Читать книгу Scandalously Wed To The Captain - Joanna Johnson - Страница 12

Spencer strode through the house to his library with his jaw clenched on rising bad temper, trying with each footstep to outpace the thoughts that pursued him. The same old nightmare, the one he dreaded more than any other, had visited him as he slept the previous night and the combination of waking bathed in sweat and the tiredness that resulted from it did not improve his mood. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep that tore at him, however, or the usual sickening guilt that made him reach for the nearest bottle. Ever since Grace’s arrival two weeks before he’d found it increasingly difficult to find an escape from the troubling reaction her presence provoked in him and it was becoming more vexing by the day.

It wasn’t as though he had any real basis for complaint, some irritable part of him recognised. The difference in his mother was striking, even after such a short time, and the change in her would have cheered anybody to see it. She still tired easily and the slow sinking of her features into her drawn face hadn’t ceased, but there was a gleam in her eye Spencer hadn’t seen for months and it was plain Grace’s company was the cause. The regular visits from Mrs Linwood and her three younger daughters had helped, too, no doubt, but it was Grace who was always busily arranging a warm shawl about Dorothea’s shoulders or making suggestions to the cook that might tempt her to take more than a mouthful. He would have to admit having Grace come to live with them, comfortably installed in her own private rooms, was the best thing that could have happened for his mother—especially given his own behaviour had played a large part in her isolation.

No. He couldn’t complain. And yet...

She’s handsome when she smiles.

The unwelcome thought flashed through Spencer’s mind yet again and he scowled to himself in a combination of frustration and alarm. Not this nonsense again. Is there no escaping it?

It was irritatingly true that Grace’s countenance grew in appeal the longer one looked at her. At first sight her fair skin had seemed colourless to him, her pale hair and eyes frankly a little bland, but closer inspection showed an almost pearlescent quality to her complexion and, when the shadows of sadness cleared, her eyes sparkled with an intelligence that would surely interest any sensible man. Even the fragility of her slight frame took on a new elegance after reluctant study, her movements measured and step quiet as she moved through his house.

But it was that smile—that damned smile—that made the biggest difference. It gave life to her face and animation to her features, highlighting the graceful contours of her pronounced cheekbones as though a candle flickered behind them. Only a simpleton could ever think she was plain after seeing that curve of her lips and the tiny dimple that appeared in one soft cheek—

No!

Spencer brought his fist down hard on his thigh as he walked, the furrow between his brows growing deeper by the second.

This will not do!

He shook his head fiercely against the unwanted barrage of images that bombarded him. Dwelling on a woman’s beauty was for other men, men who hadn’t caused such terrible destruction with their misplaced affections. It was for them to stare and pine and write poems praising their lady’s limitless charms: all things he could no longer entertain since his catastrophic entanglement with Constance had caused such devastation. Love and death walked side by side in his mind now. Guilt ran like an icy river beneath both, linking them together with its cold fingers, and no amount of time would thaw the frost that formed around his heart. Grace might have attracted his attention for some absurd reason, but she would never be allowed to be anything more to him than a reluctantly hosted guest. The consequences were too stark and the risk of unimaginable pain could have made a weaker man shudder.

Not that she would want to be anything more. That idiot Henry Earls has cured her of any such notions once and for all, I fancy.

With a fresh wave of aggravation Spencer wrenched his focus away to remember the decanter waiting for him beside his favourite reading chair, which would provide some relief, hopefully, from the disloyal workings of his mind. Whether drink had become his closest friend or worst enemy was becoming difficult to tell these days, he thought darkly; but it was the only thing that helped silence the demons that plagued him, and with the added complication of Grace moving warily about his home his mind felt more troubled than ever.

The library door stood slightly ajar when he reached it and pushed through with an impatient hand. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been quite so surprising, then, to find someone already in the room, although Spencer’s thoughts were too occupied to consider the possibility until his heart gave a sudden lurch at the sight that met his eyes.

