The Viscount's Veiled Lady

by Jenni Fletcher

  ‘Well, it was very disappointing.’ Lydia was still pacing up and down. ‘When I saw you with a man, I thought you’d brought him back with you. I was in such a rush to put on my new lavender muslin that I tore the hem.’

  ‘Lavender?’ Frances rolled her eyes. ‘Lydia, you know you can’t wear lavender for another two months.’

  ‘Oh, you sound just like Mama, but I doubt Arthur knows when John’s funeral was exactly. He won’t know if it’s appropriate to wear or not. Lavender suits me.’

  ‘Everything suits you, but, Lydia, maybe you ought to just let him go. He wasn’t very polite when I spoke to him and I’m sure you’ll have plenty of other suitors once you’re allowed out of mourning.’

  ‘I don’t want other suitors!’ Lydia’s expression turned fierce. ‘I want Arthur Amberton. Only perhaps I need to try a different approach.’

  Frances’s heart sank. ‘What kind of approach?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but he can’t refuse to see me for ever. I’ll find a way.’

  ‘But he said that he doesn’t want to see you.’ She didn’t know how much plainer she could make it...

  ‘For now,’ Lydia pouted, ‘but we’ll see about that.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Frances lifted Georgie off her knee and stood up, struck by a vague sense of foreboding. She was starting to wonder whether Arthur’s blunt refusal to see Lydia was only making her sister more determined, provoking some contrary side of her character. Perhaps it would be better if he did meet with her after all. If he behaved as badly as he had the other night, then Lydia might actually be glad to relinquish the idea of marrying him. As it was, Frances had the discomforting feeling that her sister’s interest was beginning to border on obsession...

  ‘Where are you going?’ Lydia looked up at her absently.

  ‘Down to the beach. It’s a lovely afternoon and my ankle’s feeling much better.’

  ‘Oh...that’s good. In that case, would you mind taking Georgie for some fresh air? I thought I might make some calls.’

  ‘Calls?’

  ‘Yes, calls! I’m allowed to visit a few people, aren’t I? As long as they’re old and married and boring!’

  Frances narrowed her eyes speculatively. ‘You won’t do anything foolish, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Lydia sounded impatient. ‘I know perfectly well what I’m doing.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ Frances sighed and took hold of her nephew’s hand. ‘Come on, Georgie.’

  The tide was almost at its lowest ebb, a good thirty yards from the cliff by the time they made their way down the slope of the promenade to the shore, Georgie toddling ahead with a bucket and spade clutched in his chubby hands. Frances had told his nurse to take the afternoon off so it was just her and him and a vast, unspoilt expanse of beach waiting to be decorated with sandcastles and seashell palaces, the way she liked it. The weather was beautiful, too, one of those rare days when the sea was almost perfectly flat, so smooth that she could see the wakes left by the vessels and the sky bright and cloudless, with barely a trace of breeze to spoil the perfect mirror-shine of the water. It all looked so lovely that she felt a rush of sympathy for Lydia, trapped indoors in her mourning, but at least she and Georgie could still make the most of it.

  She pulled her veil back to admire the view, enjoying the kiss of the sun on her skin. Georgie was used to her scar so he wasn’t alarmed by the sight, and everyone else was either too busy or too far away to notice her. There were only a scattering of people anyway, just a few nursemaids and children, as well as a group of fishermen loading lobster pots into a boat on the shore.

  ‘Picnic first?’

  She spread a blanket over the sand and opened her basket to reveal two lemon buns, fresh from Mrs Botham’s. The bakery had opened in Whitby seven years before and been an instant success, not least with Georgie who tucked straight into his bun with relish. Frances took a hearty mouthful as well, licking her lips to make sure she didn’t lose any of the icing, and then stopped, struck by a strange, tingling sensation, as if something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the cake or Georgie. It was more like an awareness, as if somebody was watching her...

  She looked up, straight into the eyes of one of the fishermen. And he wasn’t just looking at her, she realised in alarm. He was saying goodbye to his companions and striding purposely up the beach in their direction as well, pulling his cap off to reveal a head of close-cropped hair that she recognised at once.

  She swallowed her mouthful of cake with a gulp. He must have been splashed by the waves because he looked conspicuously damp, his half-open shirt moulded to his chest and arms so that she could see the sculpted contours of the muscles beneath—of which, she couldn’t help but notice, there were many. Even more than she’d appreciated the first time in his hallway. More than she ought to be staring at, especially when she wasn’t wearing a veil. And it was too late for her to pull it down without him noticing!

  ‘Miss Webster.’

  He stopped in front of her, inclining his head slightly though his expression was just as stern as it had been when she’d last seen him standing on the doorstep of Amberton Castle the week before. Apparently neither his mood nor his manners had improved since.

  ‘Lord Scorborough.’

  ‘Might I enquire after your ankle?’

  ‘You might.’ She thrust her chin out belligerently. As answers went, it wasn’t very polite, but she felt stubbornly determined to pay him back in kind. Even if her pulse just seemed to have trebled its usual speed.

  ‘I hope it’s feeling better.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded slowly, as if he were trying to think of something else to say. ‘You managed to walk down here by yourself then?’

