You took too long, Spencer thought as he took in the strange expression on her face.
No wonder she looked so alarmed, waking to find her gruff husband dressing mere feet away, although the distress in her face struck him as unflattering to say the least.
‘Ah. You’re awake.’
She gave no answer. Instead she continued to stare at him in horrified concern, attention transfixed on his bare torso and her mouth opening in wordless shock that with a start of sudden dread told Spencer he had just made one grave mistake too many.
He slowly followed her gaze downwards to the mess of scars scattered across his skin. They covered him from breastbone to hip, a haphazard constellation of knots and ridges placed randomly as though an artist had flicked a paintbrush of pain across the canvas of his body. Two years had passed to fade them from the angry red they had once been, but they still stood proud against smooth muscle and beneath the coarse dark hair on his chest, permanent reminders of the agony he had felt in both his body and his spirit on the day they had soaked his uniform in bright crimson.
When she managed to drag her eyes up to meet his Spencer saw a thousand unspoken questions in their grey depths, none of which he intended, he knew with a flicker of stubborn determination, to answer.
He quickly buttoned the shirt around his body with clumsy fingers, cursing his carelessness with every movement of his hands. How could he have let her see? He’d been too distracted by his thoughts to exercise his usual caution and now she had seen his secret: the one not even his mother had known.
‘What in heaven’s name happened to you? Oh, Spencer... I had no idea!’
The powerful concern in her voice struck him squarely in the vulnerable place within him reserved only for her. She sounded so worried, so genuinely appalled he had obviously suffered, and some part of him wanted to grasp hold of that distress and wonder what it might mean. The events of the night before, when she had not only accepted his kiss but kissed him back, were surely more evidence her feelings towards him had softened—and yet some instinctive warning held him in check.
Anybody with an ounce of decency would be moved by his scars and wonder how he had earned them. If Grace was affected, that was only a sign of her soft heart, the concern in her stormy eyes of a kind she might turn on anyone. It would be yet another mistake to read anything further into it than that and a risky move towards accepting the shadowy desire within him that wanted her compassion. He should never hope she might have the barest glimmer of the same feelings for him that Spencer was forced every day to deny; wasn’t her trust in men irrevocably shattered beyond repair by the cruelty of the one she had loved before and who might still—damn him—hold captive her heart? As for his own need to avoid another assault on his soul...it ran too deeply to be disturbed by one so wholly blind to her effect on him and there was nothing more to be said on the matter.
‘Quatre Bras.’
Clipped and brisk, the two words were more of a statement than a real answer. He saw Grace waited for him to elaborate and felt his jaw clench in foreboding as her brows drew together and she peered at him in tangible dismay.
‘The Battle of Quatre Bras, of course. But...forgive me, they look so savage. How is it you received such scars?’
He stood for a moment in silence, fingers still resting on the final button of his shirt and a hundred different thoughts whirling in an unceasing parade of wretchedness through his mind. It was such an obvious question—one anybody would be curious to know the answer to—and yet Grace’s gaze held more than mere enquiry. There was another layer there, akin to a kind of wariness as if she already knew what had transpired that day—or at least had her suspicions.
She can’t know, however.
Spencer swallowed down a sudden taste of bile that rose up in his throat.
I never told a soul what happened two years ago in that field across the sea.
In his mind’s eye the scene played out once again, a series of lurid images that spilled out before he could stop them: Will running towards him, arms outstretched and such determination in his eyes Spencer had known exactly what his twin was about to do, before he even did it—and then nothing but mud and the sky above, and the sheer burning agony of hot metal on flesh that mingled with the iron tang of blood.
The familiar roar of guilt and anguish flared within him, attempting to squeeze him in its merciless grip. It took all his strength to turn away from it and the memories it conjured, and to answer Grace with a voice bordering on cold.
‘As I said. Quatre Bras.’
It felt, as always, something of a betrayal to force his twin back into the deepest recesses of his mind, banishing him into the eternal darkness. There was nothing Spencer wouldn’t have given to be able to think of him without the overpowering ache of regret and fear so vivid he could almost taste its bitterness on his tongue, but the happy moments they had shared were so eclipsed by that final terrible day Spencer knew it was hopeless. All he could do was try to focus instead on his current concern: the woman in his bed who looked for all the world as though she knew what secrets stalked him. It should be Grace who occupied his mind now; the events of the night before would have to be addressed, and the thought helped slightly to distract from the horror of his worst recollections.
She watched him in contemplative silence as he knotted a fresh cravat at his throat, although a swift flicker of alarm darted across her features when he approached the bed again and sat at the end to pull on his boots. It was so difficult to tell what was going on in her sharp mind when she sat with her face so serene and impassive.
So much better when her expressions betray her and I can get some idea of what she’s thinking, Spencer mused with a touch of grim amusement. If there was any doubt I alarmed her with my behaviour last night, her face when I came closer has just given her away.
Once both boots were firmly in place there was nothing to delay the moment Spencer had been dreading any longer.
