Читать книгу Scandalously Wed To The Captain - Joanna Johnson - Страница 11

If anybody had told her the strange turns this day was going to take, Grace thought dazedly as she hurried to keep up with Spencer’s long strides, she wouldn’t have got out of bed that morning. How she found herself lurching from her solitary heartbreak to being marched along by a silent Captain Spencer Dauntsey she still couldn’t say, the firm—and distracting—pressure of his hand on her arm the only real proof she wasn’t trapped in some hideous dream.

The idea that she could wake from this living nightmare was so tempting—to find herself in her own bed with Papa reading in his library and a note from Henry on the post tray—but a sudden slip of her foot on the wet cobbles jolted her from her fantasy, grim reality flooding back in to replace it, and Spencer’s grip was the only thing that kept her from sprawling into the gutter. At least the storm meant the streets were deserted and nobody would see the highly inappropriate sight of her scurrying along after dark on the arm of a man who would apparently set tongues wagging about her even more than they were already.

‘As I said. Mind your step.’ Spencer didn’t slow his pace, his head bent slightly against the chill of the wind that flung icy rain into their faces. ‘We’re almost there.’

Grace squinted through the gloom, attempting to ignore the altogether too-absorbing sensation of the hand on her elbow that sent strange prickles down her arm and made it oddly difficult to focus on anything else. They were drawing into a crescent of magnificent houses, tall against the dark menace of the stormy sky and set around a small park of landscaped trees that bent and shook with the wind through their branches. It was too dim to see clearly, but Grace thought she saw a curtain move slightly at the downstairs window of one of the largest houses—the next moment a grand front door was flung open and candlelight spilled down a set of iron-railed steps, illuminating a gravelled path that gleamed wetly in the orange glow. Spencer ushered her towards it and before she had a moment to consult her thoughts on the matter Grace found herself standing in a bright entrance hall, her head spinning and her soaking cloak dripping on to a polished parquet floor.

She looked about her, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the warm light thrown out by numerous candles. There were candelabras set around the space, their flames dancing in the draught that accompanied Grace and Spencer into the house, and painted portraits smiled stiffly down from the walls to watch as she hesitated, unsure of what to do next. She’d been too distracted to give much thought to anything other than getting out of the rain and now she stood in the unfamiliar territory of Spencer’s luxurious house she felt a thrill of some strange anxiety flutter through her nerves.

He’s a stranger, really. I barely recognise the man he’s become.

Dimly she heard Spencer speaking to somebody behind her, too low for her to catch the words, but it would hardly have mattered if he had been shouting in her ear for all her attention was fixed on the uncertainty circling in her stomach. Perhaps to take his offer of sanctuary had been a mistake. He only seemed to have offered under some kind of duress and it was with mounting unease she waited for her unwilling host to decide what to do with her now she had followed the lion into its den.

‘May I take your cloak and bonnet, ma’am?’ A maid materialised as if from nowhere, making Grace jump with her murmured question.

‘Have them dried, please, Thorne.’ Spencer glanced at Grace as he removed his own soaking outer things and handed them to another waiting servant. ‘It will take a short while to ready the carriage. You might want to sit before the fire, warm yourself a little.’

Grace turned away from him quickly, mumbling her thanks. The heavy rain had penetrated the costly material of Spencer’s coat, dampening the shirt beneath; it clung to his broad frame a little too lovingly for comfort, the soft white outlining a landscape of muscle that made Grace’s pulse skip more than a fraction faster. Alarm swept through her, wrinkling her brow: Spencer’s masculine physicality, so different from Henry’s slim elegance, surely shouldn’t even register with her. It was an irrelevant detail, no more to be noticed than the fact he had two eyes and a nose on his stern face.

