Scandalously Wed to the Captain

by Joanna Johnson

  ‘I fear you might be right. I think I finally understand how the actions of one can so affect the other.’

  The dark head turned away from her then, the complex expression that flared across chiselled features hidden from her as he moved. When he offered her his arm she took it, but the new dismay flared brighter at the silence with which he guided her back to the carriage and handed her inside, deep thought written in every line—although of what she could only guess.

  Winter sunlight still shone merrily as they jolted in the direction of Nevin Place, although all the light-heartedness of a mere half hour before had been sucked out of the carriage as if by some dark enchantment. Spencer sat gazing fixedly out of the window like a marble statue, stiff and immovable with whatever grim thoughts spun inside him. Echoes of the spite Henry’s friends had so gleefully spat still repeated themselves to jeer inside Grace’s mind alongside the heavy weight of Spencer’s discontentment, joining with the creak of the carriage and the sharp beat of the horses’ hooves to make a cacophony that made her head ache.

  How is it he seems so dissatisfied now? He was angry before, but now his mood seems darker than ever. What lesson did he take from my words?

  Too distracted by her own thoughts, Grace didn’t notice Spencer’s eye upon her, or expect it when she heard his voice finally slice through the silence between them.

  ‘I’d like to go with you.’

  She looked up from her lap. At her clear lack of understanding Spencer leaned closer, the gap between them shrinking to no distance at all as his knee came into contact with the black fabric of her cloak and a sharp unmaidenly thrill shot straight to Grace’s core at the touch of his leg against hers.

  ‘To see your father. I’ll escort you to visit the Fleet.’

  Grace blinked mutely, unable to be sure she’d heard correctly.

  From where did that decision spring?

  ‘You’ll—what?’

  Dawning wonder crept up on her as Spencer watched with something akin to a shadow of a smile. She wouldn’t go as far as to call it a real one—his lips were hardly curved out of their usual brooding line—but a faint glimmer of something lurked in his expression, increasing his already handsome features immeasurably.

  ‘You suffered the impertinence of those halfwits with admirable dignity, although you shouldn’t have had to. I thought perhaps a visit to your father might cheer you and make your situation a little easier to bear?’

  Grace drew in a soft breath. ‘Nothing would be more able!’

  ‘Then we’ll go. I have some business to attend to until Thursday week, but after that you can name the day.’

  Surprise, delight and bewilderment came together in an overwhelming rush of emotion that stole all words from Grace’s mouth. She would see Papa? After all these months, she would finally see Papa? She might as well have been a child again for the disbelieving excitement that welled within her, warmth spreading from her chest to light every nerve.

  All thoughts of the unpleasant words that had taunted her only minutes before were forgotten, all clouds gone in the blink of an eye to be replaced by pure sunlight. That Spencer had offered her the most precious gift she could have wished for made her so suddenly giddy that she could have taken leave of her senses; so it was that without thinking, without pausing to consider the wisdom of her actions, Grace reached out across the narrow gap between her seat and his, drew Spencer’s face to hers—and kissed him.

  It was the softest brush of her lips over his—the feather-light touch of the gentlest breeze stirring among blossoms—lasting mere seconds; yet the fire of yearning that one chaste touch sparked in Grace’s soul blazed at once with a flame nothing could have extinguished. It lasted only a moment and, as soon as she moved her hands from his cheeks to snatch them back to the safety of her own lap, she knew herself to have acted rashly, perhaps brazenly—yet the most defiant part of her spirit raised its head to boldly declare itself unrepentant. Her cheeks might burn with fierce heat and her heart leap within her like a deer through long grass, but the sensation of Spencer’s lips on hers was something she had ached to feel again ever since she had first tasted them, the night he had shown her some humanity still remained hidden deep down inside him that she longed to bring out into the light. Nothing could make her regret giving in to that temptation, or restrain her from showing the depth of gratitude Spencer had no way of knowing flowed through her as a bottomless sea.

  ‘Thank you, Spencer. Truly—thank you. You don’t know what that means to me!’

  He looked a little stunned as he sat back in his seat, although not—Grace saw with a kick of shy pleasure—displeased by her lapse of control. If anything, she thought she spied a glint of the same self-satisfaction any young man might show when praised by a pretty woman, although a moment later she wondered if she’d been mistaken. Spencer was above such petty charms, surely, and not likely to be moved by something so insignificant as a peck on the lips—but that did nothing to quell the conflagration that smouldered inside Grace, or to still the hands she gripped together tightly beneath the cover of her cloak to hide how they trembled with the urge to once again reach for the man who had so delighted her with the power of one simple promise. If her kiss had meant little to him, it had no bearing on her own confused delight; nor did it cause her to frown as she turned her face to the window so Spencer might not see the glow of her smile, cautiously questioning whether his feelings for her might not be as straightforward as she had once believed.

  Chapter Ten

  The sound of crunching beneath his boots followed Spencer all the way home from his accountant’s office, a pleasing accompaniment to the dazzling sight of all Lyme Regis covered in a blanket of early March snow. Each step was muffled by soft drifts not yet trodden down to dirty mush by too many feet and a curious kind of otherworldly quiet stretched out across the empty streets—nobody else was in sight besides Spencer as he turned in at the path to Nevin Place, a black shape outlined starkly against a backdrop of glittering white.

