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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 (#ud4e05c63-852b-582b-a900-a9e73873fa77)
‘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?’
