Scandalously Wed to the Captain

by Joanna Johnson

  ‘As you said so eloquently: my last day with Will is something I’d rather not dwell on. I’d be grateful if you didn’t ask again.’

  Grace swallowed, all too aware of the dryness of her mouth. That Spencer hadn’t been frankly offended was nothing short of a miracle, and surely a sign their strange marriage was slowly growing warmer? It was a thought too tantalising to consider, although it lingered in the back of Grace’s mind to make her wonder...

  As if reading her mind Spencer fixed her with a knowing look, one dark eyebrow raised. ‘I will not be laying bare my soul to you, Grace. Not now, not in ten years or more.’ Another shadow of that warning edged each word, flatly resolute. ‘So you may put that from your mind.’

  ‘If that’s your wish, but—’

  ‘It is. Now. Are you ready to see your portrait?’

  Even Grace knew when she was beaten, although the smallest flicker of determination remained. Spencer might have won this battle, but she had promised Dorothea she would win the war—and she would not be surrendering without a fight.

  But this wasn’t the moment for that siege. Instead Grace nodded, suddenly shy as she took the sketchpad Spencer handed to her with an ironic flourish.

  She looked at the pencil likeness in quiet amazement, silent as she took in the skill of Spencer’s hand.

  The face peeping up at her wore a half-smile, full lips curving to drop a dimple in one cheek. A pair of intelligent eyes framed by long lashes seemed to sparkle with real light and the elegant line of the bone structure only added to the impression of serenity in the young face, timelessly pretty and gazing calmly out at the world as though she knew its secrets. He had even captured the slight taper of her chin, although his rendering was far softer than the point Grace had so often despaired of in various mirrors. In all it was a thing of wonder, Spencer’s talent shining through despite the flattering liberties Grace felt sure he had taken with his clever strokes.

  ‘I hardly know what to say. It’s wonderful!’ She couldn’t take her eyes off it, each glance showing new detail picked out in curving graphite. ‘The way you’ve caught the play of light and shadow...it’s just so life-like, if a little complimentary to the sitter.’

  Spencer stepped round to stand behind her chair, looking over her shoulder at the sketchbook in her hands. He was close enough for her to feel the tickle of his breath on her neck and she had to check an instinctive shiver as sensation glittered across her nape.

  ‘Complimentary?’

  ‘Just a little.’ Grace gave a shaky laugh, although her throat had tightened at Spencer’s sudden proximity. ‘You’ve drawn me a good deal prettier than I am in the flesh, although I appreciate you being so kind.’

  There was a short pause—a few seconds when no sound came from behind her chair. It took her right back to the stormy day he had marched her to this house and set the ball rolling on their strange relationship, when he had stood at her back and glared down at her as though she was an intruder he longed to be rid of. Now when he answered it was in a voice quite unlike that terse tone of only a short time before, the difference so startling it took a moment for Grace to realise what he said.

  ‘I disagree. To my eye it’s entirely accurate.’

  Any hope of reply vanished as Grace stared fixedly at the drawing in her hand, suddenly blind to what was before her. Nothing could have compelled her to turn and look into Spencer’s face as a flood of molten gold worked its way down to her toes, seeping through every nerve to dazzle her with its lustre. She sat frozen to the spot, Spencer’s delicious words echoing in her ears until they rang so loudly she could scarcely hear herself think.

  This is how he sees me? He truly thinks I’m this handsome?

  The picture was a million miles from the perception of herself she’d held ever since she could remember. Solemn and pale, her looks had never felt like much of an asset—certainly they hadn’t been enough to hold Henry’s attention after her fortune had disappeared without trace. Spencer had seen something in her she hadn’t thought existed, her confidence in her value so shattered by her former fiancé’s rejection it seemed hard to believe what she was seeing.

