The Viscount’s Veiled Lady

‘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 The animated glow had been replaced by an air of defiant and yet pervasive sadness.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.’