A lady hidden from society

A viscount with his own secrets...

When Frances Webster meets brooding Arthur Amberton on Whitby shores, he’s a different man from the dashing young gentleman she once carried a flame for. But life has changed her, too. After a tragic accident left her scarred physically and emotionally, she’s led a solitary life. She cherishes their new friendship, yet she can’t help but hope Arthur sees the beauty within her...

JENNI FLETCHER was born in the north of Scotland and now lives in Yorkshire, with her husband and two children. She wanted to be a writer as a child, but got distracted by reading instead, finally getting past her first paragraph thirty years later. She’s had more jobs than she can remember, but has finally found one she loves. She can be contacted on Twitter @JenniAuthor or via her Facebook Author page.

Also by Jenni Fletcher

Married to Her Enemy

Besieged and Betrothed

The Warrior’s Bride Prize

Whitby Weddings miniseries

The Convenient Felstone Marriage

Captain Amberton’s Inherited Bride

The Viscount’s Veiled Lady

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Viscount’s Veiled Lady

Jenni Fletcher

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08871-8

THE VISCOUNT’S VEILED LADY

© 2019 Jenni Fletcher

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Helen (and all the sisters who argue).

Also for my writing friends, especially

the Unlaced Ladies, who stop me from getting lonely.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Historical Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Historical Note

Whitby jet is a semi-precious black gemstone that has been used in jewellery-making since the Bronze Age. It is renowned for being both lightweight and incredibly hard, as well as for taking on a vibrant shine when polished. Formed from the fossilised remains of Araucaria trees (early ancestors of modern monkey-puzzle trees) it can still be found in a stretch of shale along the North Yorkshire coastline, now known as the Heritage Coast.

Examples of Whitby jet were displayed at the Great Exhibition in 1851 and it became popular after the death of Prince Albert in 1861 when Queen Victoria went into a state of semi-permanent mourning. Mourning itself became particularly ritualised during this era with widows forced to become almost living memorials to their deceased husbands.

By the 1870s, the demand for Whitby jet was at its height. Around 1,500 jet workers were employed in approximately 200 jet workshops throughout the town, but, unfortunately, it was a boom industry that lasted for around a century and then fell out of favour, partly because of cheaper imports and partly because it failed to keep up with changes in fashion. Jet mining itself was made illegal in the late nineteenth century to prevent coastal erosion.

As a result, many traditional methods of carving have been lost and modern jet workers are largely self-taught. I’m grateful to Hal and Imogen Redvers-Jones at the Whitby Jet Heritage Centre for answering my questions about Victorian jet-carving techniques and to Botham’s of Whitby for providing so much delicious research!

Chapter One
Whitby, North Yorkshire—July, 1872

‘You want me to do what?’

Frances Webster dropped the piece of jagged black stone she was polishing on to the table with a thud.

‘I want you to visit Arthur Amberton for me.’ Her sister Lydia draped herself over a chaise longue by the window, somehow managing to look both spectacularly beautiful and sound utterly shameless. ‘It’s not as if I can visit a bachelor on my own, is it? I’m a respectable widow.’

‘And I’m a respectable spinster. That’s worse.’

‘Yes, but you’re always wandering along the beach by yourself. Anyway, it’s different for you.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh, don’t be so tiresome.’ Lydia shot her a look that suggested the answer ought to be obvious. ‘You know perfectly well why, Frannie.’

‘No. I’m sure I do not.’

Frances gritted her teeth at the hated pet name. She suspected her older sister did it on purpose, as if she were still a child to be ordered around and not a woman who’d turned twenty-two that past spring. It was also obvious what why referred to. Lydia was forever dropping hints about her scarred appearance without ever going so far as to actually refer to it directly. Well, if she had something to say, then for once she could just say it out loud.

‘I mean it doesn’t matter if anyone does see you with him. It’s hardly your fault, I know, but you’re not exactly the kind of woman a gentleman would dally with, are you? Your reputation would be perfectly safe.’ Lydia heaved a sigh. ‘It’s such a pity when you used to be so pretty. If only you’d married Leo when you had the chance—’

‘Enough!’ Frances raised a hand, deciding that she’d heard quite sufficient after all. ‘You’re right. I’m sure my face would repel any man.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’

Not in her hearing perhaps, Frances thought icily, though what her sister and mother said about her behind her back would probably convince her to wear a bag over her head for the rest of her life. They both thought of her facial scarring as the worst misfortune that might have befallen her on the very morning of her eighteenth birthday, but then both of them were beautiful. In her mid-fifties, their mother was still a strikingly attractive woman, with only the faintest touch of silver in her dark hair and an almost unnaturally smooth, porcelain complexion. Walking side by side with her eldest daughter, the pair of them were capable of turning every male head in Whitby.

Of course there had been a time, not so long ago either, when she wouldn’t have looked so out of place beside them. With only a six-year gap in their ages, both she and Lydia had inherited their mother’s fine looks and statuesque figure, though it had taken her own curves so long to appear that she’d thought they weren’t coming at all. She’d been a late bloomer; though when she finally had, she’d shown signs of surpassing even her sister in beauty, or so their mother had once told her to Lydia’s furious chagrin.

Her accident had put paid to all of that, however, so that now, although they shared the same oval face, dark eyes and chocolate-coloured hair, they were hardly two sides of the same coin any more, rather two different coins altogether, one lustrous and shiny, the other dinted and tarnished.

‘Now will you take a message for me or not?’ Lydia was starting to sound impatient.

‘No, and I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it! John’s only been dead for ten months.’

‘Exactly!’ If she were remotely offended by the insinuation, Lydia gave no sign. ‘Ten whole months. How much longer am I supposed to remain in mourning?’

‘A year and a day in full mourning and another year in half-mourning, you know that. The Queen’s been wearing black for over a decade.’

‘I’m not the Queen!’

Frances swallowed a sarcastic retort, vaguely amazed that her sister was aware of the fact. Most of the time she acted as if she had a sovereign right to command everyone around her. If it had been up to Lydia, no one would have spent more than a week wearing black.

‘I can’t understand what good it does to imprison me in my own home!’ Lydia jumped to her feet abruptly, starting to pace up and down the parlour in frustration. ‘Mama hardly lets me go anywhere or see anyone.’

‘Only because it’s not seemly for you to go visiting yet.’ Frances gave her a sympathetic look, for once in agreement. Forcing widows to remain trapped indoors with their grief didn’t strike her as the best way of helping them to overcome it either. Not that Lydia seemed particularly grief-stricken.

‘It’s ridiculous that I’m supposed to act as if my life is over. John was already half-dead when I married him. He was past sixty when we met.’

‘I thought you said that age didn’t matter in a love match.’

‘I said that?’

‘Yes, before you got married.’

‘Oh.’ Lydia looked sceptical. ‘Well, I suppose I did care for him, as much as he could have expected me to anyway, but I don’t see why I have to waste my best years in mourning now that he’s gone. I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted it either.’ She stopped pacing in front of a mirror and pressed her fingers against her cheeks, tugging the skin gently upwards. ‘I’m only twenty-eight. Wearing black crepe makes me feel old.’

‘We’re all tired of wearing black, Lydia, but those are the rules. At least you’ve no need to worry about money.’ Frances tried to sound reassuring. ‘John left you a good legacy.’

‘Barely a third of what he was worth.’

‘But he left the rest in trust for Georgie.’

‘With his lawyer holding the purse strings. As if I can’t be trusted.’

Frances dipped her head to hide her expression. The terms of John Baird’s will, though by no means churlish towards his young bride, suggested he’d understood her better than anyone had realised. With Lydia in control of his fortune, their son George would have been lucky to see so much as a penny on his majority.

‘Maybe he thought you wouldn’t want to be bothered with such details.’

‘I don’t see why. Georgie is my son. It’s not right that somebody else is looking after his future. John used me very badly.’

‘Mmm...’ Frances picked up her stone and polishing cloth again with a sigh. Lydia’s memory in regard to her deceased husband was becoming more and more selective by the day. But then John Baird hadn’t been quite the catch she’d been hoping for when she’d made her come-out, not compared with a certain eligible viscount anyway, a man they’d all thought had been lost at sea...

‘In any case, I wouldn’t remarry until after a suitable period.’ Lydia settled back on to the chaise longue. ‘But if I have to wait until I’m out of mourning then Arthur might marry somebody else and then where will I be? I missed my chance six years ago. I won’t miss it again.’

‘Marry?’ Frances stopped polishing abruptly. She’d been working on that particular piece of jet for half an hour, smoothing away the rough edges and imperfections so that now, in the light of a flickering candle, she could see her own eyes reflected in the surface. They looked sad even to her. Quickly, she put the stone aside, dropping it into a small wooden box filled with sawdust.

‘You mean you still want to marry Arthur?’ She asked the question softly, wondering why she hadn’t guessed the truth sooner.

‘Of course! What did you think we were talking about?’

‘You only said that you wanted me to take him a message.’

‘To persuade him to call on me, yes.’

‘Why can’t you just write?’

‘Because I already have.’ Lydia’s expression turned sullen. ‘He sent a note back saying he was too busy to renew our acquaintance. You know there was a time when that man would have crawled over hot coals for me and he calls it an acquaintance!’

‘You did marry somebody else, Lydia.’

‘Only because I thought Arthur had drowned! What was I supposed to do?’

‘Maybe wait more than a week before getting engaged?’

‘Wait?’ Black eyes glittered with anger suddenly. ‘I’d already spent years waiting for Arthur to persuade his father to accept me. It was humiliating enough having to keep our engagement a secret, but then he had to go and fall off his boat and abandon me. He left me to become an old maid!’

Frances fought the urge to roll her eyes. As she recalled, Lydia couldn’t have behaved any less like an old maid. She’d had more than enough spare suitors to choose from, not that Arthur had known about any of them. He’d been aware of her other admirers—in truth, it would have been nigh impossible to miss them—but he’d never known quite how serious some of those other flirtations had been. That had been one small mercy when he’d gone missing, though now Frances wondered how he’d felt when he’d come home and discovered just how quickly he’d been replaced...

