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.