Page 52 of The Viscount's Pearl
He heard a wavering, “No,” from inside and hesitated, but thenturned the handle and entered the room. Frances was slumped on the floor, face resting on her dressing table chair.
Frances buried her head still further into the chair. How to explain to him? Even in the whirl of other emotions there was the hot flush of shame. Laurence had spent not just time and money but care in collecting such extraordinary shells and having them placed inside the beautifully made cabinet. He had tried to do something to make her happy and she was weeping. It was ungrateful, but the desolation came from him not understanding her at all. The shells were her world, her passion and comfort. They were not, never had been, a pretty pastime to flaunt to the world. They had never been something others understood the way she did. People would exclaim over how pretty they were, before their eyes glazed over and they would pass on to something else, some other more important topic of conversation, the latest fashions, the latest gossip. The shells were a secret part of herself and Laurence did not understand. Why was his lack of understanding so painful? After all, she had never cared whether her father and mother understood about the shells , nor any of her siblings, and so it had not hurt when they did not.
But there was something about Laurence, she now realised, that had made her want to share the shells with him. He had walked the beaches with her, had offered shells he had found, had listened. He had, during the house party, understood something she had not even known herself, which was that if she thought about shells she could dance, could find grace and rhythm within herself without the constraint of social rules and the niceties expected of her. He had made her his wife and she had thought happiness might lie within her reach. But this kind gesture brought the illusion crashing down. The shells he had collected and displayed for her were a talking point, a pretty, fashionable pastime for a viscount’s wife, something to impressvisitors, not part of her private world. And she did not know how to explain it to him, how to reject his gift in a way that he would understand. How could he? He had done what he thought was kind, and generous, and he was right, would have been right had Frances been any other woman. Any other woman would have embraced him, would have thanked him and shown off the gift as a mark of her husband’s care of her, his love for her.
The heat of shame flooded through her again, the inability to be as others were. She had failed again. And now he was her husband. A husband who would shortly expect her to… Lady Lilley’s worried face and paltry lack of details when explaining how Frances should behave on the wedding night and indeed what was to occur, had not been in the least reassuring, but Frances was determined to do her wifely duty, such as running the household and bearing children and if bearing children meant lying still and allowing the new Lord Barrington to do as he pleased, then that was what she would do.
She sat up. “I am sorry. I am just… very tired.” Weary to the bone was what she wanted to say, but Laurence was trying so hard to please her, she did not want to distress him further.
His face cleared at once. “Of course. Of course. I should have thought. It has been a very long day and what with the travel and everything… Shall I have them send up a tray for your supper? Deborah can attend you and then you can sleep.”
“But…”
“But?”
She swallowed, her cheeks turning hot. “It is our… wedding night…”
He shook his head, smiling. “It can wait, Frances. We have all of our lives together. You need rest.”
The next day progressed more smoothly. Appalled by how badlythe first day of their marriage had gone Laurence had given strict instructions not to wake Frances, to allow her to get as much sleep as she needed. He inquired of Deborah what kind of breakfast her mistress would most like and had hot chocolate and buttered toast sent to her room as soon as she wakened. He hovered downstairs until she presented herself, when he had hurried her away from any staring servants and instead took her for a walk around the gardens, which she seemed to enjoy. They ate a light midday meal outside, the better to enjoy the warm spring day, and then he took her in an open-topped carriage for a drive around Ashfield Manor’s estate so that she might get her bearings and see her new home. He carefully suggested she might like to rest again in the afternoon, before welcoming her to dinner, ensuring there should not be the overly-formal seating she had once objected to, the two of them instead seated opposite one another at one end. There were rabbits with onions and collared mutton, an asparagus soup, stewed celery, roast chickens, French beans, lamb cutlets, orange jelly and raspberry puffs.
Laurence made a point of asking Frances about her shells, promising they should spend some time collecting them in Margate after the Pearl Ball, and she seemed in good humour. At the end of the meal she hesitated, looking about her as though expecting a signal which would once have come from her mother.
“Perhaps you would like to retire to your rooms now,” Laurence suggested carefully, “and I will… join you there in a while?”
She blushed at once, her cheeks growing rosy and murmured some kind of assent, before disappearing upstairs.
Laurence waited a while before ascending, hoping to find her comfortably lying in bed, but instead she was sitting stiffly at her dressing table, wrapped in a dark blue robe, from which he couldsee her bare feet peeping out. He himself was naked under his silk banyan robe, and he sat on the bed and patted the covers beside him.