  But there could be no denying what was before her very eyes. It was the frank truth and Grace could only blink in dazed wonder that it was her reluctant husband, of all people, who should have sent such shy pleasure stealing through her bones. If Henry had ever said such a thing, she would know now the compliment was born of manipulation, of trying to worm his way in to profit from their intimacy. Spencer, however... She knew him well enough to see the complete lack of artifice in him, his honesty so glaringly different from the false charm that had dropped from Henry’s lying lips. If Spencer said the luminous woman who gazed at her from the page was a true likeness, he meant every word.

  Grace ran a fingertip over the lines of her sketched cheekbones, tracing the contours rendered so skilfully. She still hardly knew what to say, but with Spencer at her back and her skin tingling at the sense of his closeness she had to summon up something.

  ‘It’s wonderful. I’ll treasure it always.’

  Her mind was too full of a buzz of amazement, pleasure and confusion to hear much of Spencer’s reply, although the dim part of her not consumed by bewilderment thought he sounded pleased. The success of her plan should have made Grace satisfied likewise, for a short while at least distracting Spencer from his thoughts, but it was difficult to think of anything other than the chaos exploding behind her ribs.

  ‘To my eye it is entirely accurate.’ That’s what he said.

  Something between them had changed. There was surely no other explanation for his uncharacteristic praise of her where once there had been only tolerance, or her desire to cling to his words, defying the caution she had thought to keep so steadfast. Both she and Spencer seemed to be creeping carefully towards raising their heads above the parapets of their defences, to regard each other across the gulf between them in a wary truce that would once have been unthinkable—although only time would tell whether it was a development they would come to regret.

  Chapter Nine

  Standing before the green-painted front door, Spencer reached up once again to adjust the position of his cravat in an unthinking tic of apprehension. At his side Grace slid him a look that bordered on amused and he whipped his hand away at once, affecting not to have noticed.

  ‘If I didn’t know better I’d think you were nervous.’

  ‘Of course I’m not. I just don’t relish the prospect of having to socialise.’

  That’s partly the truth, he thought as he fought the upward twitch of his hand once again.

  He hadn’t seen the Linwoods since the death of his mother and his clandestine marriage, Grace carrying out her visits alone with the excuse of his being in mourning. Even while Dorothea was still alive he’d excused himself after a stiff greeting whenever they called, unwilling to force an hour of awkward small talk that might stray too close to revisiting the past... But that had been before something changed in the way Grace looked at him, before the distance between them seemed somehow less vast, and now he found himself more eager to make a good impression on her family than he wanted to admit. Vague memories of the house he now stood outside danced before him, of visits he had made while his own family was still intact and all but himself hadn’t lain quiet in their graves, hopefully finding each other in the afterlife while he made his way without them.

  He felt Grace’s eye upon him again, another gleam of that knowing look, but she was given no chance to reply as the door to Number Four Regent Square was flung open and a veritable flood of females came spilling out in a storm of muslin and delighted chatter.

  ‘Grace! How good it is to have you here again!’

  ‘How we have missed you!’

  ‘Are you well? You look so pale! And upon my word—what is that bonnet you’re wearing?’

  Taking a s
tep backwards away from the fray, Spencer watched for a moment as Grace was embraced by her sisters and then her beaming mama, who held her so tightly he almost thought he heard bones crack, a sight that sent an unexpected skewer of pain right through him. He would never be embraced by his own mother ever again, he remembered with a dart of sudden sadness, but then Mrs Linwood’s eye settled on him and with a flurry of unease Spencer dropped the most dignified bow he could muster.

  ‘Spencer! How truly wonderful to have you here!’ Mrs Linwood bustled towards him and seized both of his hands before Spencer had time to blink. ‘I can’t tell you how much we have all looked forward to seeing you. You must come inside out of the cold at once!’

  For such a small woman Grace’s mother had a very firm grip and Spencer felt himself propelled into the house with no little force. He only had time to shoot Grace one alarmed glance over her mother’s head before he was placed firmly into a fine chair before a roaring fire, to experience the uncanny sensation of being fixed with four pairs of good-natured eyes.

