The Viscount's Veiled Lady

by Jenni Fletcher

  ‘Using?’

  ‘Anything I can find. Darning needles, hairpins, things like that. I have some miniature chisels and files, too.’

  ‘Then you polish?’

  ‘Yes, with jeweller’s rouge mixed with paraffin and linseed oil, only I have to be careful since it stains so easily. I’ve turned my hands red a few times.’

  ‘Red?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why the men in the workshops are called red devils.’

  ‘Huh, I’d never thought of that. But how do you cut such a hard stone in the first place?’

  ‘With a grinding wheel.’

  ‘Which you just happen to have in your bedroom, I suppose?’

  She gave him an arch look. ‘No, I take my pieces to Thorpe’s workshop in the harbour. They do all the cutting and grinding for me.’

  ‘They don’t think it’s something of an odd request from a young lady?’

  ‘No. I asked Mr Thorpe and he agreed.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She took a bite of her lemon bun, stalling for time before she answered. She didn’t talk about her accident very often—never, in fact—but she could hardly explain her arrangement with Mr Thorpe without mentioning it. Strangely enough, however, she didn’t feel particular anxious about telling Arthur. To her surprise, a part of her actually wanted to tell him.

  ‘Mr Thorpe thinks that he owes me a debt. He doesn’t, but I’m glad for his help anyway. You see, that was where my accident happened, in his workshop.’

  ‘A jet workshop?’ Arthur drew his brows together.

  ‘Yes. You see, a grinding wheel revolves about nine hundred times a minute. It needs a lot of water and sometimes the stone cracks under the pressure.’

  ‘That’s what happened?’

  She nodded. ‘I was standing next to the grinding wheel when a piece splintered off and hit me in the face. Right here.’ She pointed to the arch of her cheekbone. ‘I was lucky it missed my eye.’

  He looked sombre for a moment and then reached a hand up. ‘May I?’

  ‘If you want.’ She nodded, fighting the instinct to retreat as he pressed his fingers against the damaged skin.

  ‘Did it hurt?’ His voice sounded softer.

  ‘Very much at the time.’ Her mouth turned dry as his thumb trailed a path down the side of her face. Apart from her mother and the doctor, no one else had ever touched her scar. ‘But not any more. Except sometimes, when I sleep on that side, it wakes me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ His brows were drawn together so tightly he looked almost fierce. ‘What were you doing so close to a grinding wheel? Accidents like that shouldn’t happen.’

  ‘But they do, far more often than they should. It’s a dangerous process, but we shouldn’t have been there in the first place.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her heart started to race all of a sudden. ‘My fiancé took me.’

  Chapter Ten

  Frances tipped her head to one side so that Arthur’s hand fell away from her face. For some reason, she didn’t want him to still be touching her when she told him about Leo.

  ‘You were engaged?’ His expression didn’t alter though his gaze seemed to darken.

  ‘Yes, for all of a month. It was several years ago.’

  ‘Who to?’

  ‘Leo Fairfax.’

  ‘Fairfax?’

  ‘Yes.’ She blinked at the sudden strident tone of his voice. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘Well, we were engaged. I was only seventeen, but it was a very good match. Everyone said so. His father was a merchant like mine.’

  ‘So it wasn’t a love match?’

  ‘No-o...’ she hesitated ‘...although I tried to persuade myself otherwise. I was young and I still believed in romance, but really it was all arranged.’ She swallowed, feeling as though there were a knot in her chest that was tightening as she spoke. ‘He knew all about my interests, though he called them my funny little hobbies just like everyone else. We got engaged very quickly, too quickly, but it made my parents happy, and then...well, he decided it would be fun for us to visit a jet workshop on my birthday. Mr Thorpe didn’t want to let us in, but Leo insisted. We were only there five minutes before it happened.’ The knot was painfully tight now, but she fought against it. ‘I think perhaps the boy at the wheel was nervous about us standing so close, but it was an accident. I didn’t blame him, but Leo...’