‘I’m sure you were very hard done by, Lydia.’

‘How was I to know that he’d come back nine months later and I’d be stuck with John? Do you know, Arthur didn’t even visit me!’

‘How could he? You were married.’

‘Well, all right, but I’m a widow now and he’s still unattached, and now that his father’s dead there’s no one to object. I don’t see why we can’t resume our engagement. It’s quite romantic when you think about it, as if it were meant to be all along.’

‘Yes. How convenient of John to die when he did.’

Lydia shot her a petulant look. ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand about love.’

‘I never said that I did.’

‘And Arthur did love me.’

‘Yes,’ Frances conceded wistfully, ‘he did.’

That part was undeniably true. She’d never seen a man so in love as Arthur Amberton had been with her sister. She’d still been in the schoolroom at the time, but to this day she remembered the way he’d gazed so adoringly at Lydia, as if she were the Juliet to his Romeo. Once upon a time, she’d hoped some man might look at her like that one day, though the chances of it seemed unlikely now.

Arthur Amberton had been the very epitome of everything she’d imagined the perfect gentleman to be: intelligent, charming and exquisitely mannered, albeit with a faint air of sadness about him. Dashingly handsome, too, with wavy, chestnut hair and intense, ochre-coloured eyes. He’d been considerate towards her, too, always taking the seat next to hers in the parlour when it was empty and asking about her art as if he were genuinely interested in her hobbies, treating her like an adult and not just a child, unlike the rest of Lydia’s admirers. She’d tried her very hardest to think of him as a brother, especially after Lydia had confided the secret of their engagement, but in truth she’d been more than a little in love with him herself, wicked as it had felt at the time. When he’d been lost at sea, she’d felt as devastated as if she’d been the one he’d left behind. She’d never understood how Lydia could have forgotten him so quickly, but then her sister had never been one to put all her eggs, let alone her heart, in one basket.

‘From what I’ve heard, however, it turns out I had a lucky escape six years ago.’ Lydia propped an arm behind her head. ‘Apparently the family fortunes were in a terrible state back then.’

‘Lydia!’

‘Oh, don’t be so naive, Frannie. Love has to survive on something, you know.’

‘Well, if he’s so poor, why do you want to marry him now?’

‘Because he’s not poor any more, silly. His brother’s marriage to Violet Harper restored all that.’

Frances reached into her pocket for a new stone, examining it for flaws as she tried to unravel the tangled machinations of her sister’s mind. She vaguely remembered hearing that Violet Harper, the shipbuilding heiress, had married Arthur’s twin brother Lance a few years before, though she couldn’t see how that helped Lydia...

‘I don’t understand.’ She gave up finally. ‘How does that affect Arthur?’

‘Because it was her money they used to develop and expand their iron mine. It’s become quite successful, so I hear, and Amberton Castle’s been almost completely refurbished. Not that Arthur resides there himself, the vexing man. He lives in some woebegone old farmhouse on the edge of the Moors, but the property’s all still in his name.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I make it my business to know.’

‘Oh...’ The tangles smoothed out suddenly. ‘And if you were to marry him, you’d insist on him moving back to Amberton Castle?’

‘Of course. For his own good.’ Lydia gave a self-satisfied nod. ‘It’s the family home and he’s the Viscount.’

‘But if his brother and sister-in-law have spent their money on repairing it...?’

‘Then I’m sure they could afford to make alternative arrangements as well.’

‘Naturally. What a pity Arthur doesn’t want to renew your acquaintance, then.’

‘He just needs to see me!’ Lydia shot bolt upright, glaring as if the words themselves had stung her. ‘If I could be in the same room with him for ten minutes, then I could convince him to propose again, I’m sure of it.’

This time Frances didn’t even try to stop her eyes from rolling. The worst of it was that Lydia was probably right. She’d never had any problem convincing men to do what she wanted. Usually she only had to snap her fingers for them to come running. It was frankly amazing that Arthur Amberton had managed to resist her appeals for this long, but then people said that he’d changed during the nine months of his mysterious absence. No one knew where he’d been or why he’d been away for so long. There were rumours that he’d spent time on a fishing boat, though surely that was unlikely.

‘Well, I’m not going.’ She put her foot down obstinately. If Arthur didn’t want to see Lydia again, then she certainly wasn’t going to force him. ‘And I don’t know why you think I could persuade him anyway.’

‘Because he’s always liked you. He was forever wandering off to talk to you.’

‘Was he?’ Frances felt her cheeks flush guiltily. Sometimes it had seemed as if he’d deliberately sought out her company, but then she’d always assumed that had been wishful thinking on her part. ‘I’m sure he was just being kind.’

‘Of course he was just being kind,’ Lydia snapped, ‘but it was rude of the pair of you. I used to feel quite aggrieved.’

‘Then I’m sorry.’

‘You could still make it up to me.’

‘No!’

‘Think about poor Georgie. Don’t you think he deserves a stepfather?’

‘Of course he does.’ Frances narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Lydia had always been quick to recognise other people’s weaknesses and the three-year-old boy was definitely hers.

‘And don’t you think a viscount would make a worthy stepfather? Think of all the advantages. Not just to him, but to poor Mama and Papa as well.’

Poor Mama and Papa? She stiffened at the implication. ‘What about them?’

‘Well, they must have expected to have us both married off by now and yet here I am, back under the same roof, and it’s not as if you’re ever going to leave. It must be a lot to deal with at their age when they might have expected a bit of peace and quiet. If I married Arthur, then it would make life easier for everyone, don’t you think?’

Frances bit down hard on her lip. She couldn’t deny that. For everyone except Arthur himself, that was...

‘And you could come and live with us at Amberton Castle, too, if you wanted.’ Lydia’s voice took on a wheedling note. ‘Georgie much prefers you to his nurse and he’ll need a governess.’ She waved a hand dismissively. ‘If you’re not too busy playing with stones, that is.’

That did it. Frances put both her hands down on the table, pushing herself to her feet. ‘I am not playing with stones. I’m making jewellery. Which some people think I’m quite good at, incidentally. I made four pounds last week.’

‘Why, whatever do you mean?’

‘Just that I took a few of my best pieces to Mr Horsham and he bought them from me.’

‘The jeweller? You mean you’re in trade?’

Frances hesitated for a moment and then smiled. It hadn’t occurred to her to think of it that way before, but now that Lydia had said it, she supposed it was true. Carving beads and cameos out of the jet she collected on the beach was just one of her many artistic pursuits, but she enjoyed it. If she could make a reasonable amount of money from selling her pieces, then perhaps it could be a means of becoming independent, too, a way to live without feeling like a burden or embarrassment to others. Then she could be the artist Frances Webster instead of that poor, scarred girl...

‘Yes.’ She pulled her shoulders back, fuelled by a new sense of ambition. She was in trade. And pretty happy about it, too.

‘Do Mama and Papa know?’

The happy feeling vanished at once. Since the accident, her parents had allowed her far more freedom than most women her age, but when those activities involved trade, she had a feeling even they might not be quite so tolerant.

‘Perhaps I ought to tell them...’ Lydia’s rosebud mouth curved into a smug-looking smile. ‘After all, they have a right to know when you’re sullying the family name.’

‘I’m not sullying anything!’

‘That is unless you’re prepared to deliver one little message for me?’

‘All right, Lydia, you win.’ Frances dropped back, defeated, into her seat. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’

Chapter Two

Frances weaved a slow and reluctant path along the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up a pebble and skim it across the tops of the oncoming waves. She didn’t bother to count the bounces. Her record was fourteen in a row, but today the stones felt like lead weights. She was dragging her feet so heavily that if she didn’t hurry then the tide would be all the way up to the cliffs before she could make her escape back to Whitby, but at least she knew the tempestuous North Sea and its shoreline well enough to know exactly how much time she had.

Besides, she reassured herself, her errand wouldn’t take long, just a few minutes to deliver the message and get a response. For her sake, she hoped it was a yes, if only to prevent Lydia from sending her back again. For Arthur Amberton’s sake, however, she hoped it was a definitive no. Family loyalty aside, she couldn’t help but feel that he’d been the one who’d had a lucky escape six years before. He might have been head over heels in love with her sister, but he hadn’t known her at all.

Frances’s stomach had been performing a series of unwanted contortions at the prospect of seeing him again, her emotions torn between excitement and dread. After his surprise return, she’d hoped to catch a glimpse of him in Whitby, if only to reassure herself that he was truly alive and well, but to no avail. According to the local rumour mill, he rarely came to town, let alone attended social functions, and after a while she’d given up hope.

Which was, she’d eventually decided, for the best. As much as she’d wanted to see him, she’d had absolutely no desire for him to see her. If they’d met again, then she would have had to explain the veil that she habitually wore out of doors and then listen to the inevitable words of sympathy and reassurance. She was heartily sick of those words, shallow platitudes that meant nothing, especially from men, though perhaps not from Arthur...

Would he have behaved any differently from Leo if he’d been in the same situation? she wondered. She didn’t want to believe that Arthur would ever have been so fickle, but he was still a man, and men seemed to value beauty in women above all else. Lydia was living proof of that and Arthur had been smitten with Lydia... In which case, yes, he probably would have behaved like Leo after all!

She stopped short, shocked by the direction of her own thoughts. They sounded bitter in her own head and she didn’t want to be bitter, even if it was hard not to be sometimes. Besides, what did it matter how Arthur would have behaved? What did it matter what he thought of her veil? This visit had nothing to do with her. She was there to talk about Lydia, that was all.

She tossed her last pebble into the sea and then started up the sandy slope towards a gap in the cliffside. According to Lydia, Arthur’s farm was located just before the small fishing port of Sandsend, half a mile from the shore and accessible along a gorse-lined path from the beach.

