The Viscount's Veiled Lady (Whitby Weddings 3)

‘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 h

e 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?’

‘Of course. We were friends.’

‘A long time ago. A lot’s happened since then.’