frightened. Still, he couldn’t just abandon her there, no matter how much they might both prefer it.
‘Come on. You’re not walking anywhere on that ankle.’
‘What...?’ Her voice rose in alarm as he curled one arm beneath her knees and the other about her shoulders. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing to sound so shrill about.’ He lifted her up, liberally splattering his new clean clothes with mud as he carried her back the way that they’d come. ‘I’m taking you inside so that I can bind that ankle.’
‘I can walk!’
‘No, you can’t. You could try, but you’d probably break something.’
‘I won’t...’
‘Believe me, I’m not thrilled by the prospect either, but I don’t think either of us has a choice.’ He kicked open the farmhouse door and carried her back through the hall to the kitchen, a curious-looking Meg trotting alongside as he deposited her in a tattered-looking armchair by the range and then reached up on to a shelf for some bandages. ‘There. Now, what did you want with Scorborough?’
‘It’s private.’
‘Private business with a viscount? Sounds intriguing.’
He deposited a roll of bandages on to the table with a thud. Her voice was still muffled by the veil and he had to fight the urge to tear it away. Wasn’t she ever going to remove the blasted thing, even indoors? He might not have been in polite society for a while, but surely his appearance wasn’t so shocking? At least not so much that ladies felt the need to cover their faces at the sight of him. He rubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. Just how fearsome exactly did he look?
‘It’s nothing like that!’ She sounded indignant.
‘Really?’
He folded his arms again, a new suspicion taking shape in his mind. Despite his somewhat chequered personal history, he was still a viscount and society still considered him a prize catch. He’d endured a number of probing visits from ambitious, matchmaking parents when he’d first moved into the farm, though thankfully they’d stopped when he hadn’t returned the calls. The sight of him in his farm clothes might have had something to do with it, too, he supposed, but perhaps this woman was simply more determined than the rest.
‘Really!’
She sounded so genuinely offended by the suggestion that he almost believed her. Almost. But he’d believed a woman once before and look where that had got him. He knew firsthand what good actresses women could be.
‘Yet here you are, wearing a veil over your face and visiting a gentleman’s house without any kind of chaperon? Forgive my scepticism, but to most minds that would suggest something of a personal nature.’
‘How could it be personal when I thought I had the wrong house? I haven’t even seen Arthur in six years!’
‘Arthur?’ He quirked an eyebrow in surprise. The way she said his name suggested they were already acquainted.
‘Yes.’ The veil face tipped downwards as if in embarrassment. ‘But it’s not illicit at all. I only came to deliver a message. He has no idea that I’m here.’
‘On the contrary.’ He drew up a stool and placed it in front of her, sitting down with one arm draped over his knees. ‘He’s fully aware of the fact. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Scorborough.’
‘Arthur?’ The veiled face leaned closer towards him. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’
He shrugged. ‘If it’s been six years, then I imagine you wouldn’t, but now it seems you have the advantage. You say that we’ve met?’
‘Yes, many times.’ Her voice sounded almost excited now. Somehow that made it sound even more familiar...
‘And you have a message for me?’
‘Ye-es.’ The excitement dissipated in one word. ‘It’s from my sister. Lydia Baird.’
He stiffened, all of his muscles tensing at once. Hearing the name, so suddenly out of the blue, felt as shocking as if he’d just been hit hard in the face. He could happily have lived out the rest of his days without ever hearing it again, but apparently that was too much to hope for, even in the privacy of his own home. Lydia Webster, as she was then, the woman he’d been secretly engaged to, who he’d been prepared to sacrifice everything for, who’d said that she 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