She made her way along it, skirting around the perimeter of the village to join a dirt track on the other side. It was steeper than she’d expected and rutted with holes that made walking difficult, so that she was panting by the time she reached the edge of the Moors, where lush green fields gave way to brown heathland. Breathless, she stopped at a wooden gate, taking a few moments to admire the view. From this vantage point, she could see the sea spreading out like a shimmering turquoise carpet all the way to the horizon beyond. It was a beautiful position for any dwelling, even a ‘woebegone, old farmhouse’, though as she trudged on through the gate and around the side of a small woodland copse, she could see that it was anything but.

Far from dilapidated, it was clearly a working farm, a scene of well-organised chaos with giant bales of hay stacked along one side of a three-storey stone house and what looked like a newly built log store on the other. It was hardly deserted either. On the contrary, there seemed to be animals everywhere: pigs in a sty, goats and sheep in two separate pens, at least two dozen chickens and five lazy-looking cats roaming wild, not to mention a pair of horses peering out from over the top of a stable door.

Frances stopped in the centre of the yard and turned around slowly, searching for any sign of a human in the midst of so many animals, but there seemed to be no one, just a brown-and-white speckled dog sitting by the front door of the farmhouse, its head tipped to one side as if it were the one in charge. Judging by its short coat and piercing blue eyes, she guessed it was a sheepdog, though fortunately it seemed to be friendly as well.

She bent down to ruffle its ears, struck anew by the impropriety of her situation. She was an unmarried, unchaperoned, uninvited lady, trespassing on behalf of her widowed sister in order to persuade a single gentleman—a viscount, no less!—to accept a request that he’d already refused! Only Lydia would ask such a thing. Only Lydia would expect it to work!

But she was there now and she might as well get the whole mortifying scene over with. Lydia was more than capable of carrying out her threat and telling their parents about her fledgling business if she didn’t do what she wanted and her work was too important for her to risk that. She’d tell them about it herself eventually, once she’d earned enough to stand on her own two feet if necessary, but not yet. She had her own plans for the future and she’d reveal them when she was good and ready.

Bolstered by that conviction, she lifted her hand to the front door and knocked. There was no answer, though the door swung open on its hinges with a loud creak.

‘Lord Scorborough?’

She called out his name, but there was still no answer. No sound at all, in fact. Tentatively, she took a few steps inside and along a darkened hallway, poking her head around another door into what looked like the kitchen. That was empty, too, though there was a large iron kettle steaming on the range. Perplexed, she lifted her veil and pulled it back over her bonnet for a clearer view. Clearly somebody was nearby, but why weren’t they answering?

She felt a tremor of unease, resolving to go back outside to search the yard again, when she heard the click of a door opening further down the hallway. Quickly, she turned around, ready to explain her intrusion, only to find herself face to face with a complete stranger wearing nothing more than a pair of short, cotton under-drawers.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed aloud, sucking in a breath of panic as the stranger came to an abrupt halt, uttering a series of vividly descriptive expletives whose meanings she could only imagine. His legs and upper body were completely exposed so that, in the time it took for her to recover her wits, she had a close-up view of powerful calves, a muscular chest and arms that looked to be around the same circumference as her waist.

‘Oh!’ She wasn’t sure why she repeated the exclamation, only that it seemed appropriate as she dragged her gaze to his face. His rugged appearance was almost as alarming as his lack of apparel. Close-cropped hair and dark stubble gave him the look of a convict. Was he a convict? His colourful language certainly wasn’t that of a gentleman. She felt her palms break into a cold sweat, panic mounting as her heartbeat started to hammer erratically. The wrong farm! She must have come to the wrong farm, she realised, berating herself for the mistake in the split second before their eyes met and she spun on her heel and fled...

* * *

Arthur Amberton, the Fourteenth Viscount Scorborough, had just finished bathing. He’d just stepped out of his bathtub, rubbed himself down with a sheet and pulled on a pair of under-breeches as an afterthought—an impulse for which he was now extremely grateful. Since he didn’t keep servants and rarely had any visitors, he generally had no qualms about wandering around his own house completely naked, especially during the hot summer months, so that to find a black-clad woman standing in the corridor in front of him had come as an equal, and in his case somewhat uncanny, surprise to both of them.

She’d run away at the sight of him. Fled for dear life, more like... Which at least proved she wasn’t a ghost, though now he supposed he’d have to go after her. Much as he resented any intrusion into his privacy, he really ought to find out who she was and what she was doing there, not to mention apologise for his less-than-enthusiastic greeting. Her end of the corridor had been dark, casting her face into shadow, but judging by the style of her clothes she was a lady.

He mounted the stairs to his bedchamber three at a time and pulled on the shirt and trousers he’d laid out earlier. He was supposed to be dining with his brother and sister-in-law that evening, though he would have preferred going to bed early instead. Working ten acres of land on his own meant he was usually exhausted by late afternoon, but at least it meant he was mostly too tired to think.

Dinner at Amberton Castle, however, was a standing weekly appointment, a compromise he’d made to stop Violet from worrying about him. His tiny sister-in-law’s refusal to accept that he wasn’t unhappy or lonely was more than a little irritating. He wasn’t depressed, he didn’t want or need companionship, and he especially didn’t care for intruders.

He ran back down the stairs, jamming his boots on at the front door before charging out into the farmyard. He’d only been gone a couple of minutes, but already there was no sign of his mysterious visitor.

‘Some guard dog you are.’ He glared at Meg, his sheepdog-in-training, but she only wagged her tail enthusiastically. ‘Which way did she go?’

It was a rhetorical question, of course. There was only way she could have gone, back along the track that led to the village, unless she’d decided to take refuge in the pigsty. Quickly, he made his way towards the path, splashing his newly polished boots in the process, though he’d barely rounded the corner of the copse before he found her again, sitting in a muddy patch on the ground and clutching her leg.

‘Are you hurt?’

She seemed to leap halfway into the air at the sound of his voice, twisting her head away to fiddle with something at the front of her straw bonnet. He slowed his pace, not wanting to alarm her any further, though she kept her face averted as if she were too embarrassed to look at him. Oddly enough, there was something familiar about that bonnet.

‘I slipped on the mud.’ Her voice sounded muffled.

‘Farms have mud. You shouldn’t have run away.’

‘You shouldn’t have scared me, walking around half-naked!’

‘You ought to be glad it was only half.’ He glowered at the back of her head, her refusal to look at him only increasing his irritation. ‘And I don’t believe there’s a law against it in the privacy of your own home. Unlike trespassing, I might add.’

‘Well, you should answer your door when somebody knocks!’

‘For the record, I didn’t hear you knock and that doesn’t excuse you just walking in. It’s my house!’

She swung back towards him at that, her face obscured by a black veil that appeared to be pinned to the hair beneath her bonnet. Was that what she’d been fiddling with? He grunted with exasperation. For pity’s sake, surely she couldn’t be so embarrassed. She hadn’t even seen that much of him and it was a lot less than she might have... Still, there was something familiar about the voice as well as the bonnet, something that prodded his memory.

‘I wish I hadn’t walked in!’ The eyes behind the veil flashed. ‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle. Isn’t that punishment enough?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ He crouched down beside her. This day was just getting better and better. ‘Are you certain that it’s sprained? Here, let me look.’

‘No!’ She tugged her ankle away as he reached for it, putting her weight on the other foot as she tried to stand up instead. ‘I can manage. Ahhh!’

‘Sit down, woman, or you’ll do even more damage.’ He reached for her waist as she tumbled downwards again, but she jerked even further away from his touch, landing with a fresh squelch in the mud.

‘I can’t sit down...’ Her voice was tinged with panic now. ‘I have to go or I’ll be late.’

‘You were eager enough to see me a few minutes ago.’

‘I was looking for somebody else, but it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.’

Somebody else? His frown deepened at the words. Who had she expected to find there but him? ‘Who were you looking for?’

‘I...’ She started to speak and then stopped. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He folded his arms, not bothering to conceal a sigh of irritation. ‘You know if you tell me, there’s a fair chance I might be able to help.’

‘Yes, but... Oh, very well.’ She threw her hands up as if conceding defeat. ‘I was told that Lord Scorborough lives here.’

‘He does.’

‘He does?’

The head twisted towards him again, but it was impossible to see past the veil. Who on earth was she? It was obvious she had no idea who he was, though he supposed he couldn’t blame her for that. He didn’t look much like a gentleman these days. He kept his hair cropped short for practicality’s sake, to keep it out of his face when working, and he preferred being clean shaven to the current fashion for long moustaches and beards, but he hadn’t shaved for a couple of days either. He’d intended doing so after his bath, had been boiling water for that very purpose when he’d found her in the corridor, so that he was probably looking more than a little weatherbeaten and bristly. It was no wonder she’d been so frightened. Still, he couldn’t just abandon her there, no matter how much they might both prefer it.

‘Come on. You’re not walking anywhere on that ankle.’

‘What...?’ Her voice rose in alarm as he curled one arm beneath her knees and the other about her shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Nothing to sound so shrill about.’ He lifted her up, liberally splattering his new clean clothes with mud as he carried her back the way that they’d come. ‘I’m taking you inside so that I can bind that ankle.’

‘I can walk!’

‘No, you can’t. You could try, but you’d probably break something.’

‘I won’t...’

‘Believe me, I’m not thrilled by the prospect either, but I don’t think either of us has a choice.’ He kicked open the farmhouse door and carried her back through the hall to the kitchen, a curious-looking Meg trotting alongside as he deposited her in a tattered-looking armchair by the range and then reached up on to a shelf for some bandages. ‘There. Now, what did you want with Scorborough?’

‘It’s private.’

‘Private business with a viscount? Sounds intriguing.’

He deposited a roll of bandages on to the table with a thud. Her voice was still muffled by the veil and he had to fight the urge to tear it away. Wasn’t she ever going to remove the blasted thing, even indoors? He might not have been in polite society for a while, but surely his appearance wasn’t so shocking? At least not so much that ladies felt the need to cover their faces at the sight of him. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. Just how fearsome exactly did he look?

‘It’s nothing like that!’ She sounded indignant.

‘Really?’