  ‘Yes, except for my nephew here.’ She gestured warily to the little boy sitting beside her. Being rude to her was one thing, but if he was rude to Georgie...

  ‘So this young man is your escort?’ To her surprise, his expression actually seemed to soften as he crouched down in front of them. ‘Young Master Baird, I presume?’

  The boy made a confused face and she had to stifle a laugh. ‘He prefers George.’

  ‘Master George, then. How do you do, young man?’

  ‘I’m very well, sir.’ Georgie opened up his fist to reveal the squashed remnants of his lemon bun. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Georgie,’ Frances interceded tactfully, ‘but you finish yours. Lord Scorborough can share some of mine if he wants.’

  ‘All right.’ The little boy rammed the last piece into his mouth and clambered happily to his feet. ‘Can I build a sandcastle now?’

  ‘Yes, but remember I like my castles to have at least three turrets and a moat!’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Frances!’

  She let her smile fade as he scurried away, acutely aware of Arthur still crouching in front of her. Was he looking at her? She couldn’t tell. She was only conscious of the silence between them lengthening awkwardly.

  ‘He seems like a nice boy.’ Arthur spoke at last.

  ‘He is.’ She peered sideways, relenting slightly. ‘Thank you for being kind to him.’

  ‘Did you think that I wouldn’t be?’

  ‘No, but under the circumstances...’

  ‘He’s a child.’

  ‘He’s Lydia’s child,’ she answered significantly, ‘and very dear to me.’

  ‘Meaning that we couldn’t be friends if I wasn’t kind to him?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t, but then we aren’t friends, are we?’

  ‘We used to be. Maybe we could be again.’

  She twisted her head to look straight at him that time, too shocked to make any attempt to conceal it.

  ‘Is the idea so appalling?’ His stern expression was back, even sterner than ever.<
br />
  ‘Not appalling, no...’ she chose her words carefully ‘...but surprising. The other night you only wanted to get rid of me.’

  He grimaced. ‘I wasn’t trying to get rid of you, although I admit it must have seemed that way. The truth is that I don’t find it easy to talk about my past, Miss Webster, and the conversation was hitting too close to home. However, that’s still no excuse for ill manners. I was rude and abrupt and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I ought to apologise. In fact, I believe that I’m banished from Violet’s company until I do. So...’ he spread his hands wide ‘...please accept my apology.’

  She held his gaze for a long, drawn-out moment. He’d come across the beach to apologise and he seemed sincere...and he’d been nice to Georgie... Could they be friends again? She didn’t know about that, but she could forgive him.

  ‘It’s all right. I shouldn’t have mentioned what happened.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t have been so sensitive. You have every right to resent me for being rude. I only hope that you’ll give me another chance.’

  ‘I don’t resent you.’

  ‘And the second chance?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He gestured towards the lemon bun in her hand. ‘Now that’s settled, are you going to offer me some of that or not? I believe you told your nephew that you’d share.’

  She narrowed her eyes and tore off a chunk. ‘A piece, but that’s all. We’re still acquaintances more than anything else.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the most I can hope for... May I?’ He dropped down on to Georgie’s empty space on the blanket before she could answer. ‘Although you might call me Arthur. You used to.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not so very long. We’re hardly in our dotage yet. How old are you anyway?’

  She shuffled her bottom to the furthest edge of the blanket, but it wasn’t far enough. He was still sitting barely a foot away, close enough that she could feel the body heat emanating through his damp shirt. Could he sense her heat, too? If he could, then he didn’t seem unduly bothered by it, though that was probably because he still thought of her as a child, a kind of little sister at best. Surely the way he was speaking to her proved that. But at least her pulse seemed to be calming slightly.

  ‘A gentleman ought not to ask such a thing of a lady.’ She put particular stress on the last word.

  ‘But I’ve never understood why not. Isn’t honesty the best policy? I’m the grand old age of two-and-thirty, but since I remember you being in the schoolroom, you must be somewhat younger?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  ‘Really? You look older.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In a good way, I might add. Your eyes especially. You have a wise face, Miss Webster.’ He shrugged. ‘That was supposed to be a compliment, only I’m out of practice in making them, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh.’ She turned her face away as he popped the piece of lemon bun into his mouth. ‘In that case, you can call me Frances again, if you want.’

  ‘I do want. This is delicious, by the way.’

  ‘I know. It’s my favourite of all Mrs Botham’s cakes.’

  ‘Have you tried them all?’

  ‘Naturally. What self-respecting aunt would I be if I hadn’t allowed my nephew to sample each one? Under strict supervision, I might add. Georgie and I have done extensive research. It’s between these and the strawberry tarts.’

  ‘Clearly I need to pay a visit to this bakery.’ He frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It’s just hard to imagine you in a cake shop.’

  ‘Why? Doesn’t everyone like cake?’

  ‘It just seems a bit frivolous for you, that’s all.’

  ‘Believe it or not, I can be frivolous on occasion.’

  She looked him up and down sceptically. ‘Give me one example.’

  ‘How about sitting on a picnic blanket eating cake when I ought to be hauling lobster pots into a boat? Is that frivolous enough for you?’

