‘Viscount, sailor, farmer, philosopher...’ His eyes sparked with humour, though his expression remained serious. ‘I’m not trying to belittle the first shell, but true beauty comes from within, from what something is, not simply how it appears. Maybe true beauty needs to be tested and weathered, to prove itself through all the tempests that life can throw at it.’ He looked faintly sheepish. ‘That’s what I’ve come to believe anyway.’
‘But perhaps you’re not being fair to the first shell either.’ She drew her brows together. Despite the warm glow his words gave her, as metaphors went, they felt downright disloyal. ‘Maybe it just hasn’t had a chance to prove itself yet. Besides, the shells didn’t ask to be compared. They were just lying there together on the sand.’
‘True.’ The look in his eyes seemed to grow warmer. ‘Then shall we say they’re both beautiful in different ways?’
‘Yes.’ She gave a soft sigh, feeling as though a weight were being lifted from her heart, even if it was all too good to be true. It was all very well claiming such idealistic sentiments with her, but would he say the same thing if it were Lydia sitting beside him? Or would he be dazzled again? And how would she know until he was actually in the same room as her sister again? And yet, he seemed to mean what he said... And he was adamant about not wanting to see Lydia...
‘Do you really think that anyone can be beautiful?’ She couldn’t help herself from asking the question.
‘If they are on the inside, then, yes, I really do.’
‘Even if they have a scar on one side of their face?’
‘Frances.’ He put the shells aside and reached for her face instead, cradling her cheeks between his fingers. ‘I just told you, I hardly notice it any more. I only see you.’
She felt her heart leap and realised that she was holding her breath. His fingers were warm on her skin, though she could feel the callouses on them as well. They were what made him beautiful, too, she thought. Or handsome at any rate. Very handsome, especially now, sitting beside her on the blanket as if he were perfectly content in her company. He’d been tested as she had, too, though she still didn’t know his whole story, only pieces of it. He’d told her that he didn’t find it easy to talk about his past, but then neither did she. And she wanted to know his story. Even though his face was only a few inches from hers and his amber eyes were smouldering with an intensity she sensed was reflected in hers, too.
‘Arthur.’ She blinked deliberately, pulling her head back as his own moved infinitesimally towards her. ‘What happened to you?’
Chapter Eleven
Arthur heaved a deep breath, bracing himself to answer. With his hands on her cheeks, he couldn’t see Frances’s scar at all. It made her look quite uncannily like her sister, though the thought hadn’t occurred to him until that precise moment. Metaphorical shells aside, he certainly hadn’t been thinking about Lydia.
They’d been having a pleasant afternoon, or so he’d thought. He’d been enjoying himself, just as he’d enjoyed himself every afternoon he’d spent in her company over the past three weeks, and not just because of the cake. He’d enjoyed talking, sitting, watching, just being with her, but now the fact that she wanted to know what had happened six years ago made him feel as if storm clouds had suddenly appeared overhead.
It had been hard enough hearing the story of her broken engagement. It wasn’t just what had happened that bothered him, though that had made him angry enough. It was simply the idea that she’d been engaged at all, to a man she must have cared about, even if she’d been disillusioned fairly quickly. Not that it ought to bother him, he chided himself. After all, he had a former fiancée, too—her own sister, of all people!—but still, hypocrite as he was, it did.
He hadn’t been particularly well acquainted with Leo Fairfax, though he remembered him clearly enough. Tall, athletic and, in retrospect, annoyingly good looking with blond hair and blue eyes that made him look like a Greek hero. He and Frances together must have made a strikingly attractive couple before... He stopped himself from completing the thought. It seemed disloyal somehow to imply that she wasn’t attractive any more when she definitely was. Not in her own eyes, perhaps, but certainly in his...
Even the way she’d been savouring her lemon bun had been altogether too distracting. So much so that he’d been contemplating a swim in the bracingly cold waters of the North Sea
before returning home. It was a strange sensation altogether, this feeling of being drawn to a woman again. Strange and vaguely alarming, as if he were losing some part of his hard-won independence.
For a while he’d assumed that the feeling was simply desire. He’d made a point of looking at other women to see whether they provoked the same reaction, but they didn’t. Inconvenient as it was to find himself drawn to his former fiancée’s own sister, he didn’t find any of them half so attractive as Frances. And inconvenient wasn’t a remotely strong enough word. He didn’t want to be attracted to her. It would be much easier if he could see her as the girl he remembered, a bright-eyed young woman with a happy face and a welcoming smile, nothing more.
He’d always liked her, but now he was starting to like her a little too much for comfort. She’d told him the story of her accident in a matter-of-fact way and yet he’d sensed the anguish behind every word. He admired her strength, though it was obvious her emotional scars ran as deep as the one on her face. Still, her bravery and resilience impressed him. They made him want to be stronger, too. He felt drawn to her on some profound, soulful level. She wasn’t the kind of woman who would lie or betray him. And so here he was, cupping her face in his hands, wondering whether she might feel the same way, whether she might want to be kissed as much as he wanted to kiss her, and this was the moment she chose to ask about his past.
He couldn’t have asked for a clearer answer than that.
‘It’s a long story.’ He pulled his fingers away from her cheeks, unable to resist tucking a stray tendril of hair behind one ear before he finally let go.
‘I’ve told you mine.’ Her voice sounded faintly breathless, though the intensity of her gaze didn’t falter. She looked serious, but sympathetic, too, as if she were trying to draw the story out by sheer force of will.
‘So you did.’ He resisted the urge to touch her again. The rest of her hair was coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck and he found himself itching to unravel it. ‘Did it make you feel better?’
‘A little. It’s never pleasant reliving any painful experience, but it was a long time ago.’
‘So was mine, though in some ways I feel as if it was last week. What happened, what I did to my father, that’s a burden I carry with me every day.’
‘If you don’t want to tell me...’
‘I don’t, but you were honest with me. I owe you the same in return.’
He pulled one knee up and rested his forearm on top, wondering where to begin as he watched Georgie dig a second line of moats around their sandcastles. Had he ever been as young and carefree as that? Perhaps, a long time ago, though he had little memory of it now.
‘My father was a difficult man.’ He started talking almost unconsciously. ‘As far as I can remember, he always was. Even when Lance and I were boys he never smiled or played or spent any time with us unless he was forced to. He was cold and remote, but our mother made up for it. She was the complete opposite, kind and gentle and loving. We adored her, but then she died when we were eleven.’
‘I’m sorry. What happened?’