‘I wanted to talk to you about last night.’
He saw at once how she stiffened, eyes dropping away from his to fix on her slim hands. The golden band he had slipped on to her finger only a few hours before gleamed in the pale daylight, a reminder to them both of what had happened to muddy the already confused waters between them.
‘Yes?’
‘I shouldn’t have allowed you to see me in that state,’ he began, his voice gruff with discomfort. ‘I would like to apologise and ask forgiveness for anything I said or did that might have made you feel ill at ease.’
A small nod of the downturned blonde head was at first the only reply and he felt his heart sink at her silence. Could it be she barely wished even to speak to him now? Her face remained shielded from him by a cascade of curls, until she brushed them aside to reveal a flush of colour across her cheeks that only made her look, Spencer saw with a jolt of dismay, even more beautiful.
‘Is that everything you wanted to say? Nothing more?’
Spencer hesitated for a moment. In truth, there was another question he would have liked to have asked: Why did you kiss me back? And another: What does this mean?
But he knew in the very same instant that neither would pass his lips. His memories of the previous night were tinged with port-induced blurriness, perhaps putting a slant on events that wasn’t entirely accurate. Perhaps what he recalled as a dangerously romantic moment had been nothing more to Grace than a drunken embarrassment on his part, one her good manners and gentle breeding would rather she forget? The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that his traitorous enjoyment of their kiss had been one-sided and the notion made him wince.
I can never allow myself to behave in such a manner again.
He couldn’t be trusted to ignore his secret desires while in his cups. What if next time he were to actually tell Grace of the strange reaction she conjured inside him, rather than just kiss
her? The idea of laying himself bare to her inevitable rejection stung; she would be gracious, but her determination to guard her heart from the malice of men, combined with any lingering preference for Henry and the indifference she must surely feel for a sullen wretch such as himself, meant there could be no other outcome. It would be infinitely safer to continue to fight against the agitation she provoked in his mind and soul, and with that knowledge held tightly he made up his mind.
‘Only that I promise you this: the drinking will stop. Today.’
Grace glanced at him sideways, stretching the vulnerable curve of her neck that drew Spencer’s gaze quite unconsciously. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is. I’ve relied on a bottle for solace for too long. Time for another approach, although what I don’t yet know.’
A ghost of a smile curved the corners of Grace’s lips, a shy thing that eased the tension Spencer had formerly seen there and set his heart beating faster. ‘Perhaps we can find another way together. I’m so glad you changed your mind.’
The short shrug he gave was churlish, he knew, but the sudden skittering of his heartbeat made it difficult to find a reply. He’d made her happy in some small way, and the knowledge made his insides feel...suspiciously warm. He shouldn’t seek to please her like a child, yet that hesitant smile did something to him that surely a grown man, and a decorated Army captain no less, should be impervious to. Apparently, however, he was not and so it was rather swiftly that he stood up from the bed and threw a short bow in his wife’s general direction.
‘I imagine you’re eager to rise. I’ll have your maid sent to you at once.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Grace gave a tiny start of recollection and gathered the bedclothes around her a little more tightly as if to preserve her modesty. ‘Thank you.’
Spencer inclined his head, feeling a slight ache beginning to grow somewhere behind his eyes.
It’s just as well you’re giving up liquor. You’ve never had much luck with the after-effects anyway.
‘I have to return to my lawyers’ office this morning, but I expect to be back in time to dine with you at luncheon. If you wish me to, of course.’
The little smile increased the smallest fraction, having a corresponding effect on Spencer’s pulse.
‘Of course. Shall we say one o’clock?’
‘Very well. I’ll see you this afternoon.’
He turned for the door, reaching for the handle just as Grace’s voice from behind came soft and low to send a shiver beneath his skin.
‘Before you go...about the ring. It’s beautiful, but it’s the thought behind it I value the most. Thank you for listening to my worries and trying so hard to ease them.’
She spun the gold band on her slender finger. In the morning light she looked more angelic than ever and Spencer felt his throat constrict on the impulse to tell her just that.
Instead he bit back a smile of his own, keeping his voice as level as he could despite the distracting whirl of thoughts ricocheting around his head. ‘You’re more than welcome. It’s the least you deserve for putting up with me.’
He opened the door and stepped through it to escape into the corridor beyond, supremely conscious as he did so of a fine pair of grey eyes following him as he disappeared from their sight—with barely contained unease at his own growing weakness for their approval.
* * *
Perched on the parlour window seat, Grace tried her hardest to make the most of the cold February sunlight to better see her embroidery, although it was apparently nigh on impossible to focus on anything other than the events that had unfolded behind the closed door of her formerly lonely bedroom. Every time she picked up her needle some image would flit in front of her, catching her off guard, and even a glance down at her hands showed the wedding band glinting on one finger, a constant reminder of the husband she couldn’t get out of her mind. It was the strangest thing to see it gleaming there, slid on by the unlikeliest of men, and alarming proof that her vow to hold herself apart was in serious danger of weakening.
