‘Coffee.’
‘What?’ He peered up at her with exasperated eyes, more than a little bloodshot. Grace had to battle not to allow her own gaze to stray from his face, slipping down to survey that hard sliver of chest that peeked so temptingly from his unbuttoned collar.
‘It’s coffee in this pot, not tea. And I’m not harassing you, I’m trying to help you.’
The firm jaw clenched visibly, defining the already chiselled contours of his tired face. ‘For the last time. I don’t require any help.’
‘No?’ She raised an eyebrow with more confidence than she felt. ‘When was the last time you quit this room during daylight? Or did anything other than sit in here, in the darkness, nursing your sorrows with the contents of a bottle?’
For one long, tense moment Grace wondered if she might have pushed too far, too soon. It had only been a week. Perhaps she should have left him to cope in his own way a little longer? But then the spilled glass in its sticky puddle caught her eye and she softened her voice in gentle persuasion.
‘Please, Spencer. I promised Dorothea I would help you, if I can—will you not let me? If you would just talk to me, share with me your grief, perhaps together we can find a better way through this terrible time.’
Spencer shot Grace a look that she didn’t enjoy. ‘Any fears you may have for me are misplaced, I assure you. There’s nothing I can’t overcome if left to my own devices, the loss of my mother included.’
It was on the tip of Grace’s tongue to argue with him that wasn’t the very reason Dorothea had herded them down this sorry path because of Spencer’s self-destructive way of coping? His mother had been sadly accurate in her prediction of the downward spiral that would follow her passing. Sitting all night in a lonely room with a rapidly emptying decanter, stubbornly withdrawing from the world, was the very future Dorothea had feared would claim her son.
‘You say that, but I can’t help but feel your own devices are not the best course. Why, you must be freezing when you wake in here with no fire and it can’t be comfortable to sleep in that chair either.’
Spencer had taken a swig of coffee, but he swallowed it down quickly with a sharp look. ‘Would you rather I slept upstairs? In my bedchamber? With you?’ Something passed across his handsome features Grace didn’t understand; a lightning-fast flicker of something that flitted by and was gone before he could control it. ‘Surely you can’t be eager for that?’
She avoided his gaze, staring down into her coffee cup in pink-cheeked agitation.
Careful, now.
The idea of Spencer stretched out beside her on expensive sheets made heat pool low down in her insides, a distinctly unladylike reaction and in direct defiance of her determination to remain unmoved.
‘I don’t like the idea of you languishing down here every night, but equally I want to put an end to the whispering among the servants that could so easily travel further afield.’ In the very corner of her field of vision Grace could just make out how closely he watched her, dark eyes never leaving her flushed face. ‘You know how people already mutter when I leave the house; only yesterday I heard them again when returning from visiting Mama. What do you think they’ll say when it becomes known I live with a man I call my husband, but who sleeps apart in an entirely different part of the house? It’s an oddity for two people our age so recently wed and sure to provoke more speculation than I care to allow.’
Spencer huffed out a humourless laugh. ‘So it’s on account of your reputation you object to my behaviour? Because of what people who barely know you might have to say?’ Another flash of some unrecognisable thought crossed his face—this time so startlingly close to a shadow of disappointment Grace felt herself blink in confusion. Surely he didn’t care whether she worried for him, or wanted him beneath her bedclothes? He had made it perfectly clear he wanted none of her fussing, yet that flit of an indescribable expression nagged at something in the back of Grace’s mind.
‘My reputation is already more damaged than I ever would have thought possible, both by my poor father’s mistakes and Henry’s rejection.’ An image of Papa’s dear face drifted in front of her mind’s eye for a moment, pale and wan in a draughty cell, and Grace forced herself to turn from it with a sudden wrench of her insides. It was a thought she had to fight back all too often and always managed to make her throat tighten around a lump of searing unhappiness at his undeserved fate. He should be in his own home, surrounded by his family and enjoying the quiet, refined life the Linwoods had always led, but her father remained in the Fleet and Grace had no choice but to watch the changing tide of her husband’s unreadable expression.
‘I don’t think it’s unreasonable not to want it tarnished further by you—a man who already generates quite enough talk as things stand, given your past actions. Can it truly be a wonder to you that I’d like to avoid further comment on my person and my life?’
She spoke more sharply than she’d intended, caught off guard by the perplexing look on his face that posed questions she didn’t know how to answer. It was hardly surprising that Spencer’s frown deepened at her tone with a flicker of real displeasure that made Grace shrink a little.
‘My actions are nobody’s business but my own. If anybody objects to how I conduct myself, let them say so in person.’
Grace clenched her hands into fists at Spencer’s obstinate words.
He’s impossible!
Could he not see how mortifying this conversation was for her? Was he blind to the indignity of having to beg for him to share her bed? She tried to force herself to remain calm, but a mixture of worry and anger began to build in her chest.
‘I object and I am saying so in person. Do you not see how it looks for us to be living alone together, a married couple in some respects and yet with no real evidence of our connection in others? Surely you can understand why society might question the legitimacy—’
‘Hang society.’ Spencer got to his feet, towering above Grace with his impressive height that even in her current state of high emotion she couldn’t help but admire. ‘What has society done for you, other than treat you with contempt? I care nothing for their whispers and neither should you.’