He folded his arms again, a new suspicion taking shape in his mind. Despite his somewhat chequered personal history, he was still a viscount and society still considered him a prize catch. He’d endured a number of probing visits from ambitious, matchmaking parents when he’d first moved into the farm, though thankfully they’d stopped when he hadn’t returned the calls. The sight of him in his farm clothes might have had something to do with it, too, he supposed, but perhaps this woman was simply more determined than the rest.

‘Really!’

She sounded so genuinely offended by the suggestion that he almost believed her. Almost. But he’d believed a woman once before and look where that had got him. He knew firsthand what good actresses women could be.

‘Yet here you are, wearing a veil over your face and visiting a gentleman’s house without any kind of chaperon? Forgive my scepticism, but to most minds that would suggest something of a personal nature.’

‘How could it be personal when I thought I had the wrong house? I haven’t even seen Arthur in six years!’

‘Arthur?’ He quirked an eyebrow in surprise. The way she said his name suggested they were already acquainted.

‘Yes.’ The veil face tipped downwards as if in embarrassment. ‘But it’s not illicit at all. I only came to deliver a message. He has no idea that I’m here.’

‘On the contrary.’ He drew up a stool and placed it in front of her, sitting down with one arm draped over his knees. ‘He’s fully aware of the fact. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Scorborough.’

Chapter Three

‘Arthur?’ The veiled face leaned closer towards him. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’

He shrugged. ‘If it’s been six years, then I imagine you wouldn’t, but now it seems you have the advantage. You say that we’ve met?’

‘Yes, many times.’ Her voice sounded almost excited now. Somehow that made it sound even more familiar...

‘And you have a message for me?’

‘Ye-es.’ The excitement dissipated in one word. ‘It’s from my sister. Lydia Baird.’

He stiffened, all of his muscles tensing at once. Hearing the name, so suddenly out of the blue, felt as shocking as if he’d just been hit hard in the face. He could happily have lived out the rest of his days without ever hearing it again, but apparently that was too much to hope for, even in the privacy of his own home. Lydia Webster, as she was then, the woman he’d been secretly engaged to, who he’d been prepared to sacrifice everything for, who’d said that she loved him and seemed to mean it, too, right up until the moment when she’d broken his heart and stamped her dainty feet all over it...

Not that she knew what she’d done. He doubted she had even the faintest inkling. The last time she’d seen him had been on a balmy mid-May afternoon when he’d left her parents’ house determined to stand up to his father once and for all. He hadn’t told her his intention and so she’d never known that he’d actually gone through with it, nor that he’d come back the next morning, eager to ask formal permission for her hand in marriage, only to discover just how false she truly was. That had been an occasion he would never forget and yet he’d had no one to blame for the shock but himself. He’d been warned about her often enough, not least by his brother Lance, but he’d never believed that she would betray him, not until he’d seen her walking arm in arm with another suitor, a man she’d clearly known very well, and all his hopes for the future—their future—had come tumbling down around his ears.

He hadn’t accosted them. After the morning’s argument with his father he’d felt too emotionally drained for another confrontation and so he’d gone down to the harbour instead. It hadn’t been all because of Lydia—she’d simply been the last straw—but he’d felt as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. So he’d gone sailing and swimming and then...well, then he wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. All he remembered was the feeling of being pushed to his limit, of simply wanting to leave and start all over again somewhere else.

With the blinkers so painfully removed from his eyes, he’d seen Lydia for what she was: a fortune hunter. She’d never wanted him, only his title, just as Lance and his father had said, and now it seemed she was in pursuit of it again. She’d already written to him twice in the past month on lavender-scented paper that had brought back a whole swathe of unwanted memories. He’d ignored the first and returned the second unopened, enclosing a brief note with what he’d thought was a suitably curt and definitive response. Apparently not. But then Lydia had never been one to take no for an answer.

‘Arthur?’ The veil tipped to one side again and he gave a small start, realising that he hadn’t responded or, in fact, moved for a few minutes.

‘What does she want?’ As if he didn’t know.

‘She wants you to call on her.’

‘Call on her?’ His voice sounded more like a snarl and the veiled face recoiled instantly.

‘Yes. For tea or...something.’

‘Tea?’ He hoped that his tone conveyed a suitable degree of contempt. He would rather have had dinner with the Kraken. ‘Why?’

If a veil could have looked embarrassed, then this one would have succeeded. ‘You’ll need to ask her. I’m just the messenger.’

‘Indeed.’ He regarded her steadily for a few moments, trying and failing to see through the lacy fabric. What was she doing there? If Lydia was really so determined to see him again, then why on earth had she sent her sister? Why not simply come herself, especially in light of their former engagement? Not that he wanted her to, but it didn’t make any sense...

‘Why are you here?’

‘I just told you.’ Her head dipped, as if she were confused.

‘Not that. I mean, why did Lydia send you to ask me?’

‘Oh.’ She hesitated briefly before answering. ‘She didn’t think it was appropriate to visit herself.’

‘But it is for you?’

‘No, only she was worried what people might think if they found out that she had come to see you.’

‘What about your reputation? Wasn’t she worried about that?’

‘Oh, no.’ The head shook almost violently. ‘Mine doesn’t matter.’

‘Is that so?’

He leaned back, though he continued to look at her. Now that was interesting. For sanity’s sake, he usually avoided thinking about the past, but he did remember a younger sister—Frances, that had been her name—a smaller, slighter version of Lydia, with bright eyes and a smile that must have been memorable since he did, in fact, remember it. She hadn’t been out in society when he’d last seen her, though she’d often been sitting in her parents’ parlour at teatime, usually occupying herself in a corner with some project or another. She’d liked making things, he recalled, or at least he didn’t think he’d ever seen her without a paintbrush or needle or some other kind of crafting tool in her hand.

He’d liked her, too, that much he definitely remembered. He’d enjoyed spending time in her company while Lydia was surrounded by her usual crowd of admirers. There had been a natural, unpractised vivacity and enthusiasm in her manner that had made her face seem to glow whenever she’d spoken on a subject that she was passionate about, like art. It made him want to see her face again now. If she ever removed her veil, that was... Strangely enough, she was one of the few memories of that part of his life that didn’t hurt, but what the hell could have happened to her if her reputation didn’t matter? He found it hard to believe that her character could have changed so much in six years, but then people did change. He certainly had.

‘Is your reputation so very bad then, Miss Webster?’

‘Not bad, just different.’

‘Different?’ He echoed the word, feeling a sudden urge to provoke her, to goad her into taking her veil off to confront him. ‘Then am I the one taking a risk in being alone with you? Perhaps I ought to be concerned?’

‘What?’ She sounded faintly shocked. ‘No! Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Am I being? You have to admit, the evidence is against you. You’re a lady and I’m a gentleman, in name anyway. If anyone knew we were alone together, then it would place us both in a somewhat compromising situation. I might feel obliged to make amends and propose.’ He lifted an eyebrow as she made a gurgling sound in the back of her throat, though whether it was one of protest or horror he couldn’t tell. ‘I’m surprised your sister didn’t think about that.’

‘She wouldn’t think of it.’ There was a bitter edge to her voice all of a sudden. ‘Lydia doesn’t consider me a person who can be compromised.’

‘Because?’

‘Because she just doesn’t.’

‘There must be a reason.’

‘There is.’

‘That being?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘And I don’t appreciate people walking into my house without an invitation.’ He narrowed his eyes pointedly. ‘The reason, if you please, Miss Webster. I believe you owe me that much.’

‘This!’

The cry seemed to burst out of her as she wrenched her veil back and he finally understood. She was scowling, her jaw thrust forward and rigid with tension, but his eyes were immediately drawn to the right side of her face, to the crimson-red cheek and wide, puckered scar running all the way down from her hairline to the corner of her mouth, as if something had gashed the skin open and left it permanently and irrevocably damaged. He let his gaze rest there for a moment before passing it over the rest of her features, so like and yet unlike those of the girl he remembered. What had happened to her? Not just to her cheek, but to her? The animated glow had been replaced by an air of defiant and yet pervasive sadness. Even so, scar aside, the resemblance to her sister was still striking enough to make him flinch.

‘As I said...’ her lips curled derisively ‘...not a bad reputation, just not one that anyone cares to protect. I suppose they can’t see the point.’

‘Forgive me.’ He half-lifted a hand, but she waved it aside.

‘There’s no need to apologise. I haven’t made anyone faint yet, but I’ve come close. You reacted quite well, considering.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have flinched. It wasn’t because of your scar.’ He rubbed a hand over his eyes, as if by doing so he could make her resemblance to Lydia go away. ‘You just look so much like her.’

‘Like Lydia?’ She blinked. ‘She’d be horrified to hear that.’

‘It’s Frances, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Her jaw relaxed slightly. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Of course. We were friends.’

‘A long time ago. A lot’s happened since then.’

‘To both of us, I think.’ He lifted his hand again, a placatory gesture this time. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know. That’s what everyone says.’

‘Ah.’ There seemed to be a depth of pain behind those words. ‘It doesn’t help much, does it? Sympathy, I mean.’

‘Not really. I appreciate the thought, but sympathy doesn’t fix anything. I have a scar. It can’t be wiped away or mended. It’s just how it is.’

‘And you just want to get on with your life?’

She looked surprised. ‘Yes.’

‘Meaning you don’t want to talk about it?’

‘No.’

‘Very well. In that case, Miss Webster, I believe we ought to concentrate on your ankle instead. If you’ll permit me to take a look?’

‘I really don’t think—’

‘But I do,’ he interrupted firmly. ‘This is my farmhouse and I intend to see that you’re properly tended to. Now it’s either me or a doctor and, if you’d prefer for nobody to know where you’ve been, I’d suggest you pick me. I can only answer for my own discretion.’

‘All right. You do it.’

‘Then may I?’

She opened her mouth as if to protest some more and then nodded instead, sitting very still as he reached down and lifted her foot carefully on to the stool beside him.

‘I’ll need to remove your boot.’ He looked up, already untying the laces, and she nodded again, her undamaged cheek a noticeably darker shade of pink than it had been a few moments before.