  He lifted an eyebrow when she faltered. ‘He did?’

  ‘Yes.’ She swallowed. ‘He blamed everyone except himself. Poor Mr Thorpe was horrified by what had happened, the poor man, but at least he had the good sense to summon a doctor. Leo wanted a policeman instead. He just stood there ranting, threatening to prosecute everyone, but I refused to allow it. That was the beginning of the end for our engagement.’

  ‘Surely he didn’t break it off because you disagreed with him?’

  ‘Oh, no, I was the one who broke it off. To my mother’s enduring dismay, I might add. It wasn’t because we argued either. He was just so horrified by my scar, so much that he could barely stand to look at me. I think he was trying to find a way to break our engagement without seeming dishonourable, but in the end the whole situation became too embarrassing for both of us. He was relieved when I offered him a way out.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’ She looked up at him in surprise. ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it.’

  ‘I’m still sorry it happened to you.’

  ‘But if it hadn’t then I’d be married to a man who never really loved me and who valued my appearance more than he did my self. How could I have ever been happy with a man like that?’

  He lifted his chin, holding her gaze in stony-sounding silence for a few moments before muttering a string of particularly vehement swear words.

  ‘Arthur!’ She didn’t know whether to be shocked or to burst out laughing. ‘Georgie might hear you.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He looked unrepentant. ‘But Fairfax deserves them.’

  ‘I know. Twice over!’ She opted for laughter. ‘I didn’t say you were wrong.’

  ‘How can you be so cheerful about it?’

  ‘Because it is how it is. Wishing it were otherwise won’t do any good and I still have my sight. If I’d lost that, then I wouldn’t have been able to paint or make jewellery or do any of the things I love. And in a funny way, it’s given me more freedom than most women. Nobody expects me to marry or follow the rules any more. The ordinary rules don’t apply because I’m different, or at least people see me differently. Even my parents do. If my accident hadn’t happened, then I couldn’t devote so much time to my art. I wouldn’t be able to come to the beach like this without a chaperon. I wouldn’t be able to...’

  She stopped mid-sentence. She’d been about to say that she wouldn’t have been able to come and meet him, but she couldn’t say that without implying too much about her feelings and she didn’t understand those herself. She and Arthur were friends now, sort of, but that was all. Even if, in some ways, they felt like kindred spirits. Their meetings on the beach were a kind of escape from the real world, a place outside rules and conventions and judgements, one where they could both be themselves. Or at least that was the way it seemed to her.

  ‘What I mean is that now I’m free. Leo’s rejection hurt, but I’m a realist now. I know what people think when they see me and I know who really cares about me. I’ve learned the hard way, but at least I know.’

  She leaned back on her elbows. Although whether that last statement was entirely true... She’d found out how much Leo cared about her, but what about her family? They’d all made a point of saying how much they still loved her and yet it was her parents who’d first suggested she wear a veil out of doors. They never insisted on her accompanying them to socia
l events either, letting her wander wherever she liked instead, in stark contrast to Lydia. Could they really still love her if they were so embarrassed by her?

  ‘Not all men are the same.’ Arthur’s tone was gruff as he lay down beside her, folding both arms behind his head.

  Frances took one look and sat up again quickly. It felt too intimate, lying side by side on a blanket with only a three-year-old as chaperon. ‘I think a lot of men would have reacted like Leo.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we’re not all so shallow.’

  ‘You fell in love with Lydia.’

  She could have bitten her tongue out the moment the words were out of her mouth. They sounded bitter and jealous and faintly accusing even to her. Instead, she wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling chilly all of a sudden.

  ‘So I did.’ She sensed rather than saw his face turn towards her. ‘But not just because of her looks. Or do you think I’m so superficial?’

