately Luke assessed her thoughts.  He knew her better than she realized, so she felt she owed him honesty.  “I’m not concerned with impropriety, but I am scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of being physically hurt, for a start, and of being unable to overcome my fears.  There are times when I wish I never had to marry, so that no man could ever lord it over me again or have the power to hurt me.”

“Oh, Frances, how you must have suffered in your marriage to feel this way,” Luke said sadly as he pulled Frances into his arms.  “If you put yourself in my hands, I will show you that there is no reason to fear.  I will show you how love is meant to be.  Will you trust me?” he asked as he lifted her chin with his finger and forced her to look at him.  “I will stop any time you wish.”

“All right,” Frances whispered.  “I will trust you.” 

Luke didn’t reply but kissed her lightly, his lips brushing hers in a manner which was completely nonthreatening as he pushed her down onto the bed.  Frances expected him to undress, but Luke kept his clothes on; he was in no hurry.  He kissed her for what seemed like an hour, his lips drinking her in and caressing her flesh until Frances felt as if she were floating above the bed, intoxicated with Luke’s kisses.  All tension fled from her body, replaced by a delicious languidness which seemed to permeate both body and mind.  She barely noticed when he untied the ribbon on her nightdress and kissed her exposed breast, making her moan with pleasure. 

Frances opened her eyes in surprise as Luke’s mouth suddenly vanished.  “Be right back,” he whispered.  Frances experienced a moment of doubt while Luke shed his clothes, but told herself she was being silly.  Instead, she focused on Luke.  He had a lithe, strong body, and his skin felt warm and soft against hers once he climbed back into bed and kissed her tenderly.  Frances felt a twinge of alarm when Luke pushed up her nightdress and slid his hand between her legs, but he whispered words of love as he picked up where he’d left off that afternoon, caressing and probing until Frances was ready for him.  “Ready?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” Frances murmured, suddenly feeling anything but. 

Luke slid into her and began to move slowly and deliberately, his eyes never leaving hers.  She’d expected pain, a sense of violation, and the usual wave of humiliation to wash over her, but all she felt was her tender flesh stretching around him.  It wasn’t unpleasant, but not pleasurable either.

“Allow yourself to relax,” Luke murmured.  “Enjoy it.”  He kissed her lips, but then broke the kiss as he began to move a little faster, thrusting harder, and making Frances stiffen with fear.  Was this the part where he would hurt her? Frances wondered frantically.  She was no longer languid, but tense and uncomfortable, wishing only that he would finish and leave her alone.  

“You’re holding back,” Luke whispered.  “I can feel it.  Let me in, sweetheart.”

Frances tried to do as he asked, but she couldn’t let go.  She wanted to cry as her hands came up against his chest.  She tried to move her hips away from him, but Luke slid his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her hips to meet his, making resistance impossible.  Frances stopped fighting and just went limp, as she so often had with Lionel, in the hope that he would be done soon.  Luke finally spilled himself into her and released her, panting as he rested his head against France’s forehead.  He cupped her cheek and pushed a stray curl out of her face as their eyes met. 

“I know you didn’t enjoy it, but it will be better next time, you’ll see.  You just need to allow yourself to relax.”

“Yes,” Frances mumbled, desperate for him to leave.  She just wanted to be alone.  She didn’t want to think about what had just happened or contemplate the next time.  She just wanted to curl up like a shrimp and think of nothing at all until, hopefully, she fell asleep.  They would be going home tomorrow morning, so she wouldn’t have to see Luke or even speak to him until she was ready to face him again. 

“I love you, Frances,” Luke whispered as he planted a sweet kiss on her nose.  “I can’t wait until we are married.”

Frances averted her eyes so that Luke wouldn’t see her tears, but Luke was already pulling on his breeches and reaching for his shirt.  Frances turned her face away, waiting for the sound of a closing door.

The day was uncharacteristically gloomy for late May; a dreary mist falling outside, and a chill seeping into every room of the house and forcing the maids to lay fires in hearths that had been cold for weeks.  Even the birds were unusually silent, feeling no urge to sing when the skies looked as if they were about to open up and drench the city in a cleansing downpour.  A merry fire blazed in the library, driving the chill away, but the house was hushed, as if everyone in it was responding to the weather and refusing to feel cheerful.  Neve was upstairs with Valentine, and Frances had hardly left her room since they returned from the country, claiming a mild indisposition and lounging in bed.  Even Archie seemed out of sorts and had retreated to the stables to commune with the horses, followed by Jem, who was bored and restless.

Hugo didn’t actually mind the somnolent atmosphere.  After three days of whirlwind activities at Versailles, and a long ride back in a stifling carriage with two women who were sleep-deprived, hot, and cranky, Hugo was enjoying the silence.  He looked up from his book as Luke stormed into the library; his cheeks blotched by red spots of anger.  Hugo gestured toward a chair, but Luke refused to sit down and just paced in front of Hugo like a caged beast, trying to catch his breath before blurting out whatever it was he’d come to say.

“So which is it, Hugo?  Is she your daughter or your mistress?” he finally spat out, his eyes blazing with fury as he stood over Hugo, who was still seated, his legs crossed and the book now in his lap.

“Which would you prefer?” Hugo asked solicitously, smiling up at his irate friend. 

“As of Friday, rumor had it that you were bedding Frances under your wife’s nose, but by Sunday, it seems that everyone had it all wrong, and she is really your love child with Morley’s wife.  Which is it?  I have a right to know,” Luke roared. 

