‘I don’t know yet, but he can’t refuse to see me for ever. I’ll find a way.’
‘But he said that he doesn’t want to see you.’ She didn’t know how much plainer she could make it...
‘For now,’ Lydia pouted, ‘but we’ll see about that.’
‘If you say so.’
Frances lifted Georgie off her knee and stood up, struck by a vague sense of foreboding. She was starting to wonder whether Arthur’s blunt refusal to see Lydia was only making her sister more determined, provoking some contrary side of her character. Perhaps it would be better if he did meet with her after all. If he behaved as badly as he had the other night, then Lydia might actually be glad to relinquish the idea of marrying him. As it was, Frances had the discomforting feeling that her sister’s interest was beginning to border on obsession...
‘Where are you going?’ Lydia looked up at her absently.
‘Down to the beach. It’s a lovely afternoon and my ankle’s feeling much better.’
‘Oh...that’s good. In that case, would you mind taking Georgie for some fresh air? I thought I might make some calls.’
‘Calls?’
‘Yes, calls! I’m allowed to visit a few people, aren’t I? As long as they’re old and married and boring!’
Frances narrowed her eyes speculatively. ‘You won’t do anything foolish, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ Lydia sounded impatient. ‘I know perfectly well what I’m doing.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ Frances sighed and took hold of her nephew’s hand. ‘Come on, Georgie.’
The tide was almost at its lowest ebb, a good thirty yards from the cliff by the time they made their way down the slope of the promenade to the shore, Georgie toddling ahead with a bucket and spade clutched in his chubby hands. Frances had told his nurse to take the afternoon off so it was just her and him and a vast, unspoilt expanse of beach waiting to be decorated with sandcastles and seashell palaces, the way she liked it. The weather was beautiful, too, one of those rare days when the sea was almost perfectly flat, so smooth that she could see the wakes left by the vessels and the sky bright and cloudless, with barely a trace of breeze to spoil the perfect mirror-shine of the water. It all looked so lovely that she felt a rush of sympathy for Lydia, trapped indoors in her mourning, but at least she and Georgie could still make the most of it.
She pulled her veil back to admire the view, enjoying the kiss of the sun on her skin. Georgie was used to her scar so he wasn’t alarmed by the sight, and everyone else was either too busy or too far away to notice her. There were only a scattering of people anyway, just a few nursemaids and children, as well as a group of fishermen loading lobster pots into a boat on the shore.
‘Picnic first?’
She spread a blanket over the sand and opened her basket to reveal two lemon buns, fresh from Mrs Botham’s. The bakery had opened in Whitby seven years before and been an instant success, not least with Georgie who tucked straight into his bun with relish. Frances took a hearty mouthful as well, licking her lips to make sure she didn’t lose any of the icing, and then stopped, struck by a strange, tingling sensation, as if something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the cake or Georgie. It was more like an awareness, as if somebody was watching her...
She looked up, straight into the eyes of one of the fishermen. And he wasn’t just looking at her, she realised in alarm. He was saying goodbye to his companions and striding purposely up the beach in their direction as well, pulling his cap off to reveal a head of close-cropped hair that she recognised at once.
She swallowed her mouthful of cake with a gulp. He must have been splashed by the waves because he looked conspicuously damp, his half-open shirt moulded to his chest and arms so that she could see the sculpted contours of the muscles beneath—of which, she couldn’t help but notice, there were many. Even more than she’d appreciated the first time in his hallway. More than she ought to be staring at, especially when she wasn’t wearing a veil. And it was too late for her to pull it down without him noticing!
‘Miss Webster.’
He stopped in front of her, inclining his head slightly though his expression was just as stern as it had been when she’d last seen him standing on the doorstep of Amberton Castle the week before. Apparently neither his mood nor his manners had improved since.
‘Lord Scorborough.’
‘Might I enquire after your ankle?’
‘You might.’ She thrust her chin out belligerently. As answers went, it wasn’t very polite, but she felt stubbornly determined to pay him back in kind. Even if her pulse just seemed to have trebled its usual speed.
‘I hope it’s feeling better.’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ He nodded slowly, as if he were trying to think of something else to say. ‘You managed to walk down here by yourself then?’
‘Yes, except for my nephew here.’ She gestured warily to the little boy sitting beside her. Being rude to her was one thing, but if he was rude to Georgie...
‘So this young man is your escort?’ To her surprise, his expression actually seemed to soften as he crouched down in front of them. ‘Young Master Baird, I presume?’
The boy made a confused face and she had to stifle a laugh. ‘He prefers George.’