  ‘It’s a start, though I think Whitby society might go into shock if you were seen in Mrs Botham’s drinking tea and eating strawberry tarts.’

  ‘I’ll have to rely on you for supplies then.’ He held her eyes long enough for her pulse to start fluttering again. Most people couldn’t help but look at her scar, but his gaze was steady and unblinking. ‘Maybe you could bring some to Amberton Castle, too. Violet hopes that you’ll visit her again soon.’

  ‘I’d like to, only it’s difficult. I’d need the carriage to travel so far and if I told my mother where I was going then I’d have to explain the acquaintance. She doesn’t know Violet and I have met.’ Not to mention that Lydia would have a tantrum at the very idea...

  ‘Ah...’ he nodded ‘... I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘But I would like to see Violet again. I liked her very much. She and Captain Amberton seem very happy together.’

  ‘They are. Lance is a better husband than I could ever have been.’

  ‘You?’ She blinked. Had he been an option? The idea unsettled her for some reason.

  He nodded. ‘Our fathers wanted the two of us to marry. They even came to a secret agreement about it, around the same time I first met your sister, as it happens. I tried and tried to persuade my father to change his mind, but he wouldn’t listen. Then, after I left, Lance inherited Violet, so to speak. She was just as thrilled by the prospect of an arranged marriage as I’d been, so much so that she tried running away, too, but Lance went after her.’

  ‘And they lived happily ever after?’

  ‘Eventually.’ He sounded pensive. ‘They were lucky.’

  ‘Well, they certainly seem very happy and Amberton Castle is everything I imagined it would be. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Still woefully inadequate as a castle, though.’

  ‘What?’ She drew her brows together as he heaved a pitiful-sounding sigh. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean there’s no moat. Nary a bit of water in sight. You’ve just told your nephew that it was compulsory.’

  ‘Oh...’ She pursed her lips, resisting the urge to laugh. ‘Well, it’s not a bad castle.’

  ‘Just not up to your exacting standards?’

  ‘I can’t help being a perfectionist.’ She gave him a coy look. ‘Perhaps you ought to dig a moat.’

  ‘Perhaps I should. I don’t mind admitting I’m pretty good with a spade.’ He caught her eye and winked. ‘Speaking of which, I have a sty that won’t clean itself, more’s the pity. Pleasant though it would be to sit here all afternoon, I ought to be getting back to work.’

  ‘Yes...’ She gave her head a small shake, trying to banish the strange fuzzy feeling his wink seemed to have caused in her chest. It wasn’t unpleasant exactly, just unexpected. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a warmth in his face she hadn’t seen before and she wasn’t sure how to react to it, only she didn’t want him to notice anything different about her either. She didn’t want him to see any reaction at all, especially since she shouldn’t be feeling one.

  ‘About Lydia...’ She tried to get the conversation back on track. ‘She was disappointed by your answer the other day.’

  ‘She’ll get over it.’

  ‘But if you could just speak to her...’

  ‘No.’ He got up on to his haunches and looked straight at her. ‘Do you picnic here often?’

  ‘Ye-es. Georgie and I come two or three times a week.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Usually.’

  ‘Only I thought I might come back on Friday afternoon. I’d like to have another of those buns, a whole one to myself this time, but since I don’t want to cause a scene by going into the bakery myself, I fear I may be dependent on your good will. In any case, I’ll be here if you decide to give me that second
chance.’ He brushed the sand from his trousers and stood up, though with the sun behind his back she couldn’t make out his expression. ‘Are you sure you can make it back up the hill on that ankle?’

  ‘Perfectly sure.’

  ‘I can carry her if she wants.’ Georgie’s small voice interrupted them.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, young man.’ Arthur gave him an approving nod. ‘In that case, I’ll leave your aunt in your capable hands. Until Friday then, I hope.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘You’re in a good mood.’

  Arthur glanced over his shoulder to find Lance leaning against the side of the pigsty.

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You were whistling.’ His brother’s expression was more than a little inquisitive. ‘I haven’t heard you whistle since we were boys.’

  ‘I’ve decided to take it up again.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I needed one.’

  He stopped shovelling and rested an arm on the top of his spade. He was hardly going to admit that he’d been thinking about Frances. That afternoon had been the fourth in a row he’d gone looking for her and he’d been pleased and relieved by his eventual success. Firstly, because he’d wanted to apologise to her for his behaviour at Amberton Castle and, secondly, because he’d needed to work out why he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Ever since that afternoon when she’d appeared like some kind of apparition in his hallway he’d been finding it harder and harder to concentrate.

  At first he’d wondered if it was because of Lydia, worrying that the old, weak part of him might be drawn to her because of their physical resemblance, yet the moment he’d laid eyes on Frances sitting on the beach, he’d known that that wasn’t true. He’d wanted to see her and after half an hour spent in her company, the urge had only slightly diminished. All he knew now was that he wanted to see her again and soon. Neither of which details he intended to share with his brother.

  ‘What are you doing here, Lance?’

  ‘Looking for you. I came by after lunch, as if happens, but there was no sign of you. I presumed you were off sowing seeds or something.’