Grace sat curled in the very armchair he had been aiming for, her legs tucked beneath her and eyes intent on a dog-eared book Spencer recognised at once. It was one of a pair Mr Dauntsey had given his sons eight years before on the last birthday they would spend with him, the name of one twin inscribed in each in their father’s slanting hand. Spencer’s copy lay safely in his untidy desk, so it had to be William’s that Grace held in slender fingers, poring over the contents with her delicate profile thrown into sharp relief by the window behind her head. It was a pose Spencer suddenly remembered vividly from when Grace was a girl, too shy to speak much in his presence, but she was far more confident now, an intelligent and accomplished young woman, and the knowledge kindled something within the broad spread of his chest.

Pull yourself together, man. So she reads—what of it? She always was a bluestocking.

She hadn’t noticed him standing uncertainly in the doorway. Engrossed in her book, Spencer was at perfect liberty to take in the blonde tendrils that gleamed softly in the winter sunlight as they tumbled about cheeks it would surely be a fine thing to touch... It was an unacceptable urge, but one that roared up with a power that shocked him, strong enough to cause the faintest flicker of something long hidden deep within him to attempt to spark into life.

Spencer took a breath to centre himself, alarmed by the unwanted direction of his thoughts.

You shouldn’t think like that. Have you no control?

It was bad enough to feel such things in private—to do so in Grace’s presence was even worse. She’d be horrified if she suspected how his mind wandered, he was sure; aside from a polite greeting each morning she barely spoke to him, apparently unwilling to spend much time in his company. Any accord they might have enjoyed as children had long since dissipated, chased away by the brusque new identity the loss of Will had forced Spencer, in his guilt and boundless grief, to adopt.

He ought to say something, probably, and stop lingering in doorways, but it was strangely difficult to think what that something should be—especially when Grace flipped to the front page to read where Will’s name would live on for ever in faded ink. Her brows twitched together, the sudden sorrow there only enhancing the fine lines of her face, and that look flew straight to the most vulnerable part of Spencer’s soul. How much had his mother told her of his twin’s too-early demise? Not even Dorothea knew the whole story, of course, or that Constance had even existed—his shame would never allow it—and the nightmares that stalked him whenever he slept would ensure he never forgot. No doubt Grace would flee from him if she ever knew the truth—but wouldn’t he deserve that, for the damage his stupid actions had done?

He cleared his throat, although his voice, when he managed to force out the words, still sounded a trifle strangled.

‘I hadn’t thought you’d be in here.’

Grace started, closing the book with a guilty snap.

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ She unfurled herself hurriedly and slipped off the chair, although she didn’t relinquish the book as she stood before him, looking for all the world as though she wished she was anywhere else.

Spencer frowned, horribly aware of an awkward silence descending on the room. Perhaps once he would have been able to fill it with banal small talk, but now all he could think of was how strangely pleasing the tilt of Grace’s chin was as she looked up at him, tapering to a gentle point he had no way of knowing she hated.

That was yet another thought he shouldn’t be allowing and it was a relief when Grace was the one to break the rising tension between them.

‘I was just looking through this anthology of poems. Some of them are really quite beautiful.’ She paused, apparently weighing up her next words. Spencer realised his jaw had tightened as he willed her not to speak them, but his wordless entreaty was in vain as she continued, a shadow of sympathy in her grey eyes he suddenly couldn’t bear. ‘I saw William’s name written in the cover, along with a dedication from your father. I don’t think I ever told you how sorry I was for the loss of Mr Dauntsey, or for Will. You must miss them so fiercely. How have you fared these past years?’

The muscles in Spencer’s throat contracted like a vice.

Of all the questions she could have asked. How have I fared?

Of course he missed his father. The senior Captain Dauntsey had been a warm, compassionate man devoted to his wife and sons and his passing had plunged them all into mourning so deep Spencer had privately known his mother would never truly recover, even after eight long years. There was no guilt, though—Richard Dauntsey had died of a weak heart in his own bed, surrounded by his family in his final moments. William had perished in a foreign land, bleeding in the mud and never knowing how much Spencer regretted the final angry words between them. There could be no comparison and Spencer knew his reply would be harsh before he even opened his mouth.