She frowned, trying to silence the troubling thought. After Henry’s thoughtless rejection and the suffering that even now churned within her like a stormy sea, any strange reaction of her unconscious to Spencer’s admittedly impressive musculature should be dismissed without hesitation. It was laughable, the very notion of Spencer provoking her interest, and surely only a nostalgic shadow of the partiality she’d felt for him as a girl—she could almost have smiled at her momentary folly if the unhappiness in her chest hadn’t been weighing her down like a stone. She would never allow herself to surrender to such weakness again and certainly not in favour of a man so apparently aloof as Spencer now was. Not even she, with her admittedly poor record of good judgement, would ever be quite that foolish.

Her disquieting host was running his hand through his short crop of dark hair when Grace dared look towards him again, raindrops glinting in the candlelight as he brushed them from his head. Now they were away from the grey shadows of dusk Grace could see the warm brown of his eyes more clearly, and the fine lines, which on anybody else she would have suspected were caused by smiling, that bracketed them at the outer corners. Surely this dour man could never now get enough use out of a smile to make such lines, she thought privately as she watched him straighten his cravat, his brows drawn together in the near-permanent scowl she had already realised he seemed to wear unconsciously.

‘Rivers will see you through to the parlour.’ Spencer gestured to the servant who bobbed a neat curtsy beside him. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

He turned abruptly to leave, moving towards one of the doors leading from the hall with long strides Grace couldn’t help but follow with reluctant—but uncontrollable—interest. Before he could reach it, however, it opened quietly on well-oiled hinges and a woman appeared on the threshold.

At first Grace struggled to place her; until with an unpleasant start she realised the gaunt figure barely able to stand was Spencer’s formerly vivacious mother. The change was so alarming Grace felt all words flee from her as she took in the drastic alteration in the woman she remembered: just like her son the difference from eight years ago was staggering, as though some malicious enchantment had been cast over the Dauntsey family to curse both their bodies and their minds.

‘I thought I heard you arrive home.’ Mrs Dauntsey came towards Spencer slowly, although her pale face broke into a smile that took the edge off her otherwise painfully fragile appearance. Her skin was so papery every line of bone was clear beneath its thin cover and her hair had the dull tinge Grace had seen only once before, on her grandmama after she had been taken ill with the bad chest that had killed her.

Spencer swiftly reached out a steadying hand as the newcomer swayed on her feet.

‘Why are you up? Doctor Sharp was quite insistent you shouldn’t be walking about.’

His tone changed abruptly from the brusque manner of moments before, now edged with an undercurrent of worry, but it wasn’t just the transformation of his voice that made Grace blink in sudden confusion that grew to join that already holding court in her chest.

The frown had left his brow, his features smoothing out into a look of concern that wiped the displeasure from his face and enhanced the comeliness of his already eye-catching features tenfold. He looked younger, closer to his real age of twenty-five rather than the years his scowl advanced him to, and even the brutal edge his broken nose lent to his appearance diminished with the alteration in his expression.

Grace swallowed down a small sound of dismay as she took in the drastic change in the man who mere moments before had looked as though he might take on a bear and win. Far from shrugging off her unnerving reaction to the glowering Spencer, this new display of tenderness only made it return—with a displeasing vengeance. When he wasn’t looking as though all the world was his enemy Spencer’s face was as handsome as it had been as a youth, and when it softened further into palpable concern it was uncomfortably similar to the countenance that had so intrigued her all those years ago.

She twisted her fingers together, startled by the unconscious response of her body. Perhaps she had caught a chill, standing out on the slippery Cobb in a growing storm? There could no other cause for her cheeks to flush so in Spencer’s presence, or for her heart to flutter at the gentleness with which he supported his mother—only silly girls with romantic fancies would think anything otherwise and thanks to Henry’s cruelty she would never again be one of those.

‘Please don’t fuss.’ Mrs Dauntsey swatted at Spencer with a feeble hand. ‘I heard you come back and wanted to be sure you were well. Whatever can you have been thinking of, going walking in such—oh!’ She broke off abruptly as she caught sight of Grace standing awkwardly in Spencer’s wake. ‘I didn’t realise you’d brought company with you.’

