For a split second she thought she saw something dark in his face when he turned to look at her and felt an unpleasant skitter of apprehension in her gut—before realising, with a sudden jolt, that it was a shadow of shame. It cloaked his features to enhance their contours, but likewise emphasised the sorrow in his eyes, making Grace’s heart ache and her hands itch to reach for him.
‘I can’t pretend I’m happy about it, but I think it needed to be done.’ He frowned down into the fire, what he saw in the curling flames Grace could only guess. ‘Thank you.’
Thank you? That wasn’t even close to the reaction I expected.
Grace held her posy up to her nose again, this time more to hide her face than to take in the delicate sweetness. No irritation, no rebuke, not even a sigh at her interference, only acceptance of her actions and the sad look in his eye that hinted how badly he needed someone to hold out a steadying hand.
That’s what you should be occupying yourself with. None of those girlish fancies you allowed to cloud your mind.
All those thoughts of kissing and confusion, blushing and second-guessing Spencer’s motives were a waste of the time she ought to be using to help him through his grief, as Dorothea had hoped. Trying to gauge his feelings for her—if he even had any—would do nothing to ease the suffering she saw in his face.
Spencer wielded the poker with a flourish, bringing to mind once again the soldier he had been as he thrust it into the fire. Grace could just picture him with a sword drawn, tall and proud in his fine red uniform. It was an altogether too-alluring image and she dismissed it as quickly as she could with sudden warmth flooding beneath her ribs.
He didn’t stop stirring the charred wood, but Grace could have sworn she saw a new stiffness in the set of his shoulders and her heart gave a leap of powerful sympathy that sent ripples through to her core. There was such sorrow inside him, hidden away stubbornly behind a wall of stoicism he would not allow her to break down. Watching him in his lonely pain, she nodded to herself only once, but with grim determination. If he was going to stop relying on a decanter she would need to try harder to replace the bleak solace he had once thought drink provided.
Fortunately for Grace, she had an idea of where to start.
Chapter Eight
It took a firm push to shift the stubborn door of the glasshouse and when Spencer stepped inside he felt grit beneath his boots. One of the panes had broken, he saw as he looked about the little building set against one garden wall, but the rest were intact and sunlight streamed through them to warm his back despite the chill outside.
He hadn’t set foot among the plants since Dorothea had died, although evidently somebody had continued to tend her collection. Green tendrils and waving leaves swayed gently as he moved past them, breathing in the pleasant scent of damp earth that lingered in the air like incense. With sunshine bathing the space and the call of birds in the bare trees outside it might almost have been spring, although Spencer’s spirits hardly lifted.
Getting through each day without the aid of a bottle had been more difficult than he had anticipated—surely a sign Grace’s intervention had been sorely needed. With nothing to replace its dubious comfort he found himself left with too much time in which to think, only increasing the hours spent at the mercy of his dark memories and the thoughts of his wife that would not leave him in peace. They chased each other through his mind until in desperation he had strode into the garden, hoping for a moment’s respite.
He passed a hand across his face. I’m so tired of this. Would there ever be a time he wasn’t tossed about on a relentless sea of feelings he had to deny? It was exhausting, the constant battle to keep himself in check, even if his past mistakes made it an absolute necessity.
‘There you are! I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.’
Grace’s voice made him turn, its soft cadence as always dropping a lit match into the pit of his stomach.
‘I’m surprised to find you in here. I didn’t imagine you to have green fingers!’
She stood framed in the doorway, head tilted in the appealing way she had when curious. Held to her chest was a book of some kind and a small wooden box, a welcome distraction from the quizzical turn of her countenance and a lifeline Spencer seized at once. He could hardly tell her the truth of why he was practically hiding in such an unlikely place.
I needed to get away from my thoughts of you. I can scarcely think of anything else.
Perhaps not.
‘I just wanted to take some air. What are you holding?’
The hesitant look that stole over her face should have given Spencer reason for suspicion as Grace slowly unfolded her arms to show him more clearly what she held in each hand.
His brows twitched together as he took in the sketchbook and set of fine pencils. Evidently they belonged to Grace, her initials embossed on both in gilt lettering, although why she held them out to him so expectantly was less clear. Before he could open his mouth, however, she spoke with swift caution that finally made him see the trap she had set.
‘Now, before you say anything, let me explain.’ Grace peered up at him earnestly, eyes wide with innocent entreaty that made Spencer pause in his automatic refusal. ‘I know time has been hanging heavy on you since you changed your habits. I thought perhaps you might take up one of your old pastimes again, see if it brings you new amusement? Dorothea told me once how you used to love to sketch and showed great promise.’
Spencer raised an eyebrow, although his insides drew into a tight knot of dismay. What else had his mother told Grace of the secret sorrows he kept so determinedly inside? She’d known full well he hadn’t so much as blown the dust off his own sketchpad since Will had died, taking Spencer’s enjoyment of most things with him. The idea of revisiting the past sent the same old twist of pain through Spencer’s gut and he shook his head firmly, dismissing the suggestion at once.