‘That isn’t something I wish to discuss.’ He saw how Grace blinked at the coldness of his tone and felt an immediate—and uncomfortable—twinge of remorse, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her draw him in. There was already something about Grace that called to him, some reflection of his own suffering he saw in her stormy gaze. The imprisonment of her father, the loss of her reputation and finally her fiancé: it was no wonder she so often wore a cloak of sadness valiantly concealed beneath a stiff smile. Her stoicism was admirable—and that admiration was growing more dangerous by the minute.

‘You have enough troubles of your own, surely, to want to know more of mine. Your time would be better spent thinking of yours than questioning others.’

As soon as the words slipped out Spencer knew they’d been cruel. The sympathy in Grace’s face slowly merged into a look of such quiet unhappiness Spencer felt a kick of powerful regret, so swift it was like a blow to the gut.

Damn you and your barbed tongue. That was unkind.

Grace’s reply was soft, yet so steady it stirred the ashes of Spencer’s worrying admiration even more. ‘My troubles are never far from my mind, I assure you. There’s scarcely a moment Papa is not in my thoughts, but I know he wouldn’t want me to surrender to despair.’

He shouldn’t have rubbed salt in her wounds, Spencer knew, reminding her how all her hopes for the future had turned to dust and what she was now reduced to. The proof was in the way her pretty lips twitched as though fighting the urge to turn down at the corners, all caused by his thoughtless remark born of fear she might see through his defensive façade to the damaged man within.

Internally he muttered something unfit for the ears of a lady, in equal parts dismayed by Grace’s sorrow and his part in causing it, as well as how much he wished to take away her pain.

Make the effort, man. She’s been the best medicine for Mother you ever could have wished for and that matters more than any feelings of your own.

He swallowed, a forced convulsion of his tight throat that made it no easier to find the right words.

‘That was unfair. I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily, or with so little care. I apologise.’

Grace gazed at Spencer for a long moment, not entirely sure how to respond.

Her heart still raced at his unexpected entrance to the library, interrupting her solitude with the presence she still wasn’t quite sure how to interpret. During the two weeks she had spent under Spencer’s roof his transformation from open warmth to icy cold had turned Grace’s ordered world on its head, and she had frequently found herself at a loss for words at some of his behaviour. His chaotic approach to life coupled with the unfortunate galloping of her pulse every time she found herself in the same room meant she did her best to avoid him, but on some occasions he was unavoidable—as he was now, standing in front of her and looking so sincere she felt her heart shudder over a missed beat in the most unsettling manner possible.

Her reaction to his scrutiny was one she resolutely did not want, too similar to the flash of heat Henry had always managed to send thrilling through her with the touch of his hand. It seemed Spencer was able to achieve that same sensation without even making contact with her skin, a realisation that made Grace’s insides twist in keen dismay.

But you needn’t worry. You’re on your guard now and no such vulnerability will be allowed to take hold of you ever again.

If the rich darkness of Spencer’s eyes was something Grace had noticed, she would disregard it at once. Henry’s had been just as fine, although sapphire where Spencer’s were the colour of sweet cocoa... Either way, girlish weakness for such a trivial thing was something Grace would not entertain, especially when those eyes were set in the face of a man surely capable of wreaking untold damage on any woman foolish enough to fall for him. She should be congratulating herself on her own good sense in realising it, Grace thought determinedly—but Spencer still watched her with an expression she had never seen before, standing close enough for her to just catch the clean scent of his shaving soap, and despite her resolve she would have to admit it was pleasing.

He had never before looked at her with anything warmer than faint disapproval at her continued presence in his house and she couldn’t help the dangerous pleasure that shivered through her insides at the new lack of censure in his gaze. It was replaced by a ghost of real remorse, as honest as it was surprising and adding fuel to the new colour that simmered in Grace’s cheeks. With his face no longer darkened by the grim shadows that usually cloaked it he looked so much younger, more human somehow, far removed from the sullen man she was still unable to fully understand and more like the lad she used to think she knew...