Grace dipped a respectful greeting, wishing with all her heart she hadn’t left a trail of dirty rainwater on her unwitting hostess’s pristine floor. Now Mrs Dauntsey’s attention was focused fully on her she saw some faint traces of the woman she had once known: a refined jaw and delicate nose giving an air of sophistication despite the waxy sheen of her skin and mauve shadows beneath eyes that glittered with sudden wonder.

Spencer nodded in Grace’s direction; a little unwillingly, she saw. ‘Mother, I’m sure you recall—’

‘Grace Linwood!’ The stiff introduction was cut off by a gasp of delight. ‘I’d know you at once, although I can scarce believe how you’ve grown!’

Her reaction was far more gratifying than Spencer’s had been, Grace thought privately as she felt a glimmer of warmth touch her otherwise chilly insides. His mother had always been such a kind woman, it was a relief to find at least that much unchanged.

‘Mrs Dauntsey, it’s so wonderful to see you again!’

There was a split-second of alarm as the older woman almost overbalanced in her eagerness to grasp Grace’s hands and Grace had to lunge forward quite inelegantly to stop her from falling. Mrs Dauntsey peered into her face, drinking in the sight of her with happiness so genuine it almost made Grace forget the tide of varied emotions causing chaos in her stomach.

‘Little Grace, quite the grown woman—and the very image of your dear mama! I’d thought to surprise her with my return to town, but as I’m sure you can see I’ve been a trifle too ill to pay any calls. I should have sent a note, I know, but I’m afraid I was determined to see her shocked face when I appeared on your doorstep!’

Spencer’s mother laughed, a thin peal so unlike the hearty sound she might have made eight years ago before her husband had died and her sons had whisked her away, only one of them now left to stand behind her like an unsmiling guard. Spencer’s formerly stern expression was already beginning to set in once again, obscuring the openness of moments before like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. Perhaps he only allowed himself one moment of levity a day, Grace just had time to wonder briefly—with another unpleasant jolt of recognition that brooding could still be very attractive indeed—before Mrs Dauntsey laid one skeletal hand on the damp sleeve of her gown.

‘My dear, you look absolutely chilled to the bone. Won’t you sit with me before the fire and take some tea?’ She cocked her head, the sparkle never leaving the brown gaze so like the colour of her son’s. Out of the corner of her eye Grace could have sworn she saw Spencer stiffen, but there didn’t appear to be any question of refusal as the older woman gestured towards the door she had appeared through with a welcoming smile. ‘Do come through to my sitting room. I can’t tell you how delightful it is to see you again after all this time!’

Mrs Dauntsey cast a quick glance up at Spencer, apparently trying to read something in his face, although what she could have seen in the straight set of his lips Grace could only guess. Certainly to her there was nothing to be seen but faint displeasure, almost bordering on discomfort, and it was a relief to follow the slow progress of his mother away from his disturbing presence in the direction of her warm and comfortable sitting room.

‘Do sit down.’

Mrs Dauntsey waved a hand at an enormous chair drawn up to the fire. The flames cast Grace’s shadow long across the carpeted floor as she sank into it, her body leaning instinctively towards the hearth as though longing for its heat. She hadn’t realised how cold she had been; distress had numbed her senses, and it was only when her fingers tingled painfully she saw the blueish hue that tinged them.

There was a bell on a table next to Mrs Dauntsey’s overstuffed armchair and she lifted it with a small sound of effort.

‘There. Tea will be along in a moment. If I remember correctly, you always liked it sweet with plenty of milk.’

For the first time since Henry had thrust his fateful letter into her hand Grace felt a tentative upward tug at her mouth. Despite her fragility and in startling contrast to her glowering son, Spencer’s mother radiated warmth, her memory of the preferences of a child oddly touching.

‘That’s right. I’m afraid I still use rather too much honey.’

‘I’m not sure there’s any such thing.’

Mrs Dauntsey settled herself against her cushions and regarded Grace keenly, apparently hungry for every detail of her face and windswept hair.

