The Viscount's Veiled Lady (Whitby Weddings 3)

In any case, there was a long way between liking and loving. When she was younger she’d always expected to marry for love. She’d convinced herself that she cared for Leo, ignoring the self-centred, shallow side of his character simply because she’d wanted a love story and not a marriage of convenience, but deep down, she’d known it hadn’t been real. Was she making the same mistake with Arthur? Ignoring his dark side simply because she didn’t want to see it?

No. Despite everything, her lips curled at the thought. She knew all about Arthur’s dark side. After just a couple of months, she knew it, knew him, better than she knew almost anyone else in the world and she still liked him. More than that, she loved him.

She let her arm fall to her side again, struck by the force of her sudden conviction. She loved him. Surely that was the other reason, besides friendship, why she’d run headlong along the beach to rescue him, faster than she’d ever run before, so fast that she’d thought her lungs might burst. It was because she hadn’t wanted anyone else to marry him, but what if—her breath stalled in her throat suddenly—what if he might have preferred to be caught with Lydia? After all, she hadn’t overheard any of their conversation. She didn’t even know how long they’d been talking. What if Lydia had been right and ten minutes with her had changed his mind? What if one glimpse at her sister’s face had undone the bitterness of the past six years and made him forget her completely? It was one thing to rescue a man when he needed rescuing. Quite another to interrupt a romantic reunion, possibly even a proposal. Her unexpected arrival had forced him into offering for her instead, but what if, given the choice, he would have chosen Lydia? What if she’d made a terrible mistake and he hadn’t wanted to be rescued at all?

She dropped her face into her hands, cheeks flaming with mortification. Was that what she’d done? Because if she’d ruined things between Arthur and Lydia, then she’d have to put them right again. She’d refuse to marry him if it came to it. She wouldn’t marry a man who loved somebody else, especially her own sister...

She still hadn’t spoken to Lydia about any of it. One look at her expression across the breakfast table that morning had put paid to the idea. She hadn’t looked angry exactly, only silent and aloof, refusing to meet her gaze no matter how many times she’d asked for the marmalade. It was clear that her sister was in no mood for talking to her about anything, which meant that the only other option was to speak with Arthur himself. Which was easier said than done. He’d said that he’d call soon, but her father had made it clear that a private conversation was out of the question. In which case, who could she ask what was going on?

‘Ah, there you are.’ Her mother swept into the room suddenly, wearing a navy-and-lavender-striped-taffeta day dress. ‘Come along.’

‘Hmmm?’ She looked up in surprise. ‘Where?’

‘I thought we might do a little shopping. Then perhaps we’ll get some lunch, too.’

‘I don’t know, Mama, I’m not really in the mood...’

‘Oh, do come along. It’s been for ever since we went shopping together and you’ll need some nice things now you’re engaged. There’s no need to wear full mourning any longer.’ She gestured at her own gown. ‘We can make a start on your trousseau.’

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nbsp; ‘Already?’ Frances felt a fresh rush of panic. If she started to make a trousseau, then it was as good as admitting her marriage was going ahead. ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?’

‘Not at all. Your father and I think it would be a good idea for you to be seen out buying wedding clothes—’ her mother gave her a knowing look ‘—just to squash any rumours.’

‘Oh.’ She bit down on her bottom lip anxiously. ‘Do you really think that people will be talking about me?’

‘Of course!’ Her mother laughed. ‘Amelia Kitt is a dear girl, but she’s never been remotely capable of holding her tongue. She’ll have made sure that everyone in Whitby knows about your engagement by now.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘There’s no need to look so anxious about it. Personally I think things have worked out rather well.’ Her mother walked across to the window and peered through the net curtains. ‘I admit it all seemed a bit strange to me at first, but then I remembered the way Arthur looked at you when you were dancing the other day, like a man entranced. It’s funny, at the time I thought the two of you seemed quite familiar, almost as if you were already well acquainted, but then I knew you couldn’t be since he’s such a famous recluse.’

‘Mmmm.’ Frances shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

‘Then I had the most enlightening conversation with Georgie this morning.’ Her mother straightened the curtains again. ‘Although that still doesn’t explain what you were doing at his farm yesterday.’

‘Mama...’

‘And you know, it also struck me as odd that both you and Lydia rushed there after lunch, separately, too. You in particular must have hurried to get there so quickly on foot.’

This time she didn’t bother to say anything.

‘Not to mention the fact that whoever sent your sister that warning note must also have known she went to Amelia Kitt’s first because nobody called here to ask... But there it is. Some mysteries can’t be explained, I suppose.’ Her mother gave a sophic-looking smile. ‘And sometimes a bit of guesswork is all that’s required.’

‘Has Papa guessed, too?’

‘Gracious, no. Your father deals in facts and figures, my darling. I love him dearly, but imagination has never been his strong suit. Now, shall we go?’

Frances pushed herself up off the sofa. Shopping was the very last thing she wanted to do, but it looked as though her mother wasn’t going to take no for an answer and she supposed it was better than lying around worrying.

* * *

It took her less than an hour to change her mind. Two more before they were finally free of the dressmaker’s and on to the milliner’s. By the time three hours had passed Frances was starting to fear that their shopping expedition would never end. She was tired of being measured, of being looked up and down and told what colours would suit her, not to mention overwhelmed by the vast selection of fabrics and designs. If she’d been certain about what her future entailed, then she might have made some attempt to enjoy herself, but as it was she could only feel a sick sense of guilt in case her trousseau proved unnecessary after all. At least her mother seemed to be having a good time, throwing herself into the task with enthusiasm by ordering half-a-dozen new day dresses and a ballgown despite Frances’s best attempts to restrain her.

They arrived home mid-afternoon, laden with an impressive selection of gloves, shoes, bonnets and assorted undergarments. Under other circumstances, Frances thought she would have been impressed by her mother’s attention to detail. As it was, she wasn’t sure where she was going to store everything.

‘Well, I think that was a very productive day, don’t you?’ Her mother pulled off her coat with a sigh. ‘I’m exhausted.’