Hugo set aside the book and got to his feet.  He didn’t like to feel at a disadvantage when speaking with an angry man.  And angry he was.  Love was obviously having an adverse effect on the poor man.  Perhaps Frances rejected him while they were all at Versailles, or maybe Luke was having problems with Sir Trumbull.  Hugo didn’t know the man well, but his temper was legendary. 

“First of all, you have no rights when it comes to my private life,” Hugo replied calmly, “and second, neither one is true, as I am sure you know.  What’s really got you so upset, Luke?”

“If it isn’t true, then why did you tell Monsieur Devereaux that you had been inordinately fond of Frances’s mother?  He’s the biggest gossip at Court,” Luke demanded indignantly, maddened by Hugo’s knowing smile.

“Luke, someone started a mean-spirited rumor about Frances and myself, clearly meant to punish me for worming my way into Court.  Something tells me that Sir Trumbull might have had a hand in it, given his obvious loathing of me.  The gossip distressed and humiliated my wife, tarnished Frances’s reputation, and didn’t do me any good either.  The only way I could find to quell the speculation was to imply that Frances is my ward because she’s really my child,” Hugo explained patiently.  “Unless the idiots at Court are depraved enough to suggest that I’m romancing my own daughter, the rumor is now dead.”

“Did you know her mother?” Luke asked belligerently, unwilling to drop the subject.

“Never met the woman, but I hear she was a beauty, just like her daughter,” Hugo quipped in an effort to deflate Luke’s anger. 

Luke sank into a chair and smiled sheepishly.  “I’m sorry, Hugo.  The thought of you and her just sent me over the edge.  I suppose I wanted to believe that she’s really your spawn to alleviate my jealousy.  I’ve tried to call on Frances since we got back, but she has refused to see me.”

“You have nothing to feel jealous of.  Frances is not mine, but I care for her as a daughter, nothing more.  I love my wife, unlikely as it may seem to a courtier, and wish to spare her any more distress.  Neve wasn’t brought up to this life; she’s out of her depth in this cesspool of gossip and malice.  I simply wish to protect her.”

“I understand,” Luke conceded.  “Were you also protecting Frances by not telling me she’d been wed?”

Hugo’s expression grew hard as he surveyed his friend.  “And who told you that, pray?”

“Trumbull.”

“Yes, Frances had been married.  She was viciously abused by her husband, Lionel Finch.  Remember him?”

“Good God,” Luke breathed, suddenly making the connection.  “She was married to that Finch?”

“Yes.  Mercifully, he’s dead.”

“Poor girl,” Luke breathed.  “I heard what he’d done to that girl at Madame Nelly’s.  It was unspeakable.  They said she’d lost her sight and hearing after the beating he gave her.”

“Thankfully, Frances can still see and hear, but she’d suffered greatly, Luke, and if you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will nail your bollocks to the wall.  Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Luke replied, suddenly eager to take his leave. 

Hugo closed his eyes as Luke left the room, feeling strangely worn out despite the early hour.  He’d grown up at the Court of Charles II, and had frequently visited the Court of James II, but in his view, and perhaps he was being naïve, no Court was as vicious as that of Louis XIV.  Hugo was a seasoned courtier, but Neve was a woman of the twenty-first century, a woman who valued honesty, respect, and friendship.  She was baffled by the goings-on at Versailles, and rightfully disgusted with the energy and fervor the followers of Louis XIV devoted to scheming and intrigue.  She wanted nothing to do with that life, and he couldn’t blame her, but their very future depended on remaining in Louis’s good graces, which meant visiting Versailles, or any number of other palaces, when invited.  Hugo couldn’t afford to reject Louis’s hospitality, nor could he refuse the summons of de Chartres, who needed an opportunity to see Hugo without meeting in private and risking exposure.  Talking for a few minutes at Versailles would raise no eyebrows or connect Hugo to de Chartres in any way, which is precisely what the spymaster wanted in order to keep Hugo from becoming compromised.

It was a bit early in the day, but Hugo threw caution to the wind and poured himself a large brandy before settling back in his chair by the fire.  He rarely gave in to homesickness, but there were moments, like right now, when he wished for nothing more than to be back home in Cranley, away from all this scheming and gossip.  He wanted Neve to be happy and safe, and his daughter to grow up on land which belonged to her family.  He wished he could play a game of chess with Bradford and share his concerns with his friend.  He was desperate for someone to talk to, someone he could trust, someone who understood the position he was in and not judge him too harshly. 

Neve would support him, of course, but she simply couldn’t understand the game he was playing or what was at stake, now and in the future.  He also wished that he could speak to Clarence face to face, and visit Jane’s grave.  It wouldn’t change anything, but maybe his soul would feel a little lighter when he thought of the sister who’d committed the ultimate sin by taking her own life.  Would he ever feel indifference when he remembered her, or would there always be this anger and hurt which threatened to consume him?  Not a day went by that Hugo didn’t replay the events of last fall in his mind, still searching for answers and arguing with a woman who was long gone in an effort to understand what drove her to such extreme measures.

Hugo allowed himself a moment of self-pity before putting Surrey out of his mind and returning to the problem at hand.  He had to earn his keep, which meant providing de Chartres with some intelligence, and soon.  At this moment, the only means he had of learning anything was through Bradford Nash’s letters and Luke’s unguarded observations, but Gideon Warburton might prove a useful ally.  The man had no place at Court, but he was well-informed, highly observant, and deeply involved in the politics of England through his profession.  Perhaps it was time to renew their acquaintance, Hugo decided as he reached for paper and quill.