Grace attempted a small smile, desperately trying to make it seem natural and not the rigid thing she feared was spreading over her face. ‘Think nothing of it. We all say things we regret from time to time.’

The only response was a curt nod, although Grace thought she caught a glint of faint relief. It vanished again almost instantaneously and she determined there and then she wouldn’t waste a single moment trying to decipher what it meant. There were far more important things for her to be doing than dwelling on the inner workings of a man’s mind—even if the man in question was more attractive than was strictly fair, a direct challenge to her vow never to be imposed on again.

‘I ought to return to your mother. I managed to persuade her to stay abed a little longer this morning and I’d like to check she hasn’t escaped while my back was turned.’

One corner of Spencer’s mouth twitched as if in wry amusement, a movement he checked at once—but still it captured Grace’s attention.

‘You certainly have a difficult task trying to keep my mother restrained. She does so love to be busy.’

‘I’d noticed. I’ve sewn more shifts for parish orphans in these past two weeks than I have in twenty years together. She’s quite the force of nature, even when unwell.’

This time the reply was the flicker of one dark eyebrow and when Spencer met her eye a look passed between them to stir the hair at the nape of her neck. It was close to understanding, as though a fine thread of commonality bridged the gap that held them so far apart, and it made Grace blink in confusion.

‘You needn’t tell me that. Sometimes I think it’s sheer strength of will that’s kept her going through all her troubles.’

Grace nodded, trying to ignore the little voice that piped up inside her to ask the obvious question: Troubles that you’ve only added to, Spencer?

Dorothea had already told her why nobody visited Nevin Place, in equal parts frustrated and worried by her son’s ill-judged behaviour. The decanter Grace had spied waiting for him next to the very armchair she had just been sitting in only reinforced the truth of his mother’s fears: that he spent much of his time alone, stubbornly refusing to explain his reasons for needing to seek oblivion so ardently it had cost him his reputation. It was no wonder the rumours about him swirled, when he stalked through life looking so grim-faced and a smattering of bruises still on the fists that roused such comment.

There was still a glimmer of the unnamed something in Spencer’s look as Grace held out the book in her hand for him to take, suddenly aware how much she wanted to be free of the attention of those sharp eyes. Surely to spend too much time in Spencer’s disturbing company was a mistake, his powerful presence whispering to her with a sweet voice Henry had robbed her of the ability to enjoy.

‘Will you take this? I found it on the table and I’m not sure on which shelf it belongs.’

Spencer reached out for the book she proffered, his large hand taking the weight, and in so doing brushed Grace’s fingers with his own, sending a shockwave streaking the length of her arm to blaze beneath her ribs.

A gasp fell from Grace’s lips before she could bite it back, her breath suddenly scalding at the unexpected feeling on his skin against hers. It was the quickest of touches, so brief it shouldn’t even have registered, yet the nerves in her fingertips sang in unwelcome chorus, her heartbeat leaping to beat in time with the rhythm Spencer’s warmth conducted.

She could have sworn he felt a similar jolt of surprise, no doubt born of the discomfort her company already seemed to inspire. Surely he hadn’t felt a pang of disconcerting pleasure at the feel of soft skin against his more rugged fingers, an echo of the shameful feeling that coursed in Grace’s veins. Only Henry had ever made her feel anything remotely similar; and even then not as vividly as the spark Spencer sent scurrying down her spine, nor half so effortlessly. Spencer looked down at her uncertainly, his gaze moving from her eyes to lips still parted in wonder, and whatever he saw in her flushed face made him step a smart pace backwards.

‘Thank you. I’ll see it’s returned to its proper place.’

Grace nodded, her mouth suddenly dry and mind accursedly blank. It was precisely the kind of situation she’d been so determined to avoid and when she dipped a hurried curtsy and left the library it was with far more speed than might have been necessary.