‘Let me begin by apologising for my silence the past couple of years.’ Her voice held soft regret, real feeling that Grace knew was sincere. ‘We moved around so often after we left Dorset, even living in Scotland for a time, that inevitably some of my effects were lost between houses. Among them was my writing case, containing—as I’m sure you’ve guessed—not only all the correspondence from your mother, but also my little book of addresses. I thought I’d committed yours to memory, but when my letters were returned as misdirected I realised I must have been mistaken.’

When she smiled again it was like a shaft of sunlight in the darkened room. ‘But now I’ve returned to the place I spent my happiest years and the daughter of my dearest friend sits before me. So please—tell me everything I missed!’

Grace hesitated, taking in the vivid interest on the drawn face, but at a loss as to how to reply.

Where should I start? With my jilting, or Papa’s imprisonment?

To her unending horror Grace felt a prickling behind her eyes, the distress of the past few hours rising again at the question. Mrs Dauntsey’s kindness threatened to make a fresh river of tears flow, her innocent enquiry a stark reminder of Papa’s plight and the dizzying turn Grace’s life had taken for the worse—but wasn’t that the truth for her hostess, too? She’d lost a son since she had been in the north and Spencer had lost his twin; and both of them were now so altered it would have been forgivable for even intimate acquaintances to hesitate. So much had happened in the intervening years, including Grace’s new distrust in the word of a handsome man.

Some clue as to the workings of her mind must have shown on her face, for the smile left Mrs Dauntsey’s lips at once, her brow creasing in concern as she leaned forward to look into Grace’s downturned eyes.

‘Grace? Why, dearest, you look so troubled. Is something amiss?’

Her expression was so worried that Grace had to bite her tongue to stop herself from breaking down. It would have taken a heart of stone to resist the pull of that readily offered sympathy: how many times had Mrs Dauntsey soothed Grace’s bumped head or grazed elbow as a child, or passed her a sweet beneath the cover of a card table? Her kindness had always been apparent, but never more than at that moment, her obvious dismay tempting Grace to confess every secret sorrow she’d ever had.

A single impatient sigh from directly behind her chair made Grace start in surprise, the sudden movement once again sending a shard of agony through her injured neck.

He followed us in here?

She winced, twisting to peer at Spencer looming above her and looking for all the world as though she was the bane of his existence. He was close enough for her to have touched the soft fabric of his rich breeches and the very idea of such a scandalous—and tempting—action jolted Grace into speech.

‘Did you say something?’

Spencer folded his arms across his broad chest, the movement causing his impressive biceps to bunch beneath the scant cover of his shirt in a way so damnably interesting Grace felt her face flush scarlet as she hastily turned away again. A flicker of that same sensation she had felt earlier sparked into being within her and she would have given anything for a glass of cold water with which to douse the alarming embers that glowed at his sudden proximity.

When he replied it was directed over her head as though she wasn’t there at all. ‘I found Miss Linwood out on the Cobb in a state of acute distress. As far as I can gather she’s had to call off her engagement this evening, although I haven’t the pleasure of knowing why.’

Grace gritted her teeth, resentment simmering alongside her dismay as the older woman’s brows knitted together further.

As if I needed more proof his good nature has gone for ever, taking with it the boy I thought so highly of.

She could still sense Spencer standing at her back, in all likelihood scowling down at her from his great height, and the knowledge of his unseen closeness stirred the fine hairs of her neck. Irritation at his meddling coursed through her, although another stream of something close to a kind of breathless apprehension mingled with it. His voice was deep and expressionless, yet it possessed an educated cadence so pleasing that even in the depths of her annoyance Grace felt herself give a small shudder when he spoke.

It has to be the loss of William. What else could change him so drastically for the worse?