“Come, Frances. Make yourself comfortable.”
She rose at once and made her way to the bed, where she removed her outer robe, revealing her long white nightgown, trimmed with fine lace. Peeling back the heavy covers and sheet, she lay down cautiously on the bed, her ankles neatly together, her hands folded over her stomach, eyes closed.
Laurence almost wanted to laugh at the sight of her, but she must be shy. He would be gentle with her and soon she would willingly be in his arms, he was sure of it. He had waited for an eternity since he first realised his feelings for her and now they were together at last.
He lay on his side next to her and gently kissed her lips. She lay, unmoving, her eyes still closed.
“Frances?”
She opened her eyes and gazed at him, her expression telling him nothing at all, then closed her eyes again.
He stroked the curve of her neck and bent to kiss her there, then gently pulled away her nightgown from her shoulder so that he might kiss her there also, his lips tracing the curve of her collarbone. Her skin was like warm silk and he slowly unbuttoned her nightgown, exposing her breasts. Her eyes remained closed, she did not even turn her face towards him, her expression blank. Perhaps she was too exposed. Perhaps she would prefer to be held close, a more intimate position. He put an arm about her and pulled her lightly towards him, that he might hold her in his arms, close to him. She moved obediently but then lay still in his embrace, almost as though she were asleep.
Laurence frowned down at her, uncertain at her odd behaviour, then redoubled his efforts. He caressed every part ofher, all the while holding her to him, kissed her soft lips and breasts, revelling in the beauty of her. He desired her, but she seemed so… absent. So silent, so still.
“You are beautiful,” he whispered to her, thinking her perhaps uncertain of her appearance. “I have been desperate for this moment with you to come.” Slowly, he let his hand slip down her nightgown, pulling it upwards so that he might touch her most intimate treasure.
It took all the willpower Frances had to obey her mother’s instructions. She was shy at first, trembling as she waited for Laurence to join her. Once on the bed, though, his touch was so gentle, so blissful, that she longed to return it, not that she knew what to do but she wanted to return his kisses at least, to lay her hands on his bare skin and feel it warm beneath her. He touched her in ways that made her want to gasp with both shock and delight, but she tightened her lips and remained silent. She also kept her eyes shut, as instructed, but when he began to move above her she was unable to resist and tried to look at him through her lashes, saw his face lost in passion and wished she might hold him closer to her. Even when there was a little pain, it was entwined with a delight that was tantalisingly out of her reach. If only she could touch him, hold him tightly, a greater joy would be hers. But her mother had been very certain and this was a marriage of convenience, after all. Their purpose in this bedchamber was to make a child, an heir, and so she steeled every part of herself only to lie still and make no sound. When it seemed to all be over she lay quietly as Laurence kissed her again and then fell asleep beside her, even though Lady Lilley had assured her that he would return to his chamber. When she was certain he was asleep, she dared to lay one hand upon hisbare arm, enjoying the warmth of his skin, hoping that she had brought him pleasure.
Laurence awoke early the next morning. He turned his head to look at Frances, asleep beside him. Her long dark hair fell over part of her face and her expression was peaceful, one bare arm resting close to his hand. He wanted to wake her, to try again to bring her pleasure, but the thought of last night made him draw back.
A cold fish.
She was a sea-creature, a chilly siren who had lured him with her wide eyes and her unusual ways. He had believed that there was softness inside, that if he found his way into her heart she would open up to him and him alone, that there would be an intimacy between them. He had thought they could grow closer together, that there would be love between them and the warmth he had been longing for these past months. But she had lain there without moving, without any expression, had not uttered a sound, had kept her eyes closed as though the very sight of him was offensive to her. He was a skilled lover, able to indulge different women in ways that achieved gratification for each, for he had been a willing apprentice in the past. Now, with his beloved in his arms, he had expected to give her whatever she desired and yet he had failed. She had been utterly unmoved, and his own pleasure had been the lesser for it. He would try again, of course. They were married and they must have heirs, but how was it that the delights he had hoped to share were now to be denied him, impossible to achieve? Truly it would become only a marriage of convenience. He sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. Was he to return to the married women of the past years? His shoulders sagged at the idea. He had enjoyed them, certainly, but now, with his love for Frances, he had hopedfor more, he had hoped that he might enjoy her intimacies and bring her pleasure. Now it seemed to him that the dream he had cherished was only a foolish notion.
Chapter 14
The Pearl Ball