‘There.’ He slid her boot off and pressed his fingers around the swollen ankle, feeling the heat of the injury even through her stocking. ‘It’s not broken, but it’s a nasty sprain. It needs binding, but we’ll need to remove your undergarments first. I can do it if you...’

‘No!’ Her voice seemed to have leapt to a higher pitch. ‘I’ll do it. If you could just...?’

She made a spinning gesture and he turned around obediently, staring out into the hallway as he listened to the rustle of her petticoats behind. It was a strangely enticing sound, one he wasn’t accustomed to hearing, though as a rule he considered himself immune to the charms of womankind. He’d never been as enamoured of the entire female sex as his brother, had always considered himself a one-woman man, or at least he had before he’d decided he was better off on his own. Still, he couldn’t help but imagine the actions taking place just out of sight. She must be drawing her skirt up, untying her garter, rolling her stocking down...

‘Ready.’

‘Good.’ He cleared his throat before he spoke, though his voice still sounded uncharacteristically husky as he spun round again, trying to focus all his attention on the injury. Her ankle was red and swollen, though he could see the lower part of her leg now, too. As calves went, it was surprisingly shapely for someone he remembered as having a boyish figure. She really had changed in that regard, he thought, wrapping the bandage gently around velvet-soft skin. When he’d left she’d still been a girl, whereas now—he risked a glance up at a distractingly full bosom—now she was undoubtedly a woman. The thought was somewhat alarming, making his blood stir and his pulse throb in a way he hadn’t felt for...well, for a considerable amount of time. Years, in fact. The years it had taken for her to grow up...

He tied the ends of the bandage more tightly than he’d intended, irritated by his own errant thoughts. Had he gone quite mad living on his own? She was Lydia’s sister! He didn’t want anything to do with Lydia—and that included her family—and he definitely didn’t want to be thinking about her sister’s legs, stockinged or otherwise!

‘What did you mean about being late?’ He asked the question to distract himself.

‘Mmm?’ She jerked her head up, looking somewhat startled. She must have been chewing her lip, he noticed, because it looked fuller and redder all of a sudden. Wetter, too, coated with a sliver of moisture...

‘In the yard you said that you had to go or you’d be late.’ He cleared his throat again, more forcefully this time. ‘Late for what?’

‘Oh, I forgot. I meant for the tide. The sea will be up to the cliffs in another hour. If I don’t hurry, then I won’t make it back to Whitby before dark.’

‘You mean you walked here along the beach?’

‘Yes.’ She seemed nonplussed by the question. ‘It’s not far, but I really ought to hurry.’

‘It’s a good mile and I doubt you could hobble as far as the village tonight. You shouldn’t put any weight on that foot for a few days.’

‘A few days?’

She muttered a swear word and his lips twitched in amusement. He couldn’t have put it any better himself.

‘Well, Miss Webster...’

‘I’m sorry.’ Her expression turned guilty. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘I’ve heard worse. I believe I actually said worse earlier.’

‘Oh, yes—’ her expression cleared again ‘—so you did.’

‘Then I suppose I can’t blame you for running away. Between that and my lack of clothing, I must have appeared like some kind of monster.’

‘I thought you were a convict.’ She dug her teeth down hard into her bottom lip, turning serious again. ‘But perhaps you might let me borrow your carriage? Just to take me to the outskirts of Whitby. I’ll make my own way from there.’

‘I don’t have a carriage, only horses, and you won’t be making your own way anywhere. I might not look like much of a gentleman, but I hope I still have better manners than that. I presume you can ride?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I’ll escort you home.’

‘No!’ She sounded positively alarmed. ‘I mean, there’s no need for you to put yourself out. I can go on my own.’

‘I’m sure you can, but I’d like to have my horse back afterwards.’

‘Oh...yes, of course.’ Her expression wavered uncertainly. ‘Then perhaps we could wait until dark and you might leave me in the street?’

He lifted his eyebrows, regarding her dubiously. ‘Embarrassed to be seen in my company, Miss Webster?’

‘No-o, but the truth is that my parents don’t know anything about my coming here. They’d think it was shockingly indiscreet for me to call on you.’

‘They’d have a point. It’s unfortunate that your sister doesn’t share their scruples, but it won’t be dark for another few hours. Won’t your parents be concerned if you’re not home before nightfall?’

‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head with conviction. ‘They’re used to me coming and going, and Lydia will cover for me, I’m sure, under the circumstances.’

‘Quite.’

He glanced down at his hand, surprised to find it still resting on her foot. He must have kept it there without thinking and now the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips was making him even more unsettled. Positively uncomfortable, in fact. Maybe his sister-in-law was right and he was starved of companionship. Not that this was the kind of companionship she’d likely had in mind. Even sitting so close to a woman now was making his collar feel uncomfortably restrictive. Or perhaps he was just used to wearing loose farm clothes. In either case, he ought to let go of Frances’s foot. Now that he’d bound the injury, he really shouldn’t still be touching her at all, especially when he was so acutely aware of the shapeliness of the legs beneath her petticoats. Except that pulling his hand away now would only draw more attention to it...

‘Lydia only wants to talk to you.’ Her voice sounded strangely breathless all of a sudden.

‘So she sent you with a request that I’ve already refused, twice, without either your parents’ permission or any care for your reputation?’

She shuffled in her chair, the movement of her foot beneath his fingertips causing an immediate, and this time unmistakable, reaction in his lower body.

‘I didn’t know that it was twice, but she said that she just wants to explain...about her marriage.’

He was actually glad to feel a rush of anger, dampening his other responses and finally giving him an excuse to pull his hand away. ‘You mean to explain why she married someone else within a month of my leaving? Can she explain that, Miss Webster? Or are you going to tell me it was just her way of grieving?’

‘She only wants...’

‘She wants a title!’

He hadn’t intended to shout, though he realised he must have as a heavy silence descended over the room, punctuated only by the sound of Meg’s panting as she lifted her head from her paws and looked curiously between them. Miss Webster herself didn’t say anything to either confirm or contradict his statement, only hunching her shoulders and dropping her gaze as if she wished she were somewhere else.

‘I apologise.’ He felt a stab of guilt for his outburst. ‘But you shouldn’t have come. Why did you? Just because she’s your sister and she asked you to?’

‘No...’ she kept her gaze fixed on the floor ‘...but I couldn’t refuse. I have my own secrets.’

‘And your sister knows them, but your parents don’t?’

She gave an imperceptible nod and he leaned backwards, mentally denouncing his former betrothed with a varied assortment of unchivalrous epithets. She might have been the last straw that had caused him to run away six years ago, but at that moment he was more than prepared to blame her for everything.

‘Very well, then, we’ll wait until dark if that’s what you want. After that, I’ll take you home out of sight of your parents and we’ll say no more about it. As for Lydia, you can tell her my answer is and will forever remain no. Whatever she has to say to me, I’ve no desire to hear it. She can keep her letters and explanations, Miss Webster. She’s put me off women for ever.’

Chapter Four

Frances winced, gritting her teeth against the pain as Arthur helped her into a saddle. Fortunately, the farmyard had a mounting block or she didn’t think she could have managed even with his strong hands around her waist, guiding her upwards. For a big man, he was surprisingly gentle, but it was hard enough limping, never mind climbing on to a horse. Much as she hated to admit it, he’d been right. She could never have made it back to Whitby on her own.

‘Aren’t we leaving a bit early?’ She looked anxiously up at the sky. It was evening, but still as bright as midday. ‘I thought we were waiting for dusk?’

‘I have another engagement.’ He slid her injured foot into its stirrup before quickly mounting his own horse. ‘If you want to delay your return to Whitby, then you’ll need to accompany me.’

Frances looked across at him with trepidation. It appeared to be more of an ultimatum than a question and she wasn’t sure what answer to give anyway. They’d hardly spoken more than half-a-dozen words after he’d denounced her sister and, apparently, the rest of womankind with her, sounding even more bitter about Lydia than she’d expected, so much so that he’d practically denounced her as a fortune hunter. He could hardly have given his answer any more definitively, though she suspected that would probably change if he ever did find himself in the same room with her. Her sister’s personal charms rarely failed to achieve their desired result, though as to whether she’d get a chance to use them was another matter. Even if he hadn’t been quite so adamant, according to local gossip, Lord Scorborough rarely left his estate. Which made the fact that they were on their way to some kind of engagement doubly surprising.

Then again, Frances thought, able to study him more closely now that she had her veil pulled down firmly over her face again, perhaps she ought not to be surprised by anything he did any more. Nothing about him was what she’d expected, including his reaction to her facial scarring. For the first few dreadful moments it had felt like Leo all over again, with him recoiling in horror at the sight of her, but Arthur’s reason had been the very opposite of what she was used to. He hadn’t seemed repelled by the scar itself, only by her resemblance to Lydia. It made a refreshing change. Not many people commented upon that any more.

Even so, she’d been taken aback by the changes in him. He bore only a passing physical resemblance to the slim and genteel man she remembered. He seemed—he surely was—bigger, as if he’d grown inches both upwards and outwards. The old Arthur had been tall and broad-shouldered, but still slender with pale, well-manicured hands and neatly trimmed, shoulder-length hair. There had been a slightly hesitant, self-effacing quality about him, too, whereas this man walked with an air of palpable confidence. The new Arthur was tanned and calloused and...well...rugged. There was really no other word to describe it. He looked as though he spent most of his life working outdoors and had the muscular physique to prove it.

She looked him up and down, struggling to reconcile the two versions. By his own admission, the new Arthur didn’t speak or behave much like a gentleman any more, but at least he was dressed like one now, even if his jacket was more of the smart and functional rather than the formal-dinner variety. On the other hand, his boots had been repolished, his muddied shirt replaced and his cravat tied with elegant simplicity. He’d even shaved, though the effect was to give his jaw an even squarer and more chiselled appearance than when it had been bristling with stubble. All of his features seemed more defined somehow, as if her blurred memory of him had drifted into sharper focus. He looked like a man of energy and resolve, one who wouldn’t bother himself with social engagements. All of which begged the question, where were they going?

‘What kind of engagement?’ she asked finally.