  I wonder if Grace will still be abed. It may be past eleven, but I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t put a nose outside of the covers on a day like this.

  She’d slept on, nestled among her pillows like a hibernating animal when he had slipped away some hours earlier. As ever, he had taken great pains not to accidentally brush the intriguing shape of her curled under thin linen. They might only share for appearances, but that seemed harder than ever for Spencer to remember these days and he could only hope she remained oblivious to the desires which gripped him night after night as he lay waking beside her, burning with the longing to reach out and touch.

  Rivers and Thorne stepped forward to relieve him of his hat and coat, but nothing was able to drown out the whispers that now nagged at the back of his mind. It had been a mistake to allow himself to dwell on the thought of Grace occupying his bed, but the thought was one too damnably tempting to be easily dismissed.

  Never before had a woman rendered him so helpless with so little effort. He’d been with women before, of course, in the years before he had so determinedly turned his heart to stone: merry, laughing girls who tumbled after him with smiles on their lips and hadn’t expected—or wanted—anything more from him. But Grace—Grace was another creature altogether. She might surrender to him out of duty if he asked it of her, playing on her desire to fulfil her obligations as a wife, but the idea of her surrendering against her own inclination was abhorrent.

  After her treatment by that idiot Earls when he had her heart—how galling to envy such an obvious simpleton—it was no wonder she still wished to hold part of herself in reserve, to keep back something Spencer would not be able to take and potentially destroy. There was still such sadness sometimes in the grey depths of her beautiful eyes, sadness he feared was tied to longing for the man she had loved before...so he would continue to wait, for hours in the inky darkness of night, listening to he
r gentle breathing with an ache in his chest and a yearning that could not be satisfied.

  He frowned at his reflection in the entrance-hall mirror as he straightened his black cravat. It was pointless to focus on such unhelpful thoughts. All they did was stir feelings within him about which he felt only confusion, each day that passed making them stronger until their power could no longer be denied—even to himself. The walls he had built around himself for so long were in grave danger of crumbling altogether, their foundations already threatened by the twin assaults of Grace’s good nature and a face that grew more lovely to him each time he saw it. If he had ever been at real risk of abandoning his restraint it was now, with an attachment to his unlikely wife that blossomed against all odds, like a flower in an arid desert that refused to wither and die.

  Rivers hovered at his elbow, an obliging wraith Dorothea had scooped up out of some unpromising start in life to take on as a maid. She’d woven black laces into the frilled edges of her cap, he noticed for the first time; a little mark of respect for her late mistress that was unexpectedly touching.

  ‘Is Mrs Dauntsey still above stairs?’

  ‘No, sir. She rose some time ago and has been in the gardens for no little while.’

  Spencer frowned. ‘In the gardens? What can she be doing? It’s cold enough to freeze Hephaestus’s forge out there!’

  A strange look crossed the maid’s face. She was far too respectful to smile at the question, but evidently something had diverted her. ‘In honesty, sir, I’d struggle to describe what the mistress is occupied with. It might be as well to see for yourself.’

  Curiosity unfurled in Spencer’s mind like smoke rising from a chimney.

  What are you about now, Grace?

  ‘Is that so? In that case I’d better have my coat back.’

  Rivers fetched it again from the hall armoire, the fabric still warm as Spencer threaded his arms into the sleeves. Venturing back out into the cold wasn’t a prospect that delighted him, but his interest in what could possibly make Grace venture forth likewise was too strong to ignore.

  A brief scan of the garden didn’t immediately offer any sightings of his elusive wife, although any one of the numerous well-kept hedges and trees could be concealing her. Closer inspection of the snowy ground revealed a set of neat boot prints leading from the door to skirt the glasshouse, disappearing behind an evergreen topiary peacock spreading its impressive tail against the red brick of the left boundary wall.

  Following the telltale tracks with rapt attention, a strange scrunching met his reddening ears, mixed with the unmistakable sound of an unseen someone’s slightly laboured breathing. The peacock loomed larger, its beak pointing accusingly at him as Spencer crept closer and peered round icy leaves—to finally discover what mysterious task took Grace from the snug comfort of her bed out into the merciless cold.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  Grace started, the tall mass of snow she was busily patting into a column wobbling ominously.

  ‘You startled me!’ She looked up from her low crouch, not moving away from whatever it was she saw in the shapeless heap. ‘I could have knocked my snowman over and had to start again!’

  He watched for a moment as Grace resumed her meticulous patting and smoothing, concentrating on her task. The pile wasn’t as formless as he had first thought, he realised now. Two rudimentary arms were held either side of a rather portly torso, although the figure seemed to blend into the ground at the thick base rather than stand on discernible legs.

  ‘You’ve some skill at this.’

  ‘It isn’t my first time. As soon as I saw the snow this morning I knew I couldn’t rest until I’d been out to build in it!’

  The unlikely contrast between Grace’s proper manners and this unexpected folly was so great Spencer could only shake his head in bemusement.