  ‘Ring the bell for tea, Cecily, and Peg—do pull that curtain a fraction. The sun is in dear Spencer’s face, I’m quite sure.’

  Mrs Linwood settled herself in another chair next to his own, Grace arranging herself neatly on a plush sofa at his other side, her quiet presence reassuring beneath more scrutiny than Spencer had endured in months.

  ‘That’s better. We want our guest to be as comfortable as possible, don’t we, girls?’

  The three Miss Linwoods beamed across at him from their perches on various seats the other side of the fire, each a slightly distorted version of Grace as though challenging him to spot the difference. Margaret, a girl of about eleven by Spencer’s estimation, seemed to smile the brightest, although with a hint of shyness that immediately reminded him of that he had often seen in Grace’s expression. Her younger sister’s face was more round in contrast to Grace’s oval, but the fair hair was the same and the voice when she spoke a similar well-mannered murmur.

  ‘Are we to call you brother now, Spencer?’ She looked at him eagerly, her childish face alight. ‘I have often thought it would be so nice to have one.’

  Something deep inside him twisted sharply, sending a cold shard through to his chest. Margaret’s innocent words mirrored the lament he had muttered to himself too many times to count, often with a glass clenched in one tight fist. She had no way of knowing, of course, what images she had conjured, although the subtle turn of Grace’s head in his direction as though sensing his pain gave him reason for pause.

  His wife’s little hand lay on the arm of the sofa, mere inches from his own, and the urge to reach for it gripped him with instinctive force. Instead, however, he laced his fingers together on the broad spread of his own lap and regarded her sister with his best attempt at polite interest—not his strongest suit.

  ‘Indeed? For my part, you know I have never had a sister.’ A glance at Grace, a little tense beside him, prompted him to continue, the idea of pleasing her with his reply exasperatingly strong. The memory of her face that day in the glasshouse as she looked down at his drawing with such a shy, sweet smile rose up again and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to see it again. How it was her happiness had come to be so important to him he hardly knew, but it was a fact he found himself less and less inclined to fight. ‘How fortunate for me I am now blessed with so many.’

  It was a trite reply, the kind any nervous young man might use to sweet-talk his darling’s family, but the sight of Grace’s surprise, her face now free of the wary shadow that had followed her into the house, was all the reward Spencer could have wanted for his uncomfortably earnest words. Mrs Linwood looked perfectly satisfied at his praise of her daughters and the girls themselves seemed only too pleased with their new brother’s candour—so much so that nobody seemed to notice he had avoided Margaret’s question, or remember after a maid appeared with a heavily laden tray.

  There was still a touch of surprise lingering on Grace’s face as she handed him a cup and more than a touch in her voice when she leaned closer, beneath the fluttering distraction of tea being served, to murmur into his ear. The sensation of her breath on his skin sent a jolt of pure energy flooding through his every nerve and it was difficult to focus on the words she spoke in low disbelief.

  ‘I had no idea you could be so charming. My mother seems quite enamoured already.’

  ‘Well.’ He shrugged, trying to ignore the damnable jitter her whisper sent through him. ‘Even I know there are some it would be churlish to show disregard.’

  ‘Is that so? I wonder if I ought to be offended it’s only my mama and sisters who receive such treatment.’ She withdrew before he could reply, but a small upward curve played about her lips and Spencer felt gripped with the sudden desire to watch the tentative smile grow.

  When everybody was in possession of a steaming teacup and reseated daintily in their places Mrs Linwood turned slowly to Spencer, her previous cheer replaced by a look of such gentle sorrow that a flash of concern darted through his mind, momentarily distracting him from his secretive study of Grace’s mouth.

  ‘I’m so very glad you decided to join us here today. You’ve been so often in our thoughts since the loss of Dorothea.’ The older woman’s voice was soft in the quiet that settled in the room like a cloak of silence, the Miss Linwoods averting their eyes in well-bred sympathy. ‘She was a true friend to us when we were most in need and we are more grateful than you will ever know for her kindness towards Grace especially.’