‘I don’t think so. The thought is appreciated, but I’d rather not.’
‘Are you quite sure you won’t even try? You might surprise yourself.’
Spencer pressed his lips into a tight line. Some part of him—an unexpectedly large part, he realised in surprise—actually wanted to take the book Grace offered, to try to recapture some shadow of the passion he had once been able to feel. The warmth in her gaze was so encouraging, tempting him back to shore from the shipwreck of his emotions...
Could it be that his suffering might be helped? It was a possibility that made him pause. Sketching had taken up so much of his time in years gone by, often distracting him from even remembering to eat. Surely such a thing was a far healthier route to oblivion than the decanter and one Grace evidently approved.
Damn it all.
With a heavy sigh Spencer took the sketchpad and pencils from her, trying to avoid an upward twitch of his lips at her beam of delight.
You weakling. Self-imposed denial for two years gone in a matter of seconds to please a pretty woman.
‘Sit down, then.’ He nodded towards a chair set in a corner of the glasshouse, despite himself taking note of the composition of plants around it and the way sunlight fell to illuminate it against the lush green. It was as good a backdrop as any for a portrait and the prospect sent a faint ripple of interest through Spencer’s nerves; something he hadn’t felt in years.
When Grace didn’t move Spencer looked round at her as she hovered a few steps away, brow creased in a small frown.
‘I can’t draw you if you won’t sit down.’
She reached up to tuck a non-existent lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I didn’t mean for you to sketch me. Surely you’d prefer to take one of these plants as your subject? This fern here is very beautiful...’
Her voice tailed off as Spencer shook his head. ‘I’ve never cared for nature studies. Portraits are much more engaging, but if you’d rather not—?’
The question hung in the
air between them. Spencer felt Grace’s reluctance, a flicker of disappointment rising within him to meet it as he waited for her reply. Watching her as she stood among the scented leaves, hesitant and with her face lit by the sun streaming in from above, suddenly there was nothing he wanted more than to capture her for ever in pencil, to commit her loveliness to paper where it might never disappear. It was a startling feeling, but one he couldn’t have denied even if he’d wanted to—which was just as well, for it settled inside his ribs with an insistence that wouldn’t be ignored.
‘Very well. If it’ll please you.’
Spencer’s heart gave a small leap as Grace settled on to the chair and elegantly arranged herself against its cushions. Her posture was quite correct, shoulders back and chin up in the very image of a graceful young lady, but her fixed smile radiated self-consciousness and a faint blush crossed her cheeks.
‘Will this do?’
A wooden stool stood beneath one of the potting tables and Spencer retrieved it, seating himself before eyeing Grace with professional interest. ‘You’re a little stiff. It might help to think of something pleasant—you’ll relax, and your smile will look much more natural.’
‘I’ll try.’ A glimmer of doubt showed Grace didn’t think much of his advice, but she gave herself a small shake and took a deep breath, before visibly loosening the rigid set of her body, her lips lifting into a gentle curve that this time added a touch of life to her eyes where before they had been clouded with unease.
Spencer watched her for a moment, taking in the new softness of her expression with something close to awe. There were so many facets to her: shy yet bold, unhappy yet cheerful... She was like a chameleon, always shifting between versions of the same woman according to the situation. He had yet to see her thrust into a storm she couldn’t weather, her gentle exterior hiding a core of pure steel he wondered if she was even aware she possessed. How was he to reduce her to one image caught on a flat sheet of paper when the changing tide of her expression showed him a fresh angle each time he looked?
‘Perfect. Try to stay just like that.’
Attempting to push the unanswerable question out of his mind, Spencer took up one of the pencils, feeling the familiar contours he grasped with practised ease. He could almost have smiled at the way his hand acted of its own accord, testing the point against a corner of his page in a way he hadn’t done in more than two years. His fingers itched to begin, firm around the pencil as he looked up at his quiet model and felt a sense of peace begin to wash over him he barely remembered.
Hardly believing what he was doing, Spencer began, his hand sweeping across the page in long strokes as he sketched a basic outline. The details would build gradually, coming to life bit by bit until Grace looked up at him from the page, he hoped as realistically as possible.
Not that I’ll be able to completely capture the intelligent glint in her eye, or the shy sweetness of that smile.
As the sun glanced off her golden curls and her clear skin gleamed in the wintry February light she seemed more striking than ever and Spencer found it increasingly difficult to stem the urge to lay down his pencil and stare.
Instead he carried on sketching, the strange sensation of peacefulness that had begun to stir inside him growing until with a start he realised the usual scowl had left his brow and the habitual weight in his chest had eased a little, still there but somehow more manageable than before. It was uncanny, the effect such a simple distraction had on his emotions; combined with Grace’s calming stillness he might almost have felt a shadow of bizarre happiness, unexpected but more welcome than he ever would have believed.
* * *
Grace watched as Spencer’s dark eyes flicked towards her and then down again, his clever fingers skating over the page. Each time he glanced up it sent a curious thrill right through her, the concentration on his face only making his features more attractive—if such a thing were possible.