From his stance behind her chair—his chair, in fact—Spencer couldn’t see the set of his silent guest’s expression, although if the stiffness of her shoulders was anything to go by it probably wasn’t one of delight. Looking down at her from behind only afforded him a view of her blonde ringlets, one escaping from a cluster at the back of her head to snake at the base of her slender neck, but it was enough to make him avert his eyes in sudden discomfort. There was something so vulnerable about that nape, so delicate as it rose out of her lace-trimmed collar, that was deeply unexpected and just as deeply disturbing. It roused something in him, some glint of the weakness he had determinedly suppressed for so long it was a wonder to discover he could still feel it.

Be careful. A sense of danger nagged at the back of his mind, a clear warning against the perturbing turn this sorry business was taking. It must have been the suffering on her face that called to him, holding a mirror up to the pain that so often clouded his own features; but that was not a good enough reason to allow any assault on his restraint and it was with a frown he took in her words as she began to speak.

‘Thank you, Spencer, for that succinct summary of my misfortune.’

Spencer raised an eyebrow at her frigid tone, but held his tongue. The distress written on Grace’s features had been clear to see and his discomfort grew as he realised how much he disliked the memory. It might even have stirred the remnants of his long-buried compassion had he not been so resolutely steeling himself against the flash of momentary weakness the despondent Miss Linwood somehow already managed to provoke in him.

If Will was still alive, he would have her laughing already. He always knew how to make a woman smile. Then again...

Hadn’t that been the very thing that had come between them, in the end?

Spencer gritted his teeth in instinctive dismay as the question arose, but nothing could stop the relentless march of his thoughts down the one path he would have given anything to avoid.

Not this again. Not now.

He could hardly even recall her face: Miss Constance Strong, the lively, captivating woman both twins had loved—to their everlasting detriment. The image of her beauty was eclipsed by other memories, of how he and the man he’d loved as a second self had argued over her, the only thing they had ever been unable to share. If only he’d let Will win, had stepped back and stopped their quarrel before it was too late—but that was a pointless wish and one that did nothing to erase the guilt that had swirled inside him like an icy storm ever since.

You can’t allow yourself to walk that path again. If you hadn’t been so foolish as to lose your heart to a woman you might still have a brother...not that any woman would want you now.

Alike in so many ways, all traces of the cheerful nature the twins had once shared were now gone for ever: Will’s disappearing in the cold finality of death and Spencer’s snuffed out like a candle beneath the unbearable weight of the shame and remorse that had haunted him since that terrible day two years before. Some pale shadow of his better self lingered for his mother’s sake, a last echo of the person he had once been before tragedy had made him retreat from the world to drown his sorrows in drink, but even that phantom would fade as soon as her sickness overcame her. When that happened, his transformation into a mere husk of a man would be complete.

His mother’s voice jolted him from his maudlin train of thought. ‘Is that true? You’ve had to call off your engagement?’

Even from behind Spencer saw the way Grace’s throat contracted in a dry swallow, the slight curve of her cheek visible to him tight with strain. If she was battling the urge to break down and air her soul, she was putting up a good fight, he thought with a gleam of grudging respect, but nothing could overcome the kind probing of his mother and he at last heard a shuddering sigh escape her that lifted the intriguingly slight shoulders beneath her gown.

‘I...’

Grace stopped at once as the sitting-room door opened and a maid bearing a tea tray appeared, lapsing into tense silence she didn’t break even when the servant retreated once again.

In the ensuing quiet Spencer stepped smartly round Grace’s chair to stand closer to the hearth and table laid out before it. A quick glance in her direction now gave him his first uninterrupted view of her face since she had sat down and he clenched his jaw in sudden horror at the jolt that leapt within him at the sight.

Her lips trembled in obvious emotion and her hands were clasped together tightly on her knees, one finger rubbing at her knuckles in absent-minded distress. She looked so plainly unhappy, so heartbreakingly tiny in his enveloping chair nestled among the cushions like a lost creature in need of a protective arm. The shocking urge to offer that arm was suddenly overwhelming, coming apparently from nowhere, and Spencer shoved it back from the forefront of his mind.

What are you thinking of?