A current of something like electricity prickled beneath Grace’s skin as she looked up at her stubborn husband, only an arm’s length away yet as untouchable as if in another world. With a start of horror she felt how her body wanted to curve towards him, to close the gap between them that was not only physical, and again felt hopeless confusion as to how he could affect her so effortlessly, even against her strongest resolve.
‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I shouldn’t care. But I don’t want to shut myself away, to ignore the world and turn my back as you do.’
Spencer’s eyes narrowed and Grace swallowed hard at their sudden coldness. Any hint of the appreciation she thought she’d glimpsed so fleetingly the night Dorothea died was entirely absent as he looked at her, the darkness that so often haunted his face covering it like a grim mask.
‘Do you truly think you understand how I see the world? That you have any grasp on why I have to be the way I am?’
Her heart skittered inside her like a trapped animal as she took in the hard set of his jaw, but Grace managed to hold her ground and return his unwavering stare with one of her own.
‘No. How can I, when you won’t talk to me about anything? We’re married now, bound together for the rest of our lives. Can’t you at least try to let me in? I know you must have good reasons, but there might be some way to work through them if you would only share your pain.’
She saw how his brows twitched into a frown and realised with a pinch of dismay just how much she wanted to touch the crease with gentle fingertips, that harsh handsomeness managing once again to find the last traces of weakness in her and invade without mercy. Once she started tracing the contours of that face she might not be able to stop, running her f
ingers over the crooked nose and lips tense with whatever emotions he thought it necessary to conceal. He always seemed so alone, so solitary even when she was near him, and the thought Dorothea’s fears were coming true just about broke her heart.
‘There isn’t.’ Spencer broke the intense connection of their eyes to run a hand through tousled hair. ‘Sometimes turning his back is the only thing a man can do.’
He set his coffee cup on the desk and walked away from her, ill-mannered as ever, but this time Grace could have sworn she sensed something else as he made for the door. With his cravat gone and his shirt collar open he looked more like a pirate than a gentleman and Grace had to force back the dangerous image of him careless and confident out on the high seas. It was too appealing by half.
‘I’ve business with my lawyers in town. Don’t wait for me to dine later. I’ve no fixed idea of when I shall return.’
* * *
Spencer barely heard one word in ten that his lawyers spoke during their meeting, so fixed were his thoughts on the image of Grace’s earnest face as it had looked minutes before he left the house. That eagerness had faded to quiet unhappiness at his brusque refusal, the expression he realised with a prickle of discomfort he had given her reason to wear on more than one occasion. Perhaps she shouldn’t have pressed him, but her intentions were—as always, you ungrateful wretch—good, and another spike of unease in the region where other men might keep their conscience told him his reaction had been ill-judged.
‘...and so with your approval, Captain Dauntsey, we’ll meet again tomorrow to finalise these papers.’
The two men seated across from Spencer on the other side of an impressive desk stood to shake his hand and he rose likewise, feeling a niggling ache in his back as he moved. Sleeping in that old chair in his study did him no favours, as the grumble in his muscles attested, but the alternative...
‘Thank you, Mr Hallam; Mr Slade. I’ll return tomorrow morning.’
He gave each a curt bow and withdrew from the fusty chambers, the sound of pens scratching on paper and the low hum of clerks’ conversations hardly registering in a mind too full of Grace to notice much else. The growing feeling of dissatisfaction with his behaviour formed the backdrop of his uncomfortable thoughts, muttering that to dismiss Grace’s pleas was not the action of a good husband.
Not that I should care about that, he reminded himself grimly as he reached the front door and stepped out into the chill of the busy street.
It was a fact getting more and more difficult to remember each time he recalled the tenderness with which she had cared for his mother in her last hours, only more proof of the goodness that he so wanted to believe in... But the darkness inside him knew that was impossible, still so aware of his failings as both a brother and a man and the risks in exposing one’s heart. Constance had once held his in one hand and Will’s in the other—and the quarrel between them had resulted in nothing but death and guilt so deep it choked him each night. William might not be there this time to compete, but the memory of the last time Spencer had been captivated by a woman was enough to make the idea painful beyond belief.
Sleeping in that overstuffed chair was supposed to help him hide the nightmares that made him thrash and beat back the unfortunate temptations that sang to him so sweetly, although apparently he could have saved himself the twinge of a bad back for all the good his self-imposed exile had done him. All he had gained from it was tiredness, irritability and another opportunity to make a fool of himself before Grace, his temper spilling out before he could force it into retreat.
Sharing a bed with her was a thought so tantalising it almost made him groan and he stopped any such thing with a swift clench of his jaw as he walked past gleaming shopfronts and the people stopping to admire them. Of course it wasn’t her actual request that had made his temper flare—it was the idea upper-class society dictated he do it and that Grace felt the need to bow to its rules.
What was it she’d said? My actions tarnished her reputation? He couldn’t help the sound that escaped him, a cross between a grunt and a growl that said more about his state of mind than any words.