  ‘No, but I think men value physical beauty more than women do.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they can’t admire other attributes, too. Things that often outweigh it.’ His tone shifted abruptly. ‘On the other hand, maybe you’re right. Maybe I was that shallow once. Maybe I was so dazzled by your sister’s beauty that I saw what I wanted to see in her character.’

  ‘Lydia has a lot of good qualities,’ she answered defensively.

  ‘Perhaps, but I’m not sure I ever got close enough to find out. I admit I was flattered by her attention, by the fact that she favoured me, but she was always surrounded by other admirers. I thought that I loved her, but when I look back, there were so few times when we actually talked. I’m not sure I ever had more than a dozen private conversations with her.’

  ‘Lydia said you had to keep your engagement a secret until you could convince your father to accept her.’

  ‘True, but we still could have talked once in a while. I thought so anyway, but she always kept me at a distance, as if she were afraid of getting to know me. We were engaged for three years, but at the end of it, I barely knew her.’

  Frances didn’t answer, couldn’t even think of an answer, as she watched Georgie start work on another sandcastle. It didn’t sound like Lydia to be shy, but then in retrospect, perhaps Arthur was right. She’d spent more time talking with him than her sister ever had. What did that say about Lydia’s real feelings for him?

  ‘Maybe it’s simply a matter of time and perspective. Take these two shells, for example.’ Arthur pushed himself upright again, scooping up a couple of shells from the sand. ‘One is smooth and shiny and catches the eye. The other is rough with jagged edges. Which is the more beautiful? The answer seems obvious at first, the shiny one, but the longer you look at the rough one, the more you start to notice other, more interesting features about it. Look at the intricate pattern here on the underside. Look at all the dints and scratches. You can tell that this shell has been through a lot. It’s been beaten and battered by the sea, but it’s still strong and resilient and captivating in its own way. It’s a less obvious beauty, but it’s still beautiful none the less.’

  She found herself leaning sideways, leaning across him to peer at the shells in his hand. ‘But you still think the smooth one is the most attractive?’

  ‘Objectively, yes. It has all the qualities that we’re supposed to admire. It’s smooth and regular and a good size. But since I’ve come to admire other, less tangible qualities, I prefer the second.’

  ‘So beauty’s in the eye of the beholder? Are you a philosopher now?’

  ‘Viscount, sailor, farmer, philosopher...’ His eyes sparked with humour, though his expression remained serious. ‘I’m not trying to belittle the first shell, but true beauty comes from within, from what something is, not simply how it appears. Maybe true beauty needs to be tested and weathered, to prove itself through all the tempests that life can throw at it.’ He looked faintly sheepish. ‘That’s what I’ve come to believe anyway.’

  ‘But perhaps you’re not being fair to the first shell either.’ She drew her brows together. Despite the warm glow his words gave her, as metaphors went, they felt downright disloyal. ‘Maybe it just hasn’t had a chance to prove itself yet. Besides, the shells didn’t ask to be compared. They were just lying there together on the sand.’

  ‘True.’ The look in his eyes seemed to grow warmer. ‘Then shall we say they’re both beautiful in different ways?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gave a soft sigh, feeling as though a weight were being lifted from her heart, even if it was all too good to be true. It was all very well claiming such idealistic sentiments with her, but would he say the same thing if it were Lydia sitting beside him? Or would he be dazzled again? And how would she know until he was actually in the same room as her sister again? And yet, he seemed to mean what he said... And he was adamant about not wanting to see Lydia...

  ‘Do you really think that anyone can be beautiful?’ She couldn’t help herself from asking the question.

  ‘If they are on the inside, then, yes, I really do.’

  ‘Even if they have a scar on one side of their face?’

  ‘Frances.’ He put the shells aside and reached for her face instead, cradling her cheeks between his fingers. ‘I just told you, I hardly notice it any more. I only see you.’