He bent his head lower above the tray, ostensibly stirring the tea leaves while his mind flooded with confusion and the shrill peals of alarm bells rang in his ears.

What is the meaning of this?

It was years since he had resolved to separate himself from the world and all the people in it—both for their sake and his own. Nothing good had come from his weakness for Constance’s charms, her laugh still occasionally punctuating the nightmares that plagued his fitful sleep. Only the death of one he loved and a lifetime of regret had been his reward for believing he might find happiness with another, far too high a price to pay again.

It was easier to turn oneself to unfeeling granite; to care about others was to wear one’s heart outside the body and the world was cruel enough to crush it beneath its boots if given half a chance. If there was something in Grace’s tender vulnerability and guileless face that touched the last shred of humanity he had left, he would fight it every step of the way—anything rather than risk another mistake, another soul-destroying loss; another scar to add to the collection borne by more than just his skin.

He roused himself with a brisk roll of his shoulders. The ridiculous thoughts that insisted on trying to worm their way into his already whirling mind would be dismissed. Grace would soon be gone from his house, taking her disconcerting effect on him with her, and then he needn’t see her or her accursedly moving sadness again if he chose. It was almost amusing he’d let himself get so carried away by such folly.

How foolish to fear something that was never a danger in the first place.

Reassured at last by his own sensible thinking, Spencer risked a swift look up at Grace as he handed her a cup, which she took in one shaking hand.

‘You were saying?’ Mrs Dauntsey prompted gently.

‘Oh. Yes.’ Grace took a small sip of her tea. It was far too hot to drink yet, Spencer knew, but the attempt at normality seemed to give her the courage to go on.

She sighed again, her eyes suddenly sparkling with unshed tears that made Spencer’s brows contract in a brief frown of discomfort. Grace took a deep breath before continuing, but the quaver in her voice was painfully obvious. ‘My fiancé ended our engagement only this afternoon and now I find myself in a position—oh, such a position—I just don’t know what will become of us all now!’

The tears she had tried in vain to conceal now spilled down her cheeks and she covered her face with her hand in a mixture of shame and distress that pricked Spencer in the soft underbelly of his determined indifference. Her dismay at breaking down was clear, but she couldn’t seem to control the storm of weeping that held her in its merciless grasp—it was an uncomfortable relief to Spencer when his mother hurriedly set aside her cup and took the younger woman’s hand in her own, helping Grace to stem the tide of misery that shook her slender frame.

‘Oh, my dearest girl! Please don’t cry so. Whatever do you mean, you don’t know what will become of you all? What can have happened?’

Grace brushed the wetness from her face with the backs of her fingers. She hesitated, a shadow of reluctance crossing her countenance, but the entreaty in Mrs Dauntsey’s face forced her to speak. ‘Spencer said you hadn’t heard of the misfortune that has befallen my family.’

Spencer watched as his mother nodded warily, her glance flickering towards him briefly in a look he had no need to puzzle over. Disappointment and unhappiness gleamed in it, a clear indication of Mrs Dauntsey’s thoughts. ‘That’s correct. I haven’t been able to stir outside since we arrived and I’m afraid an...indiscretion of Spencer’s means we’ve had no visitors to bring us news.’

Another flit of guilt pinched Spencer beneath his ribs at his mother’s delicate phrasing of a distinctly indelicate event. As a Quaker she disapproved strongly of his drinking and as his mother she despaired to see its effect on her only surviving son. His very public fight had made him notorious in a society where once he might have been welcomed with open arms, his fortune and face usually a guarantee of entry into the upper echelons. Now his actions would rob his poor mother of respectable company—for who would choose to spend time with a family whose sole heir was so evidently running wild? The inconvenient truth of his only having acted in self-defence wouldn’t be allowed to get in the way of a good story, the rumours about him too salacious to be tempered by facts.

