Читать книгу The Viscount’s Veiled Lady - Jenni Fletcher - Страница 13

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.’

‘Press-ganging?’ He lifted an eyebrow, but she ignored the sarcasm, spurring her horse a few steps closer to confront him.

‘If you were picked up by a fishing boat, then why didn’t you come home straight away?’

‘I just told you.’ The eyebrow lowered again, joining its companion in a heavy, black line as his expression seemed to harden. ‘I told you I didn’t want to come home. I wanted to be lost at sea for a while.’

‘So you deliberately abandoned your ship to join the crew of a fishing boat?’

‘Something like that.’

‘What about Lydia? You were engaged. Why didn’t you want to come back to her?’

‘I had a feeling she’d be all right. And she was, wasn’t she?’

Frances felt a momentary misgiving. There was a taunting edge to his voice, almost as if he knew the truth about Lydia’s other flirtations and was daring her to contradict him. But she had to. For the sake of sisterly loyalty, she had to.

‘She mourned for you.’

‘Yet it took her less than a week to engage herself to another man.’

‘Ye-es.’ She winced inwardly. There was no denying that part, though she’d hoped he hadn’t known about it. ‘But that doesn’t mean she didn’t care.’

‘Doesn’t it? Would you forget a man so quickly, Miss Webster? Presuming you truly loved him in the first place, that is?’

‘No.’ She found herself averting her gaze despite the presence of her veil between them. ‘But Lydia isn’t someone who can be on her own.’

‘So I noticed. In fact, it was just about the last thing I noticed before I left.’

‘What?’ Her eyes shot back to his face. ‘You mean you knew about John Baird?’

His lips twisted into something resembling a sneer. ‘Not Baird, no. The man I saw her with was much younger.’

‘Oh, yes, how silly of me, I meant...’

‘Don’t lie for her, Miss Webster, and don’t feel bad for me either. I’m glad to know I wasn’t the only man she was stringing along, though just out of interest, how many men was she secretly engaged to?’

Frances lifted her chin, resenting the accusation no matter how fair it was. ‘You were the only one.’

‘So she just kept a few suitors in reserve?’ He gave a cynical-sounding laugh. ‘A wise precaution as it turned out.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’

‘If you say so, though it hardly matters any more.’ He turned his horse about, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks. ‘In any case, I’d prefer that we kept this conversation between ourselves. Now come on, we don’t want to be late.’