‘Dinner.’ He whistled for Meg. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

‘Dinner?’ She dropped her reins again, appalled. She never went to dinner parties any more and, even if she had, how could he expect her to go to one with him? Never mind that seeing him again seemed to be having a strangely unsettling effect on her digestive system, but the whole point of waiting until dark was for them not to be seen together!

‘Can’t I wait here?’

‘And muck out the pigsty?’ He frowned over his shoulder. ‘Why would you want to stay here?’

‘Why?’ She stared at him in consternation. There were so many reasons. Surely he could guess a few of them! Besides the fact that a gentleman oughtn’t to make such impertinent comments or ask a lady why she wanted to do anything! The old Arthur wouldn’t have, but this new version seemed to have lost all of his tact along with his manners.

‘You’re starting to sound like an echo, Miss Webster. I repeat, why would you want to stay here?’

‘Because I’m not dressed for dinner, for a start. Look, I’m covered in mud!’ She gestured at her skirts and then blushed, belatedly realising that she was directing his attention straight to her posterior.

‘So you are.’ His eyes seemed to spark briefly before he lifted them back to her face. ‘However, our hosts won’t mind. They won’t tell anyone they’ve seen you either, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘But who are they? Do I know them?’

‘I’ve no idea who you do or don’t know, but I’m referring to my brother and his wife.’

‘You mean we’re dining at Amberton Castle?’

‘Yes, and before you ask again, no, I’m not leaving you here alone.’ He gave her a faintly sardonic look. ‘There’s really no need to worry, they don’t bite. Or at least Violet doesn’t. Lance has always been a bit more unpredictable.’

‘But I don’t go to dinner parties!’ She had the horrible suspicion that she was wailing.

‘Never?’

‘No!’ She shook her head, ardently hoping that he wasn’t about to demand an explanation for that as well. Surely the reasons were obvious. It wasn’t easy eating under a veil, but it was still preferable to being either ignored or gawped at. Dinner parties, like most social gatherings, were like a slow torture for her. Couldn’t he guess that? But he only regarded her speculatively for a few moments before tugging on his reins and directing his horse towards the gate.

‘Then you’ll just have to make an exception this evening.’ The words carried back over his shoulder. ‘It’s easier to ride straight to Whitby afterwards than come back and collect you.’

‘But...’ She stared helplessly after him, torn between a range of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she’d always wanted to see the faux medieval castle that Arthur’s father had famously built for his mother, though she’d never gone to any of the balls to which her family had always been invited. She’d been too young before her accident, and afterwards...well, balls were even worse than dinner parties. She could wear her veil more easily, but it made her stand out like a sore thumb, too. Never mind the chances of running into Leo. But she did want to see the castle, even if it would be more than her life was worth if Lydia ever found out. She’d turn green with jealousy and then bombard her with questions forever afterwards.

Ultimately, however, it wasn’t her decision to make. She could hardly stay at Arthur’s house and she couldn’t ride off with his horse either. Which meant that she had no choice but to go with him. Just as he knew she didn’t.

‘We’ll ride over the Moors.’ He didn’t as much as turn his head to make sure she was following. ‘The weather’s fine and it’s a quicker route.’

That was one consolation, she supposed, picking up her reins again. She preferred the Moors to the coastal road. The wildness of the terrain made her feel closer to the elements, more a part of nature itself, where appearances didn’t matter. There were also fewer people up on the tops and those few were more preoccupied with their work than with staring at her.

They rode steadily up the hillside on to a brown-and-purple plateau of heather and gorse interspersed with patches of cottongrass, tiny white flowers that gave the incongruous impression of snowdrifts in the middle of summer. Arthur rode ahead until the trail widened and then moved over to let her ride alongside, although he still didn’t speak.

That was another difference about him, she realised. The old Arthur would have made polite conversation, would have mentioned the lovely weather they were having at least, but the new version seemed to prefer stoical silence. Oddly enough, however, she didn’t feel uncomfortable with it. They seemed to be breaking all the rules of polite behaviour today, but somehow it felt refreshing and natural. Liberating even, with just the calls of a few seagulls and curlews gliding overhead to disturb the peace. The evening sun gave her a sense of well-being, too, warming her face through her veil as she tipped her head back and drew in a deep breath.

‘Oh!’ She glanced sideways for a moment and then came to an abrupt halt. The view behind and below them was magnificent, as if she were looking at three different landscapes at once: heathland, farmland and sea all merging seamlessly into one harmonious whole. There had to be a hundred different colours before her. ‘I should come up here more often. It’s breathtaking.’

‘It is.’ She heard him stop a few paces ahead, though when he spoke his voice sounded grave. ‘It’s hard to imagine a more beautiful place anywhere in the world, but I remember being desperate to escape. Even when I came back, I only wanted to leave again.’

She tore her gaze away from the scenery and looked towards him in surprise. The sun was dipping towards the horizon now and in the gloaming light his eyes seemed to shine like amber jewels, blending in with the heathland around them, though they looked oddly expressionless, too. His manner and tone were jarring. He was talking about the nine months when he’d been away, she realised, when everyone had thought that he’d drowned, but his words made it sound as if he’d left on purpose, as if what had happened to him hadn’t been an accident, as if he’d never wanted to come back. But why would he have wanted to leave, especially when he’d been engaged, albeit in secret, to Lydia? What could have made him so desperate?

‘Escape?’ She tried to keep her tone casual. ‘I heard that you lost your memory when you fell off your sailing boat and were picked up by a whaling vessel.’

‘Indeed?’ His expression didn’t change. ‘That sounds exciting, but I’m afraid it’s wrong in almost every respect. I didn’t fall off anything, I didn’t lose my memory and I rather like whales.’

‘Oh.’ There were so many implications to the statement that she could only focus on the last and most obvious one. ‘You mean you’ve seen a whale?’

‘Yes, to the north of Scotland, but they’re no danger to us and I’ve too much respect for the sea than to hurt one of its most noble creatures.’

‘I’d love to see one. I found a seal colony once, further down the coast towards Robin Hood’s Bay. The whole beach was full of mothers and pups.’

‘Ah.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘Seals I’m not so fond of.’

‘Why not? They’re adorable.’

‘They also bite through fishing nets, which need to be sewn back together by hand. It’s time-consuming, tedious and extremely pungent.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I was picked up by a vessel when I went overboard, only it wasn’t a whaler, just a fishing boat from Aberdeen.’

‘Oh.’ She felt a murmur of disquiet. Went overboard. He’d spoken the words plainly enough, though he’d already denied having fallen. In which case...had he jumped? But, no, her mind shied away from that idea, surely he couldn’t have.

‘They took me on as a deckhand.’

‘Meaning you worked on deck?’

‘As the title implies.’

‘But...’ she drew her brows together ‘...you’re a viscount.’

‘True, but even viscounts have hands they can work with. When they’re allowed to, that is. Believe it or not, I enjoyed the experience.’

‘Enjoyed?’ she echoed incredulously. How could he speak so calmly about it when she—they, she quickly corrected herself—had all been so worried? ‘But we all thought you were dead! Then when you came back, we thought you must have been picked up by a whaler and carried north to the Arctic. That was the only possible explanation for why you were gone for so long.’

‘Press-ganging?’ He lifted an eyebrow, but she ignored the sarcasm, spurring her horse a few steps closer to confront him.

‘If you were picked up by a fishing boat, then why didn’t you come home straight away?’

‘I just told you.’ The eyebrow lowered again, joining its companion in a heavy, black line as his expression seemed to harden. ‘I told you I didn’t want to come home. I wanted to be lost at sea for a while.’

‘So you deliberately abandoned your ship to join the crew of a fishing boat?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What about Lydia? You were engaged. Why didn’t you want to come back to her?’

‘I had a feeling she’d be all right. And she was, wasn’t she?’

Frances felt a momentary misgiving. There was a taunting edge to his voice, almost as if he knew the truth about Lydia’s other flirtations and was daring her to contradict him. But she had to. For the sake of sisterly loyalty, she had to.

‘She mourned for you.’

‘Yet it took her less than a week to engage herself to another man.’

‘Ye-es.’ She winced inwardly. There was no denying that part, though she’d hoped he hadn’t known about it. ‘But that doesn’t mean she didn’t care.’

‘Doesn’t it? Would you forget a man so quickly, Miss Webster? Presuming you truly loved him in the first place, that is?’

‘No.’ She found herself averting her gaze despite the presence of her veil between them. ‘But Lydia isn’t someone who can be on her own.’

‘So I noticed. In fact, it was just about the last thing I noticed before I left.’

‘What?’ Her eyes shot back to his face. ‘You mean you knew about John Baird?’

His lips twisted into something resembling a sneer. ‘Not Baird, no. The man I saw her with was much younger.’

‘Oh, yes, how silly of me, I meant...’

‘Don’t lie for her, Miss Webster, and don’t feel bad for me either. I’m glad to know I wasn’t the only man she was stringing along, though just out of interest, how many men was she secretly engaged to?’

Frances lifted her chin, resenting the accusation no matter how fair it was. ‘You were the only one.’

‘So she just kept a few suitors in reserve?’ He gave a cynical-sounding laugh. ‘A wise precaution as it turned out.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘If you say so, though it hardly matters any more.’ He turned his horse about, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks. ‘In any case, I’d prefer that we kept this conversation between ourselves. Now come on, we don’t want to be late.’

Chapter Five

They lapsed into silence again, though this time it felt more brooding than companionable. Frances let her horse fall behind, her mind whirling with everything Arthur had just told her. All this time, she’d assumed that what had happened to him had been an accident, but now it seemed that he hadn’t just left deliberately. He’d never wanted to come back.

Worse still, he’d known about Lydia’s betrayal. In six years, the idea had never occurred to her, but now it seemed the two things were inextricably linked. The bitterness in his voice suggested as much, though surely Lydia’s behaviour on its own wouldn’t have caused him to do anything quite so dramatic. He might simply have broken their engagement, not run away to sea. Yet he had run away, leaving his home, his responsibilities and his position as heir of Amberton Castle, so that everyone, his own family included, had assumed he’d had some kind of accident and drowned. His father had dropped dead on being told of the news. The thought made her shudder. No matter why he’d run away, the consequences had to be a terrible weight on his shoulders. No wonder Arthur wasn’t the man she remembered. No wonder he didn’t want to see Lydia again either.