Spencer tracked the fascinating movement of Grace’s throat as she swallowed down another sigh, bobbing her head in a hopeless nod. ‘I see. Well. Poor Papa has been taken to Fleet Prison in London. He is completely innocent of all charges, of course, but he is accused of making fraudulent investments, running up debts and any number of financial indiscretions actually performed by his dishonest business partners. He has been declared bankrupt in his absence.’

Mrs Dauntsey’s lips parted in frank disbelief. ‘That cannot be so! Surely nobody could be so stupid as to believe your father capable of such actions?’ She pressed a hand to her thin chest, clearly shocked to the core. ‘Such a thing is impossible. Your father was always such a gentleman! Where are the real perpetrators, who allow him to be exposed to these lies?’

‘They have fled, cowards that they are. Without their testimony there is nobody to take the blame but Papa, even though the first he knew of this whole affair was when the bailiffs came knocking at our door.’

Grace looked down at her hands, fingers clenched into fists and knuckles shining white through pale skin. ‘As I’m sure you can imagine, our standing in society is now lower than dirt. I had hoped my fiancé would help us in our plight, but now...’ Her lips trembled again and she folded them into a tight line of unhappiness that made Spencer’s own twitch in unconscious reply. ‘We have no prospects, no fortune, and with four daughters to support Mama faces the likelihood of having to give up our home.’ She finished on a dry sob and clenched her jaw shut so firmly Spencer saw the tendons of her neck flex painfully.

There was a silence.

Standing before the fireplace, Spencer felt the warmth of the flames creeping up his back, although nothing could chase away the chilly dread that flared within his gut. It was a feeling close to sympathy that circled inside him, startlingly insistent and refusing to be dismissed. The sight of Grace’s tears spoke to something in him, some aggravating weakness that he had thought his studied apathy for the world had killed off—but there it was, the desire to wipe away her tears, and the suffering in her look called to his own in a language he understood only too well.

The quiet stretched on for several moments, only the movement of Grace absently stirring her tea breaking the illusion all three were carved from stone. It almost made him jump when his mother cleared her throat and spoke with businesslike directness.

‘Well. As I see it, there’s an obvious solution; at least in part.’

Mrs Dauntsey glanced towards Spencer and he cocked his head in wordless query.

What scheme has she come up with?

Unease began to filter into his mind and he felt his eyes narrow in suspicion.

If his mother saw his cautious reaction, she gave no clue. ‘I will, of course, employ you as my companion.’ She fixed Grace with a forthright gaze, oblivious to Spencer’s start of alarm. ‘You can come to live here and I will meet all your expenses. With only the three younger girls to support, I’m sure your excellent mama will more than rise to the challenge.’

Watching with disbelieving eyes, Spencer saw Grace’s mouth drop open, all words stolen from her by utter surprise.

‘You cannot be serious?’

‘As the grave. It would be a joy to have you about the house and renew the friendship between our families. If you came to live here, it would surely ease some of the financial strain, and Spencer wouldn’t feel obliged to waste his time attempting small talk to entertain his aged mother. After all—’ Mrs Dauntsey shot him another look that made his insides twist ‘—your dear mother and sisters are likely to be the only company I’ll have to enjoy, given the circumstances.’

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath of dismay, covered by an abrupt turn away from both women and towards the hearth.

The very last thing he wanted was for Grace to take up residence in his home, her disconcerting effect on him already becoming an irritation he could have done without. It was bad enough he had felt that damned glimmer of something for her already, without the dangers of having to see her admittedly not unpretty face across his breakfast table every morning. If only there was something he could say, something he could do to dissuade his mother from this plan—but one quick glance backwards pricked at his conscience. His already tainted reputation would have long-reaching effects, the rumours of his temper unlikely to be forgotten. Perhaps there might be some small glint of merit in her scheme—although mingled with the threat of unseen complications for himself.

‘But I could be getting ahead of myself. You might be hoping your fiancé will return to you?’