Ridiculous that she should care what people who scarcely know her think. Surely anybody even slightly acquainted with Grace would see her kindness, her patience, her willingness to help others...
Far too late Spencer tried to slam the brakes on that runaway train of thought, but it wouldn’t be halted as the long list of his wife’s virtues unfurled before him.
Sweet-tempered. Clever. Determined. Calm.
He lengthened his stride as though to outrun the roll call of Grace’s qualities, although nothing could stop the thought that he ought to at least try to understand her point of view. Society and all its shallowness meant nothing to him any more, it was true, and he couldn’t imagine ever again caring one jot what people might say of him; but Grace didn’t feel the same, and it seemed even more unfair that she should pay the price for his disregard. He had meant it when he said she shouldn’t care about their whispers, but perhaps that was easy for him to say, when he had no intention of being part of a world he’d thought so little of for the past two years.
‘Flowers for your sweetheart, sir?’
A piping voice at his elbow made Spencer turn. Standing close to him was a small girl, perhaps only about eight years old, but made to look younger still by huge eyes set in a thin face. Her clothes had clearly seen better days and she shivered slightly beneath the scant cover of a threadbare shawl as she gazed up at him nervously; it took a moment for Spencer to realise he ought to remove the intimidating scowl he wore so unthinkingly on his handsome features.
The little girl held out the basket of posies she carried with an uncertain smile.
‘Only thruppence, sir. They’ll make your home smell like spring.’
There was indeed a lovely scent coming from the little bunches of sweet violets tied with twine, although it wasn’t their fragrance that made him hesitate.
Flowers for my sweetheart?
The girl’s chirrup hit a nerve, uncomfortably close to the thoughts he had been trying to outpace. Grace was not his sweetheart, for heaven’s sake—although his innards gave a twist at the admittedly interesting idea—but a glimmer of how pleasantly surprised she might be by such a gesture would not allow him to turn away. Mightn’t it help make up for his rudeness to her that morning? A flicker of guilt sparked somewhere in his gut, reminding him of the unhappiness that had crossed her pale face. It was a dangerous feeling, no doubt, and yet the knowledge he had behaved badly towards his gentle new wife left a bad taste in his mouth he found he wanted to wash away with disquieting vigour.
Resigned to his own intolerable weakness, with a sigh Spencer reached into his pocket for a couple of shillings and held them out to the child, who stared at them for a moment with eyes like saucers.
‘I’ll have two bunches. Then take these coins and get out of the cold.’
The little girl hesitated, two clusters of violets between small fingers, but not reaching for the coins. ‘Those are shillings, sir. I only said thruppence.’
Spencer inclined his head, appreciating the child’s honesty, but seeing how she shivered beneath her thin shawl.
‘I know you did. It’s bitter cold today, however. Find yourself a hot-chestnut seller and then somewhere warm to eat them.’
The little girl blinked at the coins in her palm as though she couldn’t believe her luck and pressed the violets into Spencer’s hand with quiet awe.
‘Your wife’s a lucky lady, sir, to have such a kind husband.’
Spencer huffed out a dry laugh, his memory spinning back to think of his irritation with Grace that morning that now made him prickle with shame. ‘I’m not so sure. She has much to contend with.’
His new little friend settled her basket on her arm again and peeped up at him with innocent consideration that somehow reminded h
im of Grace’s complete lack of guile. ‘I don’t know about that, sir. My ma always says a kind husband is one of life’s greatest treasures. She says that’s why she married my pa.’
The words rang in Spencer’s ears as he watched the little mite scurry away with delighted haste, making his insides knot once again. It was true he had not been as kind to Grace as he should have, he had to admit. All his new bride had been trying to do that morning was tell him of her worries and attempt to help him with his own, and he had brushed her aside with brusqueness she did not deserve.
You should try harder. She deserves that much, at least.
He wouldn’t be telling her what happened that day two years ago, across the heaving sea. That sorry tale would die with him, his shame and guilt no doubt lingering throughout the rest of his life. But there was something else he could do to make amends for his mistake that morning, the first stirring of an idea, and he strode towards a nearby shop, posy in hand, with a sudden sense of purpose that almost made him want to smile—and grimace in equal measure at this new and dangerous folly.
* * *
It was past eleven o’clock when Grace dimly heard a door open and close again, the creak and click muffled by her luxurious pillow. In all likelihood it was the butler doing his rounds before locking up, she thought distantly, pleasantly warm and drifting somewhere between waking and sleep, so it was with a start of sharp alarm she suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, eyes wide as a shadowy figure stumbled into the bedchamber lit by the shuddering light of the lone candle it carried.
‘Spencer? What are you doing?’
Half hissed, half whispered, her words came out more prudishly than she had intended, but that was the least of Grace’s worries as she felt her heartbeat begin to skitter. She was in nothing but her nightgown, she realised with a start of virtuous alarm, watching as he set the candle down—a little unsteadily—and sat heavily on the ottoman at the end of the bed.
Scandalously Wed to the Captain Page 10