After twenty minutes or so they descended into a valley, joining a bigger track that led towards a large, Gothic-looking mansion decorated with crenellations and turrets and arched, oriel windows, all festooned with cascades of trailing ivy. Frances caught her breath in amazement. Amberton Castle looked so authentically medieval that it was hard to believe it was all an illusion, a forty-year-old building designed to look like a real medieval stronghold and a royal one at that. Up close, it was just as impressive as its reputation suggested and even more hauntingly beautiful than she’d imagined. By rights it belonged to Arthur and yet he chose not to live there, a fact that only deepened the mystery around him. How could anyone choose not to live in such a fairy tale place?

At last they rode beneath a granite archway and she tugged on her veil, making sure it was firmly in place before they arrived.

‘You should take that off.’ Arthur leapt down from his horse and stalked towards her, lifting his hands up to help her dismount. ‘You don’t need it.’

‘Yes, I do.’ She slid down into his arms, vividly and uncomfortably aware of how broad his chest was in comparison to hers. Leo had never made her feel quite so puny. Then again, he’d never made her legs feel so unsteady either, though that was surely just an after-effect of the ride.

‘No, you don’t. Take it off.’

‘No!’ She stiffened at his imperative tone. He’d seemed sympathetic earlier, but clearly his mood had deteriorated during the ride. ‘I prefer to wear it.’

‘There’s no need to hide.’

‘I’m not hiding and it’s none of your business. I can wear what I want!’

‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about or ashamed of.’

‘I didn’t say I was either!’ She lifted her hands to his shoulders and shoved, but he appeared immovable. ‘And I don’t recall asking for your views on the subject!’

‘True, but you—’

‘Arthur!’

A cheerful-sounding voice interrupted them, closely followed by its owner. Frances twisted her head away from her infuriating companion and gasped at the sight of his twin brother. With his neat, shoulder-length hair and smartly dressed appearance, Lance Amberton looked almost exactly the way she remembered Arthur, more like him than he was. The effect was so confusing that it rendered her momentarily speechless.

‘I was starting to wonder where you’d got to.’ If he’d witnessed them arguing, he gave no sign of it. ‘But I see you’ve brought an extra guest for dinner, Arthur. A masked woman, no less.’

His mouth spread into a wicked-looking grin and it was immediately obvious who was who again. The old Arthur had never smiled like that and the new Arthur didn’t appear capable of it. As far as Frances could tell, he didn’t smile at all.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel glad of his familiar presence beside her. She’d never met the notorious Lancelot Amberton before, but even as a girl she’d heard rumours about his wild behaviour, especially where women were concerned. She remembered Lydia being warned in no uncertain terms to stay away from him, though it was hard to believe anything particularly shocking of the eminently respectable-looking gentleman bowing in front of her.

‘Captain Lance Amberton.’ Arthur’s voice seemed to hold a note of warning as he introduced them. ‘Allow me to present Miss Webster.’

‘Webster?’

‘Miss Frances Webster.’

‘Ah.’ A fleeting look of horror turned into one of unmistakable relief. ‘Then I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, Miss Webster. I’m sure that my wife will be delighted, too, only she’s napping at the moment and I’d prefer not to wake her until she’s ready. It won’t be long, I’m sure.’

‘My sister-in-law is expecting her first child in the autumn,’ Arthur explained, ‘and it’s turned my recalcitrant brother into a mother hen.’

‘Mother hen?’ Lance shook his head as if he were genuinely aggrieved. ‘If you’re implying that I love my wife, then you’re absolutely right, I do, and I refuse to apologise for it.’ He extended his arm with a flourish. ‘Now please allow me to escort you inside, Miss Webster. I believe I’d much rather talk with you than with this heartless brute.’

‘She can’t walk.’ Arthur’s voice cut across him.

‘I can limp,’ Frances protested.

‘You shouldn’t put any weight on your ankle.’

‘It’s not th—’

She’d barely started the sentence before he lifted her up again, ignoring her spluttered protests as he carried her across the courtyard and over the threshold of the castle, much to his brother’s obvious amusement.

‘I twisted my ankle,’ she explained, profoundly glad of the veil hiding her flaming cheeks as they entered a large, oak-panelled and high-ceilinged hallway.

‘Well, that explains it.’ Lance followed behind them. He held a cane and walked with a slight limp, too, she noticed. ‘I’m no stranger to injured limbs myself, Miss Webster, though I’ve never seen my brother behave so gallantly before.’

‘I’m just being practical.’ Arthur sounded gruff.

‘I still don’t need to be carried around like some damsel in distress.’ She glared at him through her veil. ‘Once is bad enough. Twice in one day is insulting. I could have managed perfectly well on my own.’

‘In your opinion.’

‘It’s best not to argue with him once he gets an idea in his head,’ Lance interceded. ‘He’s the most stubborn man you’re ever likely to meet. These days anyway.’

‘I’d still prefer to stand on my own two feet, injured or otherwise.’

‘As you wish.’ Arthur deposited her firmly, but unceremoniously, on the floor. ‘Is that better?’

‘Much.’

‘Miss Webster.’ Lance gave them both a distinctly penetrating look. ‘Might I take your accoutrement? Our staff all appear to be hiding.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

She started to unfasten her cloak and then felt another pair of hands take over, gently peeling away the folds and then lifting the garment from her shoulders. She half-twisted her head and felt her blush deepen. Arthur appeared to be utterly engrossed in the task, yet equally determined not to look at her.

‘Apparently my brother wants to do everything this evening.’ Lance gave something resembling a smirk, placing his cane in front of him and resting his hands on top. ‘You seem to bring out his chivalrous side, Miss Webster. I applaud you.’

She cleared her throat, unable to think of an answer to that, gesturing towards her skirts instead.

‘I ought to apologise for my appearance. I had a fall earlier and my dress came off somewhat the worse for wear.’

‘Hence the ankle, I presume?’ Lance nodded as if there was nothing more natural than arriving at dinner covered in dirty splotches. ‘How unfortunate, but I take it that’s how the two of you met? I do hope you’re going to tell me my brother came to your rescue.’

‘Yes, in a manner of speaking.’ She untied her bonnet and pulled it away, taking care not to disturb the veil pinned to her hair, then passed that to Arthur as well. He took it and frowned, looking as though he were on the verge of saying something else before turning on his heel abruptly, carrying her things off to an anteroom.

‘I heard that the house looked like a castle...’ Frances looked around at the crests and tapestries covering the walls with admiration ‘...but I never expected anything like this.’

‘Haven’t you visited before?’ Lance appeared unconcerned by her veil. ‘Surely we’ve invited you to our summer balls?’

‘Oh, yes, you’ve been very kind. My parents attend every year, but I don’t go to balls.’

‘Ah well, then, you’re in luck. We’re having a garden party instead this year. My wife is a stickler for tradition and insists upon our doing something, but I refuse to let her dance in her condition. I keep telling her to rest and she keeps telling me to stop worrying. We’re quite the pair.’

He gave a strained-sounding laugh and Frances found herself wanting to offer some kind of reassurance. What was it he’d said earlier? I love my wife and I refuse to apologise for it... Apparently he was genuinely worried for her. Beneath the smile, there was a tightness about his face that spoke of some persistent anxiety.

‘When is the baby due?’

‘October, although I hope for sooner.’

‘You do?’ She couldn’t conceal her surprise. It wasn’t usual to hope for an early birth.

He nodded, his gaze flickering towards the staircase. ‘My wife has a particularly small build. I worry about how she’ll manage.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Frances drew her brows together sympathetically. Now she thought of it, she remembered once seeing Violet Amberton from a distance and being surprised by her excessively small frame. It was no wonder that her much-larger husband was worried. ‘But you know, my sister has a tiny waist, too. Everyone was anxious when she was about to give birth, but it was all over in a couple of hours. She had a big, healthy boy and was out of bed in a week.’

‘Then I’ll hope for the same.’ He took her hand and pressed it warmly. ‘I appreciate the comfort, Miss Webster.’

‘Lydia has a son?’

Frances cringed at the sound of Arthur’s voice behind her. She hadn’t heard his footsteps and the last thing she’d wanted was for him to overhear her talking about her nephew. Now that he had, however, there was no point in concealing the truth. ‘Yes. You didn’t know?’

‘No. My interest in your sister ended a long time ago. I heard of her marriage, that’s all.’

‘Well, his name’s George. Georgie.’

‘You sound fond of him.’ The words sounded faintly accusing.

‘I am. My sister moved back to Whitby after she was widowed and now we all live together in my parents’ house. It’s a pleasant arrangement, although sometimes I wonder if there are too many women for one little boy.’

‘You’re afraid of spoiling him?’

She hesitated before answering. It was hard not to lavish attention upon a three-year-old boy who’d lost his father and whose mother was obsessed with the idea of finding a new husband, but it seemed disloyal to say so.

‘Perhaps, but I suppose that’s preferable to neglect.’

‘As long as it doesn’t become stifling. Too much attention can be as bad as too little.’

‘Indeed?’ The solemnity of his expression made her hackles rise. ‘And you have experience of raising boys, I suppose?’

‘None at all, although I do have experience of being one.’

‘And were you over-indulged, Lord Scorborough?’

‘I wouldn’t say so, no.’

‘Were you stifled, then?’

There was a flash of something in his eyes, something piercing and intense like pain, at the same moment as a female voice spoke from the direction of the staircase.

‘Lance?’

The man in question rushed across the hallway, his expression turning instantly from bewildered perplexity to tender concern as Frances watched in surprise. The Lance Amberton she’d heard rumours about had been wild and dangerous. This man appeared to be the world’s most devoted husband. Evidently both brothers had changed.

‘Good evening, Violet.’ Arthur sounded as formal as if he were presenting her to the Queen. ‘Might I introduce Miss Frances Webster?’