On a drawn-out sigh Grace set her embroidery hoop aside, driving her needle into the middle of the pattern that refused to hold her interest. With too many thoughts squashed into one brain it was no wonder her head had begun to ache, and Grace closed her eyes for a moment as the unstoppable barrage clamoured at her from all sides.
There was just so much to figure out, so much to try to understand. The ring, the kiss, the curious words he had murmured just before falling asleep... What did it all mean?
Not a syllable about any of it had passed his lips before he left that morning, other than so indirectly she couldn’t be certain of what he’d meant. Had he been so deep in drink that he couldn’t remember everything that had passed between them, or perhaps for him it had all meant so little it was hardly worth mentioning? For Grace, of course, the strange feeling of another’s lips on hers had been completely unknown until a mere twelve hours ago, the sensation of a stubbled jaw against her skin and the breathtaking delight of being held by a set of strong arms even now setting her ablaze once more. That she had fallen asleep beside him was something she didn’t dare spend even a moment considering—it was a mercy he had left the bed before she awoke, or else who knew how she would have coped with that handsome face as the first thing she’d seen on opening her eyes. She might have reached for him unthinkingly, still groggy from sleep, and then there would have been no hiding from him how much she desired to feel him beneath her hands once again.
Despite the shawl tucked firmly round her shoulders Grace shivered at the recollection of what had lurked unseen beneath the shirt her fingers had so wonderingly explored as she lay in Spencer’s arms. She’d had no clue, no inkling whatsoever of the wounds covered by expensive linen, and the frozen dismay of her husband’s face when he’d realised she had seen them was something she would never forget.
For a moment she stared down unseeingly at her neat stitches while the tumult of emotions that leapt inside her writhed ever faster. Her mind felt too full of unanswered questions, fear for the future and feelings for her husband she could neither name nor explain. It was so pointless to acknowledge the disturbance he had brought to her previously calm rationality, causing her spirits to rise up and then plunge downwards again with the power of a single word, look—or kiss. There was too much to work through, too many new desires to understand, and in her quiet solitude Grace suddenly felt lonelier than she had ever felt before.
I wonder if this is how poor Papa feels—cast into a situation he would never have dreamed possible, trying to make sense of it all and keep his head above water.
The thought of her father did nothing to raise Grace’s spirits, the familiar ache at the memory of his beloved face squeezing her in its cruel grip. She’d long since ceased counting the days since she had last seen him, the growing tally only increasing her despair.
If only things had been different. If only Papa was still here...and as for Spencer...
A swift glance out of the window made her start as the very man in question, as though summoned by her thoughts, appeared at the end of the street, striding with his usual purpose in the direction of Nevin Place. Even from a distance there was no mistaking him: his tall stature cut an effortless swathe through a small cluster of people blocking the pavement and that impressive width of shoulder could hardly be attributed to anybody else. Grace had no choice but to watch in helpless fascination as he moved closer, self-assured as ever and leaving those he passed by peering after him in obvious curiosity that he completely ignored. More than one stared with distaste, turning to their walking companions to mutter who knew what libels beneath scandalised breaths, but Grace saw no more as she hurriedly turned her own gaze back to her hastily snatched-up embroidery, only looking up again when the parlour door opened and Spencer announced his arrival with something sweet-smelling held out, almost cautiously, towards her.
‘I forg
ot to give you these last night.’
Grace took the posy of violets with surprised delight, looking up just in time to see a glimmer of something suspiciously close to satisfaction flit across Spencer’s features at her reaction. She buried her nose in their petals to take in their heady scent, confused pleasure flooding in to replace the lonely unhappiness of moments before.
‘Why, how sweet of you. Did you know that violets are some of my favourite flowers?’
‘I didn’t, but I’ll certainly bear that in mind for the future.’
He seemed pleased, or as close to pleased as Spencer could get, and Grace inhaled the beautiful fragrance again as new bewilderment combined with her appreciation to make it difficult for her to find a reply. First a wedding ring, and now flowers? It was as though her sullen husband had finally decided to make some effort to bridge the gaping chasm between them and her heart leaped at the thought. Perhaps it was a foolish reaction, dangerous, even—but in honesty Grace knew that danger already circled, testing the strength of the boundaries she had once thought so stout. If Spencer was thawing, it could only mean a greater threat to her determination to ignore how he called to her, warmth creeping back into his soul again to match the attractions of his face.
Spencer stepped away to stoke up the hearth, holding his cold fingers to the blaze even as he glanced surreptitiously around the room as though searching for something. Grace watched him over the top of her bouquet for a moment, before realising with a clunk of dread what it was he looked for.
‘After what you said this morning, I took the opportunity to have all the strong liquor removed from the house while you were in town.’ She hesitated, aware of how his sharp profile glowed so handsomely in the orange firelight, tempting her to stare. ‘I hope you’re not too angry.’
Scandalously Wed to the Captain Page 12