Just keep smiling. He’ll never know.
Think of something pleasant, he’d said, to make the turn of her lips more natural and her posture less rigor mortis. He probably hadn’t expected her to return to the moment he had presented her with the wedding ring that now gleamed on her finger, or the little vase of violets that stood beside their bed to fill the room with perfume. Those were two of the most delightful memories she had tucked away in the back of her mind and bringing them out made her smile more genuine than anything else could.
It was still unnerving to feel his sharp eyes study her so closely and her heart fluttered against her bodice. She’d never had her portrait sketched before; it was strangely uncomfortable to sit beneath his silent scrutiny and possibly not an experience she’d be in a hurry to repeat.
But that’s not the point. This was to take Spencer’s mind off his troubles, nothing else.
She hitched the smile back into place and tried to drown out the rogue whisper threatening to take the edge off her triumph. Her scheme certainly seemed to be working: Spencer was absorbed in his task, too focused to even wear his usual frown. His face was set, but more attentive than brooding, the hint of some startling animation just visible in his intense gaze.
I should have thought of this sooner, she mused, hardly able to credit the change. Perhaps we could have avoided some of the difficulties we’ve had. Then again...
Surely it was because of those clashes and awkward moments that they had arrived at such a pass? Spencer had needed to come to accept her help himself. He would never have allowed her to intervene before he had kissed her, influenced by his drinking. It was strange to think how their relationship had progressed and the memory of that night made Grace’s skin burn with unladylike heat. The feel of his lips pressed to hers, his strong arms around her and his weight bearing down on her with delicious friction... She felt herself drift off to replay that moment in her mind, as always feeling her breath catch when she recalled how her husband’s fingers had skimmed the sensitive curve of her ear—
‘Are you still comfortable sitting like that? I’m almost finished.’
Grace gave a start as Spencer’s voice dragged her from her scandalous thoughts, the blood in her already flushed cheeks rising again in traitorous warmth. How long had she sat there with such unsuitable images darting through her mind? Evidently longer than she realised and hopefully with no trace of her musings showing in her face as the man in question broke her trance.
‘Already? You’re a very brisk artist.’ She watched as his hand swept again with a confident flair, not able to see the page from her chair, but her imagination running wild. What would the portrait look like? Would he have been able to render her as skilfully as Dorothea had suggested?
‘Drawing is like falling off a log once you’ve learned how. The technique came flooding back at once, even though I hadn’t lifted a pencil since—’
Spencer bit off the end of his own sentence. He glanced up at her, the quickest of lightning looks, but his lips had clamped together in the stubborn line Grace knew only too well and she realised he had spoken without thinking.
When the suddenly tense silence between them stretched out Grace flexed her fingers held still in her lap, wondering if she dared voice the question that murmured in her ear. There might never be a better time to ask, Spencer having already opened the door to her query—but he had slammed it shut a split second after, the straight press of his mouth a clear indication he wouldn’t appreciate her involvement.
She flicked her eyes to his face, seeing the new rigidity in it where before there had been dawning pleasure, and gathered all the courage she could spare.
Do it for Dorothea. It’s what you promised, after all.
‘Not since William died? Is that what you were going to say?’
Nobody could have missed the immediate ripple of muscle as Spencer clenched his jaw, tendons flexing painfully with the harsh movement. He kept his focus firmly on the sketc
hbook balanced on his knee, but the atmosphere had changed to one of palpable wariness, crackling like an electric current in the air. The progress of his pencil didn’t cease, the careful strokes belying the frantic activity Grace knew must be whirling inside his mind. There was no denial, though, of her hesitant words—and so with her breathing starting to quicken Grace pushed on.
‘I thought it might have been. Dorothea told me you lost interest in most of your previous amusements after his loss...and that you never told her what happened the day he died. Are the memories truly so painful?’
As soon as the question left her lips Grace knew it was stupid, the answer blindingly obvious—but it might invite Spencer to share some of what he kept locked tightly inside, so she pushed aside the frustration at her own clumsiness to wait with burning cheeks for his reply.
Spencer’s hand paused for a moment before continuing to move, although he still didn’t look up from the page.
‘We all have regrets and things we’d prefer not to talk about. My brother is that thing for me—I suspect Mr Earls would be yours.’
Grace swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. With his head bent over his work Spencer’s face was hidden from her by the black curtain of his hair, but the carefully controlled flatness of his tone was enough to tell her she was in danger of straying too far.
‘You suspect correctly. That’s something I’d rather not dwell on any more than I have to.’
Henry was quite possibly the last person Grace wanted to recall at that moment. He was no longer welcome in her thoughts and never would be again, his humiliating treatment even now sending a wave of shame to crash over her.
‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything.’
For a moment Spencer said nothing, the sound of lead against fine paper the only sound within glass walls. When he finally raised his eyes to hers she saw something in them she struggled to name: not anger, but a gleam like warning in their cocoa depths.
Scandalously Wed to the Captain Page 13
