‘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.’
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