Grace’s heart still hammered as she cautiously opened Dorothea’s bedchamber door and quietly stepped inside. Mrs Dauntsey lay fast asleep against the richly embroidered pillows of a daybed beneath a large window, her chest rising and falling with an effort it pained Grace to see. The pretty room with its plush carpet and expensive French furniture was not as warm as it should have been, considering the January chill outside, and she moved noiselessly to stoke up the embers that gleamed in the grate.

Another layer draped over Dorothea would be a good idea, too. It made her joints ache all the more if she was not kept snug, even though she protested about being swaddled like an infant, and despite the chaos holding a carnival inside her chest Grace found a small smile at the thought of her friend’s determination not to surrender to her illness. It would claim her eventually, of course, but that was a bleak possibility Grace wasn’t willing to stare dead in the face.

A fine woollen blanket lay folded at the end of the daybed and Grace drew it up to cover Dorothea’s sleeping form, tucking it round her with careful fingers. The more the patient slept now the more energy she’d have later, perhaps even able to be helped downstairs to stand at the garden door and take some of the crisp winter air. The doctor wouldn’t approve, Grace thought wryly as she smoothed the blanket into place, but he might never know the illicit activities of two conspiring women. She and Dorothea made a formidable team, their prior connection only having deepened over the past weeks to a relationship that brought both tremendous comfort. When Mrs Linwood came to drink tea even more peals of laughter could be heard from the formerly silent chamber as events from years past were revisited, renewing bonds and adding a layer to old friendships to make them afresh.

Quite unlike my dealings with another old acquaintance, who shall remain nameless.

At the unwelcome thought of Spencer Grace’s hands grew clumsy, her mind too occupied to pay much attention to her movements. Her skin still tingled where masculine fingers had brushed her own, only feather-light and accidental yet dangerously effective in making her cheeks flare with heat. It was every bit as uncomfortable a fact as it had been the moment it happened, mere minutes ago downstairs, and Grace had yet to find a way to banish the thought back to the darkest pit of her mind where it belonged.

‘Have I done something to offend you, Grace? I’m not sure I deserve such manhandling!’

There was a gleam of amusement in Dorothea’s eye as Grace jumped, freezing in the act of vigorously arranging the blanket. Evidently her focus had wandered too far for her to be gentle and she dropped the tasselled hem with guilty haste.

‘Sorry. My mind was...on other things.’

‘Don’t apologise. Of all people, I know what it’s like to have a lot to think about.’

Dorothea tried to ease herself up to sit back against the cushions behind her, accepting Grace’s supporting hand with a pained smile. ‘Did I sleep for long enough, do you think? I hope you weren’t bored while I was so rudely inattentive. What pleasant thing did you find to occupy you?’

Grace wasn’t entirely sure if spending time with Spencer counted as a ‘pleasant thing’; two conflicting opinions wrestling each other for supremacy. It seemed safest to offer a bland smile of her own, although Grace felt her heart rate skip a fraction faster.

‘I thought I’d sit in the library and read a while, until I was chanced upon by Spencer. We talked for a short while before I came to check on you.’

‘Ah. And how is my son today?’ With a grunt of effort Dorothea pulled a lumpy pillow from beneath her. ‘He came to my rooms soon after breakfast, but I doubt I shall see him again until supper.’

Grace hesitated. The unerringly honest part of her ought to win out, but to tell Dorothea her son had made a beeline for the library decanter as she left seemed unwise. She knew how much her staunchly Quaker friend hated having strong drink in the house, although Spencer was far too stubborn to be ruled by anybody but himself. ‘He—he seemed well enough. After a fashion.’

‘Hmm.’ Dorothea eyed her narrowly, but then merely sighed. ‘You always were faultlessly polite, even as a little girl. I’m aware Spencer isn’t the easiest of companions these days and it worries me relentlessly.’

‘I know. I know you have much to bear, but do try not to distress yourself. It does you no good.’

Something of an understatement, Grace conceded as she watched her friend’s laboured breaths.

To lose the husband she’d adored, followed by a son just six years later, was a devastating blow—only compounded by her remaining boy turning into somebody she barely knew. Her failing health was the final piece of a tragic puzzle, so sad it hardly seemed possible.