‘Miss Webster.’

The woman broke into a wide smile as she took her husband’s arm and walked towards them. At ground level, Frances could see that her memory hadn’t exaggerated. Violet Amberton was without doubt the tiniest woman she’d ever laid eyes on, with white-blonde hair and disproportionately huge eyes in an amiable-looking face.

‘I’m sorry to impose upon your evening, Mrs Amberton.’ She inclined her head, trying to convey a sense of apology through her veil. ‘I’m afraid that I sprained my ankle and Lord Scorborough here rescued me.’

‘And now he’s brought you to join us for dinner?’ The woman’s gaze flickered between them, though her expression was inquisitive rather than calculating. ‘I’m so pleased. If we join forces, we might be able to stop these two talking about mining all evening.’

‘You mean you don’t find iron smelting as fascinating as we do?’ Lance put a hand to his heart. ‘You wound me, my love.’

‘Oh, but I’d never want to do that.’ She leant her head against his shoulder playfully. ‘But now I expect dinner is ready. I do appreciate your coming to dine with us, Miss Webster. If you can start a new topic of conversation, I’ll be forever indebted to you.’

‘I’m afraid that my dress...’ Frances gestured downwards again.

‘Oh, dear.’ The tiny woman looked sympathetic. ‘What a shame. I’d offer to lend you something, but I’m afraid you might find my clothes a little on the short side. Not to mention too wide.’ She patted her bulging stomach and laughed. ‘But it truly doesn’t matter. I’m just delighted to have another woman to talk to. Please call me Violet.’

‘Then you must call me Frances.’

‘Then that’s settled. Here.’ Arthur extended his arm in a manner that was less of an invitation than a command, but Frances took it anyway, too touched by the other woman’s offer of friendship to spoil the moment.

‘Excellent.’ Lance clapped his hands together. ‘Now let’s eat. I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m famished.’

Chapter Six

Arthur swallowed a generous mouthful of port, wondering why he’d ever thought that bringing the woman to Amberton Castle was a good idea in the first place. Besides the inconvenience to himself, if his brother didn’t stop giving him pointed looks across the table then he’d do more than kick him under it. Happy as he was to take Lance’s mind off its usual preoccupation of worrying about Violet, his unexpected appearance with Miss Webster wasn’t something he cared to discuss. Even with his brother. Even when the circumstances positively cried out for an explanation. Even now that the ladies had adjourned to the parlour and he had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t going to be able to avoid the subject any longer.

‘So...’ Lance pushed a wooden-and-mother-of-pearl inlaid box towards him, opening the lid to reveal a row of thick, brown cigars. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I have to guess?’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Arthur selected the nearest cigar and lit it with a candle. ‘But you can guess if you like. That ought to be entertaining.’

‘All right.’ Lance leaned back in his chair, inhaling thoughtfully before blowing a cloud of smoke into the air above his head. ‘In that case, I can only assume that you’ve decided to get revenge on the nefarious Lydia Webster by developing a tendresse for her younger sister. I imagine this is just one of a series of private liaisons.’

‘Not very private since I’ve brought her here.’

‘Ah, but naturally you’ve brought her here for my inspection and approval.’

‘Your approval?’

‘Knowing me to be an excellent judge of the female character, yes. I further presume that you’re eloping in secret, which explains why she hides her face even while eating.’

‘There’s no tendresse.’ Arthur snorted. ‘This is the first time I’ve seen her in six years.’

‘Then you ought to be more careful. Riding around the county with young, unmarried women is more my old style than yours.’

‘It’s nothing like that. She really did sprain her ankle.’

‘Ah. Pity.’

‘Pity?’ Arthur almost spluttered on his cigar. ‘She’s Lydia’s sister!’

‘And we’re twins, but that doesn’t make us the same person. I like her.’

‘As I recall, there aren’t many women in the world you don’t like.’

‘Past tense and no offence taken, since you’re obviously sensitive on the subject. I’m a happily married man these days, as you very well know.’

‘Yes, I do and I apologise.’ Arthur grimaced and then frowned at the table. It had been a low blow, reminding Lance of his misspent past, especially when he was now so utterly devoted to Violet. Why was he being so sensitive?

‘Anyway,’ Lance went on, ‘there were a few women I didn’t like. I don’t recall ever saying anything positive about Lydia Webster, for example.’

‘True. You called her a cold-hearted fortune hunter.’

‘There you go then, but, married or not, I can still appreciate a woman of intelligence. I’ve no idea what your Miss Webster and Violet were talking about, but I don’t remember Lydia ever taking such a keen interest in poetry.’

‘Novels. They were discussing the works of Jane Austen.’

‘Didn’t she write poetry?’

‘No, and it’s not my Miss Webster.’

‘Noticed that eventually, did you?’ Lance chuckled. ‘Does she look like Lydia?’

‘Uncannily, except that Frances has a scar on one cheek. She had some kind of accident a few years ago.’

‘And that’s why she covers her face?’ Lance sobered instantly. ‘Then I’m sorry for joking.’

‘You weren’t to know. She hasn’t told me what happened.’

‘But you’ve seen it?’

‘Yes.’ Arthur blew a cloud of smoke out to hide his expression. Lance’s gaze seemed altogether too perceptive all of a sudden.

‘Maybe she doesn’t like to talk about it.’

‘She doesn’t, but there’s still no need for her to cover up like that. It’s only a scar.’

‘But it’s her choice whether or not to show it. If she feels more comfortable wearing a veil, then it’s none of our business.’ Lance shrugged. ‘Besides, I’d have thought you’d be glad she covers her face if she looks so much like Lydia.’

Arthur puffed out another smoke ring thoughtfully. That was true. He ought to feel glad. Surely the last thing he’d want was to look at an almost mirror-image of Lydia all evening, yet he actually wanted to see Frances’s face again. Why? It wasn’t as if he felt any residual attachment to his former fiancée, that much he was certain of, but the fact that Frances felt the need to cover her scar bothered him. Was she embarrassed or had she been made to feel so unattractive? He didn’t want her to feel that way...

‘In any case,’ Lance continued, ‘you still haven’t explained what you’re doing with her. Don’t tell me you found her limping around the Moors all on her own?’

‘No, she came to the farm.’

‘Your farm? Why?’

‘I’ll give you two guesses.’

‘Lydia sent her?’ Lance let out a low whistle. ‘You have to give the woman credit for nerve. She’s still fishing for a title, then?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘Well, it’s taken her long enough. She’s been widowed for almost a year. To be honest, I expected her to try something before.’

‘She has. She’s written twice asking me to meet her.’ Arthur raised his cigar to his lips and then pulled it away again. ‘How do you know how long she’s been widowed? I didn’t think you were so interested in Whitby society.’

‘I pay attention to some things, especially things that might involve my family. I make it my business to know when my brother’s being hunted.’

‘Well, she’s not going to catch me.’

‘Don’t be so sure. Women like that know how to get what they want and they don’t give up easily. Only why on earth did she send her sister to you?’

‘No idea. She must have thought a personal appeal would be more effective.’

‘But she didn’t visit you herself?’

‘No. Too worried about her reputation apparently.’

‘Thank goodness for that. So what message are you going to send back?’

‘I said that I’ve already given my answer.’

‘Mmmm...’ Lance sounded pensive ‘...just stay on your guard. I wouldn’t put anything past Lydia Web—what’s her married name again?’

‘Baird.’

‘Lydia Baird. She’s just the type to try to catch you in a compromising situation. Be careful she doesn’t turn up on your doorstep.’

‘One look at the farm and she’d probably change her mind.’

‘It might be too late by then.’

‘Which would be her problem, not mine. I won’t be tricked into doing the honourable thing.’

‘Won’t you? We both know you’re not as bad-tempered as you make out.’

‘I’m incredibly bad-tempered and I refuse to be trapped into anything I don’t want. I’ve lived enough of my life that way.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Lance nodded approvingly. ‘You do like her, though.’

‘Lydia? Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Nice try. You know perfectly well I meant Frances. You were looking in her direction all the way through dinner and you’ve just proven that you were listening to her conversation as well. You know you can’t fool me when it comes to women.’

‘Apparently I can since you’re so far off the mark.’

‘So you’re saying that you don’t like her?’

‘I don’t like any woman. I’ve learnt my lesson in that regard and it was a pretty damned painful one, too. From now on, I intend to leave the entire female sex alone and I’d appreciate them returning the favour. I only feel responsible for Frances, for tonight anyway.’

‘If you say so.’ Lance pushed his chair back and heaved himself to his feet. ‘In any case, I’ve had a very enjoyable evening and so has Violet, I can tell. If I weren’t so far off the mark I’d suggest you bring her again next week.’

‘The next time she invades my privacy, injures herself and then compels me to take care of her, you mean?’

‘You never know... So what’s the plan for tonight? I presume you’re taking her back to Whitby?’

‘Yes, under cover of darkness. She insisted.’

‘You know that’s not the time most respectable ladies ask to be taken home?’

‘Quite. Only she doesn’t want her parents to find out where she’s been. I think she intends for me to deposit her on the outskirts of Whitby and then hobble the rest of the way. It’s ludicrous, of course. I’ll have to see her to the door.’

‘The same door where her sister lives?’ Lance shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. You might as well stick your head in the lion’s mouth. Let me take her back in the carriage instead. If she needs an excuse, then she can say she twisted her ankle out walking and I found her. It’s not such a long way from the truth, but this way you don’t have to go and there’s no risk of bumping into you-know-who.’

Arthur nodded absently. It was a better idea than his own, he supposed, though he felt strangely reluctant to give up the prospect of a night-time ride with Frances. Despite the inconvenience, he realised he’d actually been looking forward to it...

* * *

‘Ladies!’ Lance swung the drawing-room door open with a flourish. ‘I hope you haven’t missed us too dreadfully.’

‘Woefully, my love.’ Violet laughed over her shoulder. She was sitting beside Frances on a red-velvet sofa, though only she turned around to look at them. ‘But we managed to bear it somehow.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.