The shake of Grace’s head was the most vehement movement Spencer had seen her make yet. ‘Henry would never seek my hand again. I wish I’d known before what I now see so clearly: he never wanted anything from me other than my wealth and connections. As soon as I had neither his interest vanished at once. He never—he never truly loved me.’ She gave a small sigh, a wretched thing that nipped at Spencer uncomfortably. ‘The details of our separation will be forgotten soon enough, I am sure. The only thing I wish to remember with any clarity is never to venture my heart in such a way ever again. The risk to one’s soul is too great.’

It was as though she had read his mind, Spencer recognised with a frown of surprise as Grace took another sip from her cup. It was the same conclusion he had come to as he sat within the belly of a storm-tossed ship returning to England, bandages staunching the flow of his blood and pain from more than just his wounds making him want to cry out in agony. Constance had been the first woman to capture his heart and his actions because of it had cost him dearly—he would not be caught out twice. How the pale young lady who had claimed his chair had managed to so exactly articulate his own feelings he didn’t know—only that it was almightily unnerving.

‘My only hesitation in accepting your kind offer would be my reputation.’ A rosy blush spread across Grace’s cheeks as she continued, the colour illuminating the delicate lines of her cheekbones and jaw that Spencer suddenly realised—with another pang of dismay—were very fine indeed. ‘I couldn’t bring disgrace upon this house and allow you to be connected to our shame.’

Mrs Dauntsey waved a dismissive hand, although Spencer could have sworn he saw a glint of irony in her eye.

It wouldn’t be only Grace who made this house notorious. Isn’t that what you’re thinking, Mother?

She’d been too frail to leave the house and hear the whispers about him first-hand, but she was no fool. Anybody who had ever walked among the judgement of the ton knew how they could drag a man down with their words, destroying his good name in the blink of an eye if they thought him undeserving.

‘I couldn’t care three straws about that. Society busybodies will always find something to talk about. I don’t see what anybody else’s opinion has to do with it—and that’s my final word!’

She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes briefly. Her chest rose and fell a little more quickly than usual, Spencer saw in swift alarm—she was tiring rapidly, and very soon she would be worn out completely.

She needs to rest. This has been too much excitement.

Whatever his thoughts on the matter, now was not the time for further discussion. His mother’s colour had already ebbed a little and her breaths bordered on laboured as she smiled across at Grace apologetically.

‘I tire so easily these days. I ought to be taking to my chamber now.’ She paused for a moment to regain her breath. ‘But before I do, may we shake on our arrangement? If you are agreeable, of course?’

Spencer concealed his uneasiness behind one large hand, rubbing the dark bristles of his chin. Grace appeared to be hesitating, obviously turning the words over in her mind—but then she extended her hand and his mother took it firmly.

‘I can’t thank you enough, Mrs Dauntsey.’ Grace’s voice shook, but this time the tremor seemed of awed relief rather than bleak emotion. ‘You will never know how grateful I am for your help.’

‘It’s time you called me Dorothea and I only wish I could do more. Please assure your mother of that and tell her I long to see her and your sisters soon.’ Mrs Dauntsey’s eyes were warm, but an edge of pain had crept into her tone and Spencer stepped towards her.

‘If you ladies are quite finished, I shall escort you to your rooms, Mother.’ He fixed her with a look that brooked no refusal. ‘Miss Linwood, the carriage will be waiting for you now. If you are willing, I shall send it again to collect you tomorrow evening.’

‘Thank you.’ Grace averted her eyes from his, the trace of a blush flickering a little stronger under his intense watch. There was none of the warmth with which she had addressed his mother, he noticed.

But who do you have to blame for that?

He sketched a short bow, attempting to block out the unwelcome question. ‘I hope you will excuse us. Rivers will see you out. Goodnight, Miss Linwood.’

Easing his mother to her feet, Spencer helped her from the room. Pausing on the threshold, he turned back briefly, intending to say something more—but all words escaped him as he saw the dazed relief that had flooded Grace’s face and the sudden beauty of her wonderstruck smile sent him striding mutely away before she could turn to see his grim discomfort at the sight.