  She felt her heart leap and realised that she was holding her breath. His fingers were warm on her skin, though she could feel the callouses on them as well. They were what made him beautiful, too, she thought. Or handsome at any rate. Very handsome, especially now, sitting beside her on the blanket as if he were perfectly content in her company. He’d been tested as she had, too, though she still didn’t know his whole story, only pieces of it. He’d told her that he didn’t find it easy to talk about his past, but then neither did she. And she wanted to know his story. Even though his face was only a few inches from hers and his amber eyes were smouldering with an intensity she sensed was reflected in hers, too.

  ‘Arthur.’ She blinked deliberately, pulling her head back as his own moved infinitesimally towards her. ‘What happened to you?’

  Chapter Eleven

  Arthur heaved a deep breath, bracing himself to answer. With his hands on her cheeks, he couldn’t see Frances’s scar at all. It made her look quite uncannily like her sister, though the thought hadn’t occurred to him until that precise moment. Metaphorical shells aside, he certainly hadn’t been thinking about Lydia.

  They’d been having a pleasant afternoon, or so he’d thought. He’d been enjoying himself, just as he’d enjoyed himself every afternoon he’d spent in her company over the past three weeks, and not just because of the cake. He’d enjoyed talking, sitting, watching, just being with her, but now the fact that she wanted to know what had happened six years ago made him feel as if storm clouds had suddenly appeared overhead.

  It had been hard enough hearing the story of her broken engagement. It wasn’t just what had happened that bothered him, though that had made him angry enough. It was simply the idea that she’d been engaged at all, to a man she must have cared about, even if she’d been disillusioned fairly quickly. Not that it ought to bother him, he chided himself. After all, he had a former fiancée, too—her own sister, of all people!—but still, hypocrite as he was, it did.

  He hadn’t been particularly well acquainted with Leo Fairfax, though he remembered him clearly enough. Tall, athletic and, in retrospect, annoyingly good looking with blond hair and blue eyes that made him look like a Greek hero. He and Frances together must have made a strikingly attractive couple before... He stopped himself from completing the thought. It seemed disloyal somehow to imply that she wasn’t attractive any more when she definitely was. Not in her own eyes, perhaps, but certainly in his...

  Even the way she’d been savouring her lemon bun had been altogether too distracting. So much so that he’d been contemplating a swim in the bracingly cold waters of the North Sea
before returning home. It was a strange sensation altogether, this feeling of being drawn to a woman again. Strange and vaguely alarming, as if he were losing some part of his hard-won independence.

  For a while he’d assumed that the feeling was simply desire. He’d made a point of looking at other women to see whether they provoked the same reaction, but they didn’t. Inconvenient as it was to find himself drawn to his former fiancée’s own sister, he didn’t find any of them half so attractive as Frances. And inconvenient wasn’t a remotely strong enough word. He didn’t want to be attracted to her. It would be much easier if he could see her as the girl he remembered, a bright-eyed young woman with a happy face and a welcoming smile, nothing more.

  He’d always liked her, but now he was starting to like her a little too much for comfort. She’d told him the story of her accident in a matter-of-fact way and yet he’d sensed the anguish behind every word. He admired her strength, though it was obvious her emotional scars ran as deep as the one on her face. Still, her bravery and resilience impressed him. They made him want to be stronger, too. He felt drawn to her on some profound, soulful level. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would lie or betray him. And so here he was, cupping her face in his hands, wondering whether she might feel the same way, whether she might want to be kissed as much as he wanted to kiss her, and this was the moment she chose to ask about his past.

  He couldn’t have asked for a clearer answer than that.

  ‘It’s a long story.’ He pulled his fingers away from her cheeks, unable to resist tucking a stray tendril of hair behind one ear before he finally let go.

  ‘I’ve told you mine.’ Her voice sounded faintly breathless, though the intensity of her gaze didn’t falter. She looked serious, but sympathetic, too, as if she were trying to draw the story out by sheer force of will.

  ‘So you did.’ He resisted the urge to touch her again. The rest of her hair was coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck and he found himself itching to unravel it. ‘Did it make you feel better?’