Page 42 of The Viscount's Pearl
“Yes,” said Laurence. He looked at her pink lips, the curve of her dark lashes as she continued to look downwards, always seeking.
He thought of the kiss in the garden, how soft her lips had been. She had not been cold, there was warmth there, he was sure of it. She had looked up at him, lips parted and for a moment he thought she might lean towards him for another kiss but she had not. Perhaps she had been shy, it would have been her first kiss, after all, and she could not know he would be gentle with her. Perhaps he should say something now, to indicate to her that it was not his will that they be nothing but convenient spouses to one another. That he felt more for her, that if she felt the same, they could see what might grow between them, they could –
“Should we tell him it is a marriage of convenience?”
He swallowed, her bluntness hurtful. “Perhaps it is kind for him to believe it is a love match, if it makes him happy.”
“I have never lied to him.” She stopped, looked up at him, her grey eyes uncertain.
“It is not exactly a lie,” he tried, uncomfortable under her direct gaze, unable to think of the right words to say. Why was it so easy to utter witty words of seduction to a married lady who desired him, but impossible to find words of real affection for Frances? He did not want to frighten her away by suddenly declaring his love for her, when she believed there was to be only a cool agreement between them. He must proceed gently, to see if she would come closer to him, would learn to love him in her own time. “We are… friends, are we not? We are… fond of one another?”
“Yes,” she said, then looked down again, moved a few steps further along.
He watched, drinking in the sight of her, her steady gaze, her total attention to the search, heedless of the breeze playing with her bonnet ribbons, the way her skirts ruffled about her. Any other woman would have kept up a constant stream of chatter, mostly about herself: her hair, the need for a parasol, fear of the gulls, and other such nonsense. But Frances walked as though in her own world and Laurence had a great desire to find a way into that world, to walk within it at her side, even if in silence. He lengthened his stride to reach her and took the handle of her basket, eager to offer some assistance, to find some way to be part of her activity.
“Let me carry them for you.”
She looked up in surprise, but then nodded and let go of the basket, even as a shout came from behind them and they both turned to see the footman Benjamin running across the beach, trying to get their attention.
“Come at once! Lord Barrington is unwell!”
Laurence shoved the basket of shells back into Frances’ hands and set off at a run, his feet struggling against the soft sand. He reached the chair and the slumped figure of Lord Barrington and bent over him, touched his face and then held his wrist.
“He is dead, isn’t he?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Benjamin nodded, speechless.
Frances appeared by his side, her breath short with running. She looked down at Lord Barrington’s face, his eyes closed, his face peaceful. “His heart was growing weak, like his legs.”
“How do you know?”
“He kept saying he was tired.”
“Did our news… was it too much?”
She shook her head. “He was happy. He died happy.”
There were tears in Laurence’s eyes, real distress at the loss. She put one hand over his, uncertain of how to comfort him, but wanting to show that he was not alone.
He nodded at the gesture, then cleared his throat and addressed the footman. “Benjamin.”
“My lord?”
Laurence stared at him, then realised. He was Lord Barrington now, the title had left in his uncle’s dying breath and drifted across the sands to him, before the footman had even seen what had happened and called for him. He tried to gather his thoughts. He must take care of everything now, there would be a funeral and a will, an estate to take over, many responsibilities that would fall on his shoulders. One thought above all others shone out. He must take care of Frances. It was not necessary for her to attend the funeral, few women attended such an unpleasant event, and he would be occupied for some time. The wedding would have to be postponed while he settled into all that the new title and position would demand of him; besides which it would not be appropriate to marry too soon after hisuncle’s demise. He would ensure she was safe and cared for until he could claim her. She must not be troubled by anything, must stay with her family where she could be looked after until he could return to her side. There were already too many busybodies along the shore, staring and whispering; he had no wish to subject her to further discomfort.
“Benjamin, take Miss Lilley back to Northdown and arrange for her safe travel back to London.”
Frances stared at him. “Back to London?”
He nodded and took her hand. “I will have many things to do here and then at Ashland Manor in Surrey. It will be best if you are with your family.”
“But I –”
But Benjamin had already waved over the driver, who swiftly brought the carriage close to the promenade and, apprised of the situation, made haste to let down the steps, while the footman stood waiting, his hand held out to help Frances in. She looked to Laurence, but he was speaking with the second footman, Andrew, directing him to secure the services of a funeral director at once, while he stood guard over his uncle’s body. Slowly, she stepped into the carriage. He came to the window as the footman took a seat next to the driver.
“Benjamin will take care of everything,” he assured her. “You will be safely back with your family in no time, and I will take care of everything here.”
He touched her hand where she clutched at the window frame, then bowed and stepped away, gesturing to the driver, who cracked the whip, the carriage moving smartly away from the promenade, the horses urged to a brisk trot.