  ‘Is that not a little childish?’

  If she hadn’t been so well bred he might have suspected Grace of being on the cusp of rolling her eyes. ‘There’s a good deal of difference between childish and young at heart, you know. My sisters and I would make one of these every time the snow fell—sometimes even Papa would help and nobody could ever accuse him of childish behaviour!’

  Spencer spread his hands in defeat. ‘I stand corrected. Building snowmen is evidently a very worthwhile and commendable undertaking.’

  Grace’s smile was all the reward he ever could have needed for his grudging acceptance. ‘Quite so. I’m glad you’ve seen reason.’

  She retreated a couple of crunchy steps to admire her work, little white clouds of breath coming slightly faster with exertion. With gloved hands on hips she surveyed her work with narrowed eyes, which widened as she turned them on Spencer with a look of enquiry.

  ‘Come along, then.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, come along. If we’re to have this gentleman finished by luncheon, you’ll have to do more than stand around staring at him!’

  It took a moment for him to realise she was being sincere. ‘You want me to help? You want me to join you in...this?’

  The expectant smile flickered a little. ‘I thought perhaps you might. As I said, it’s something I always used to do with my sisters and possibly Papa; with none of them here I admit it’s not quite the same.’

  A disagreeable sensation flared in the region of his chest at the note of sadness in Grace’s voice, valiantly concealed, but present none the less.

  Building snowmen, of all things?

  It was the kind of silliness he hadn’t taken part in since—well, he hardly knew when. Only children and the simpleminded would enjoy such a thing, surely—and yet the hopeful turn of Grace’s countenance gripped him firmly by the heart and would not let go.

  You know she’s had precious little to smile about of late.

  The memory of the enraging scene in the bookshop surfaced to stir Spencer’s ire once again, her pale face as she had fled something he knew he would never forget.

  What would it cost you to humour your wife in her sadness?

  ‘Very well,’ he muttered, gruff as any crotchety old man caught out in uncharacteristic sentiment. ‘I’ll help. What am I to do?’

  ‘Oh! Truly?’ She brightened again at once. ‘You can gather some snow for his head, please, while I build up his shoulders. A few big handfuls should do.’

  Still not entirely convinced he hadn’t run mad, Spencer dutifully went about his task.

  If Mother could see me now she would either faint with shock or fall over laughing.

  Either reaction was as likely as the other, he thought as he scooped great piles of snow up between his hands and watched as delicate flakes clung to his gloved fingers, shining in the wintry sunlight like tiny jewels.

  ‘Is this enough?’

  ‘Plenty. Now, if you just shape it a little so it’s more of a ball—’

  Grace nodded encouragingly as Spencer squashed the icy whiteness into a rough approximation of a sphere, or a rather misshapen head.

  ‘—and perch it on his shoulders.’

  Spencer placed the lump on top of the leaning tower and eyed it doubtfully. ‘Like that?’

  ‘Exactly like that!’

  Grace’s grey eyes sparkled with new pleasure as he watched her carefully pat down the flaking pile of snow, her face alight and so animated for a moment she looked the most captivating woman he had ever seen. Standing in the bleached fairyland of his sunlit garden with her nose pink and her cheeks flushed with innocent happiness, to Spencer there was no other in all the world who would ever eclipse her.

  I wish this moment would never end. If only we could be like this for ever.

  It was the first time he had allowed his feelings to declare themselves so boldly and he found himself rocked by the realisation it was the truth. Somehow, somewhere along the twisting and turning
road of their journey together Spencer’s resistance to Grace’s straightforward charms had begun to falter, until he arrived at the pass he had come to so gradually it had hardly felt like he’d been moving at all. Each day had chipped away at his studied indifference and now he was helpless in the face of the knowledge that shook him: that he was slowly but surely falling in love with the one woman who ever could have managed to melt the ice in his soul.

  Grace’s eager voice broke Spencer’s trance.

  ‘All we need now is some eyes and he’ll be complete!’

  She bent and ferreted two smooth pebbles from beneath the snow, holding them out to him triumphantly. ‘Would you like the honour of the finishing touch?’

  ‘I’m sure I’d be delighted.’

  Conscious of Grace’s eyes upon him, Spencer took his time in carefully positioning the stones in the figure’s rough-hewn face.

  ‘Very handsome!’ Grace’s beam of satisfaction warmed Spencer right down to his toes. ‘I think, if I may, I’d like to name him Robert, for my papa, who thanks to you we shall see very soon.’

  She gently touched the snowman’s cold cheek as though it belonged to his flesh-and-blood namesake, her smile softening into a small, wistful thing that made her look so vulnerable Spencer ached with the desire to catch her up and hold her close to him, to shield her from anything that might dare make her seem so sweetly sad.

  What I wouldn’t give to be able to do such a thing. What I wouldn’t give to allow myself that freedom and for her to want me in that kind of way.

  Grace retreated a small distance away, probably to survey her work from another angle, and Spencer likewise turned his attention to the substitute father-in-law who gleamed on his frosted lawn.

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘Well...at home, something always followed to officially mark the completion of the snowman.’

  ‘And what was that?’