  She patted Spencer’s hand in a movement so filled with feeling he found himself unable to immediately respond, only capable of watching as the trio of blonde heads seated across from him bobbed in unison. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grace’s fingers twitch in his direction and wondered—with a flicker of anticipation—if she was going to brush his own; but she must have thought the better of it and Spencer pushed aside his absurd disappointment to reply.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I know she was only sorry she couldn’t do more.’

  Mrs Linwood shook her head, still regarding him with compassion that could not be faked. ‘By taking Grace in she allowed us to keep our home—what more could anyone ask? We’ve had to economise, it’s true, but with my little savings and the sale of some trifles we have enough now to weather the storm. Without Dorothea we would have nothing...and without you Grace would not have the prospect of a future.’

  For a moment nobody spoke, the soft collapse of charred logs in the fireplace the only sound. Spencer stared into the flames, seeing nothing of their orange tongues as he turned Mrs Linwood’s words over inside his head, a chill sliding upwards towards his chest as the picture of his mother’s serene, lifeless face returned to haunt him. It took its place beside those of his father and Will, terrible reminders of all he had lost...

  It was uncanny how easily Grace was sometimes able to read his thoughts. Her fingers once again wavered in the direction of his chair and this time Spencer felt all the air leave his lungs as her hand settled on his forearm in a gesture of consolation she had no way of knowing made every nerve in his body stand to attention. She didn’t even look at him, but two spots of bright colour appeared on her cheeks her pallor had no hope of hiding.

  If Mrs Linwood noticed the suddenly fixed set of Spencer’s expression she gave no sign, although he could have sworn he saw little Margaret’s eyes grow round with fascination as Grace’s hand moved slowly back and forth along his sleeve, each touch sending ripples of delight through to his innards. All rationality seemed to have deserted him as he focused on the feeling of those slender fingers’ steady progress up and down his arm.

  ‘I’m sure we can all learn from Dorothea’s kindness and try to be a little more like her.’

  A sad pause threatened to fall over the party, each person within the cosy sitting room reflecting on the sorrows of a life taken too soon. Only the gentle retraction of Gr
ace’s hand back to her own lap broke the spell on Spencer’s attention, so transfixed had he been by her touch, and he ended the heavy silence with a forced cough.

  ‘It would have been a pleasure to meet Mr Linwood again, had circumstances allowed. Do you receive word from him often?’

  ‘A letter came only this morning.’ Cecily, a slight girl of about seventeen, answered with the same sweet voice Grace shared with Margaret. Some of the animation had crept back into her face, evidently pleased to have heard from her beloved papa. ‘He writes as often as he is able and we take it in turns to reply. It is the highlight of our week when we see his handwriting on the envelope.’

  ‘As it ought to be, for it is the only trace of Papa we get to see.’ Lucy, the most like Grace of all the sisters save for the dusting of freckles across her nose, carefully avoided meeting anybody’s eye as she stirred her tea. ‘If Mama allowed us to visit him, of course, we wouldn’t have to rely solely on his letters.’

  Spencer felt Grace shift a little on her blue-striped sofa, although her face when he glanced at her was determinedly blank. Her younger sisters, however, clearly had yet to develop her control, for their mouths turned down and Margaret sighed audibly into her teacup.

  It was evidently a sore subject, Spencer realised at once. Mrs Linwood never faltered for a moment, but the stiffening of Grace’s posture, imperceptible to all but the most interested audience—as Spencer had to admit he was—gave the game away.

  ‘Come now, girls—don’t let us be melancholy. Spencer will think twice about visiting us again if he thinks he will be met with long faces!’ Grace’s mother reached out to stroke Margaret’s cheek, prompting a slow smile. ‘We mustn’t scare him away so soon!’

  Spencer shook his head, alarm kindling inside him. The last thing he wanted was to be the kind of tiresome guest people dreaded seeing, the knowledge of his reputation for unfriendliness never far from his mind. ‘Don’t let me be a consideration in—’