‘You’re right, of course. Only...’ Another sigh came from the skeletal figure beneath the blanket. ‘The change in him, Grace. Of course he grieved when his father passed, but since we lost William he’s been a man I simply don’t recognise. You must have seen that he takes no pleasure in anything, not even pursuits he used to feel passion for. There was a time when he sketched every day, you know, and showed great promise; he hasn’t so much as picked up a pencil these past two years, as if the very spark of inspiration has been snuffed out like a candle.’

A sudden cough racked her frail body and she pressed her hand to her heaving chest until the spell passed, leaving her cheeks ruddy and breath coming hard.

‘As time has gone by I find myself grieving less for William. I will be seeing him and my dear Richard again very soon, I am sure of it, and then I need never feel sorrow for them ever again. It is Spencer who now pains my heart the most when I think how he will be left alone with his secrets and the suffering he thinks I do not see in his face. He would never tell me exactly what happened the day Will died, but I am no fool.’ She wheezed for a moment, papery eyelids closed. ‘The idea of what he will become when I am gone—it haunts me.’

Bony fingers found Grace’s arm, grasping at the sleeve of her gown in a twitch of distress, and she immediately covered them with her own. Her heart swelled with pity and powerful sorrow—Dorothea looked so small in her grief and fear, and the sight pained Grace more than she could say.

‘If I’d as much as suspected what damage it would do for my boys to go off to war, I would never have allowed them to enlist. You know my faith prohibits all kinds of violence, but I agreed with Richard on his deathbed I would let the twins carry on the military tradition of his family. If they had only stayed in England, Grace... I curse the day they left for Belgium, and I hate the very name of the Battle of Quatre Bras with a passion I feel in my bones.’

A tear slipped down one sunken cheek and Dorothea cuffed it away, although not before the glitter of it sent ice piercing Grace’s insides. For the family she had known since childhood to be ripped so cruelly apart seemed the worst of injustices and from the tumult of her emotions a new thought arose to make Grace wonder...

Had Spencer seen his brother die, cut down in front of him in some battlefield across the sea? Wouldn’t that go some way to explaining why he seemed so closed off, so strangely emotionless? She could only imagine with a powerful shudder what kind of effect such an experience might have on a man’s soul. It was a startling possibility, yet one that seemed so blindingly obvious, and Grace felt a suddenly overwhelming rush of compassion for the man who had previously inspired such wariness and confusion.

‘None of what has befallen your family is your fault. I hope you know that, despite your regrets.’

Dorothea shrugged a thin shoulder beneath expensive linen. ‘Regrets are one thing I have no shortage of. The reason I sleep so little every night is out of worry for my only remaining son. If only there was something I could do, some way I could rest easily, knowing he won’t be left so alone when I am gone—and yet I fear nothing can turn him from the path he has chosen.’

Grace nodded gravely, the truth in Dorothea’s words plain. ‘I can only imagine how such thoughts must trouble you. I wish there was something I could do to ease your cares.’

Her sad gaze was fixed on the white hand that held her arm, lost in the world of compassion that gripped her—so she entirely missed the slow movement of her friend’s eyes in her direction and the look of dawning contemplation that crept in to brighten them.

‘Do you truly mean that?’

‘Why, yes.’ Grace forced her lips into a small smile despite the sorrow growing ever heavier in her chest. The image of Spencer’s grim face crowded out all other thoughts, the most obvious reason for his tightly drawn expression suddenly clear to her in terrible understanding.

He has suffered so much and with his mother so ill surely there can only be more heartache to come for him. I wish for his sake, and for the friendship we might once have had, that things could be different.

‘Believe me—if there was any way I could help you or Spencer with the unhappiness that plagues you, all you would have to do is ask.’

‘Any way? Any way at all?’ Dorothea reached for a glass of water standing beside her bed, turning away so for a moment Grace couldn’t see her face. ‘Even if it were in a way you never would have dreamed? Even if it seemed the most unlikely thing imaginable?’

‘Even then, to repay your kindness and ease your cares, I give you my word.’