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Hawk felt a frisson at those empty, dull words. He plowed his fingers through his hair. “Frances, look, I—”
“I quite understand, my lord. You wish me to conceive. I am ready. Please, just get it over with.”
He did. He didn’t hurt her, for the cream eased his way. She didn’t move, nor did she say another word. He finished quickly, and retreated to his own rooms.
He realized later as he lay in his own bed that he hadn’t touched her breasts.
The small dinner party with Lord and Lady Bourchier from Sandbury Hall could have been worse, Hawk thought. Alicia, bless her sweet heart, had been most kind to Frances, once she’d gotten over her shock. As for John, he was a man who could charm termites out of walls, if he so chose. The marquess had been in fine form.
Frances had been so quiet and reserved that she might as well have not been present. Hawk found himself wondering during the lengthy meal how Clare or Viola would have responded. They would have been charming, he thought, and well-gowned and lovely.
But he’d married Frances. And she detested him. He shrugged as he mounted the stairs after bidding his father a good night, and set his jaw. Frances obviously wanted to see the back of him, and he resolved to give her her wish.
Why couldn’t she try, just a bit. to make herself more presentable? He’d held his breath when all of them had adjourned to the drawing room after dinner and the marquess had begged Alicia to play for them. Hawk couldn’t bear the thought of Frances playing, particularly after Alicia, who was blessed with a soft clear voice and nimble fingers. He didn’t want her to embarrass herself. His father had asked her, and Hawk sent an agonized plea heavenward. It was heard; Frances refused, her voice emotionless.
Had the woman no feeling at all? He knew she was shy and diffident, but he hadn’t quite realized to what extent it was true. She was shy almost to the point of rudeness.
He signed, dismissed Grunyon, and stripped off his clothes. When he quietly opened the adjoining door, he heard Frances say in a weary, bored voice, “Again, my lord? Are you not too fatigued?”
“Yes,” he said, “but it doesn’t matter.”
“Very well,” she said.
“You know, Frances,” he said as he drew closer to her bed, “you could have made a bit of a push to be more pleasant to my friends. Both John and Alicia are quite nice.”
“I’m sure they are.”
He heard her moving about in the bed, and could picture her pulling up her nightgown. This is not right, he thought, suddenly miserable. Life shouldn’t be like this. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees. “I would that things were not so difficult between us, Frances.”
“I would that there were no things at all,” Frances said. “Between us, that is.”
“Are you homesick?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but ...”
He heard her draw a deep breath. “Yes,” she said quietly, “there is always a ‘but,’ isn’t there? I am tired. Cannot you be done with it?”
“Very well,” he said, his voice curt.
It relieved him that he was able to enter her immediately. He had an awful fear of impotence with her. That would demolish him utterly. When he spewed his seed deep inside her, he heard a muffled sob, and froze. He closed his eyes, even though the room was in complete darkness. He hadn’t hurt her, had he? She was very small, and he had thrust deeply into her, repeatedly. He started to ask her if she were all right, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could just hear her flat, emotionless voice telling him a lie.
He pulled out of her quickly, feeling her flinch as he did so.
Frances didn’t move. She heard him stride quickly from her room, heard him firmly close the adjoining door behind him.
It isn’t so very bad, she thought, lying very still. It doesn’t hurt. But it was so empty, so cold and inhuman.
She suddenly saw her life laid out before her. It was all loneliness and darkness. It was a man who was her husband who would visit her when he was forced to. She rolled over and buried her face into the soft pillow. She wanted desperately to go home. She wanted desperately to be free again, to be herself, to laugh and visit all the Kilbracken crofters, to swim in the loch, to sun herself in the midst of heather during the summer.
Silly weak twit! Your whole charade was designed to have him leave. And it’s working, indeed it is. He can’t bear to look at you, much less be in your company.
Soon she would be free again. Soon he would be gone. And then what will you do?
She awoke the next morning with no answer to her question.
She realized soon enough that she would not be riding. Her husband hadn’t inquired about a riding habit from Lady Bourchier.
