‘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 h
e 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 L
ydia—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.’
The Viscount's Veiled Lady Page 3