Scandalously Wed To The Captain. Joanna JohnsonЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three

      Spencer strode through the house to his library with his jaw clenched on rising bad temper, trying with each footstep to outpace the thoughts that pursued him. The same old nightmare, the one he dreaded more than any other, had visited him as he slept the previous night and the combination of waking bathed in sweat and the tiredness that resulted from it did not improve his mood. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep that tore at him, however, or the usual sickening guilt that made him reach for the nearest bottle. Ever since Grace’s arrival two weeks before he’d found it increasingly difficult to find an escape from the troubling reaction her presence provoked in him and it was becoming more vexing by the day.

      It wasn’t as though he had any real basis for complaint, some irritable part of him recognised. The difference in his mother was striking, even after such a short time, and the change in her would have cheered anybody to see it. She still tired easily and the slow sinking of her features into her drawn face hadn’t ceased, but there was a gleam in her eye Spencer hadn’t seen for months and it was plain Grace’s company was the cause. The regular visits from Mrs Linwood and her three younger daughters had helped, too, no doubt, but it was Grace who was always busily arranging a warm shawl about Dorothea’s shoulders or making suggestions to the cook that might tempt her to take more than a mouthful. He would have to admit having Grace come to live with them, comfortably installed in her own private rooms, was the best thing that could have happened for his mother—especially given his own behaviour had played a large part in her isolation.

      No. He couldn’t complain. And yet...

       She’s handsome when she smiles.

      The unwelcome thought flashed through Spencer’s mind yet again and he scowled to himself in a combination of frustration and alarm. Not this nonsense again. Is there no escaping it?

      It was irritatingly true that Grace’s countenance grew in appeal the longer one looked at her. At first sight her fair skin had seemed colourless to him, her pale hair and eyes frankly a little bland, but closer inspection showed an almost pearlescent quality to her complexion and, when the shadows of sadness cleared, her eyes sparkled with an intelligence that would surely interest any sensible man. Even the fragility of her slight frame took on a new elegance after reluctant study, her movements measured and step quiet as she moved through his house.

      But it was that smile—that damned smile—that made the biggest difference. It gave life to her face and animation to her features, highlighting the graceful contours of her pronounced cheekbones as though a candle flickered behind them. Only a simpleton could ever think she was plain after seeing that curve of her lips and the tiny dimple that appeared in one soft cheek—

       No!

      Spencer brought his fist down hard on his thigh as he walked, the furrow between his brows growing deeper by the second.

       This will not do!

      He shook his head fiercely against the unwanted barrage of images that bombarded him. Dwelling on a woman’s beauty was for other men, men who hadn’t caused such terrible destruction with their misplaced affections. It was for them to stare and pine and write poems praising their lady’s limitless charms: all things he could no longer entertain since his catastrophic entanglement with Constance had caused such devastation. Love and death walked side by side in his mind now. Guilt ran like an icy river beneath both, linking them together with its cold fingers, and no amount of time would thaw the frost that formed around his heart. Grace might have attracted his attention for some absurd reason, but she would never be allowed to be anything more to him than a reluctantly hosted guest. The consequences were too stark and the risk of unimaginable pain could have made a weaker man shudder.

       Not that she would want to be anything more. That idiot Henry Earls has cured her of any such notions once and for all, I fancy.

      With a fresh wave of aggravation Spencer wrenched his focus away to remember the decanter waiting for him beside his favourite reading chair, which would provide some relief, hopefully, from the disloyal workings of his mind. Whether drink had become his closest friend or worst enemy was becoming difficult to tell these days, he thought darkly; but it was the only thing that helped silence the demons that plagued him, and with the added complication of Grace moving warily about his home his mind felt more troubled than ever.

      The library door stood slightly ajar when he reached it and pushed through with an impatient hand. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been quite so surprising, then, to find someone already in the room, although Spencer’s thoughts were too occupied to consider the possibility until his heart gave a sudden lurch at the sight that met his eyes.

      Grace sat curled in the very armchair he had been aiming for, her legs tucked beneath her and eyes intent on a dog-eared book Spencer recognised at once. It was one of a pair Mr Dauntsey had given his sons eight years before on the last birthday they would spend with him, the name of one twin inscribed in each in their father’s slanting hand. Spencer’s copy lay safely in his untidy desk, so it had to be William’s that Grace held in slender fingers, poring over the contents with her delicate profile thrown into sharp relief by the window behind her head. It was a pose Spencer suddenly remembered vividly from when Grace was a girl, too shy to speak much in his presence, but she was far more confident now, an intelligent and accomplished young woman, and the knowledge kindled something within the broad spread of his chest.

      Pull yourself together, man. So she reads—what of it? She always was a bluestocking.

      She hadn’t noticed him standing uncertainly in the doorway. Engrossed in her book, Spencer was at perfect liberty to take in the blonde tendrils that gleamed softly in the winter sunlight as they tumbled about cheeks it would surely be a fine thing to touch... It was an unacceptable urge, but one that roared up with a power that shocked him, strong enough to cause the faintest flicker of something long hidden deep within him to attempt to spark into life.

      Spencer took a breath to centre himself, alarmed by the unwanted direction of his thoughts.

       You shouldn’t think like that. Have you no control?

      It was bad enough to feel such things in private—to do so in Grace’s presence was even worse. She’d be horrified if she suspected how his mind wandered, he was sure; aside from a polite greeting each morning she barely spoke to him, apparently unwilling to spend much time in his company. Any accord they might have enjoyed as children had long since dissipated, chased away by the brusque new identity the loss of Will had forced Spencer, in his guilt and boundless grief, to adopt.

      He ought to say something, probably, and stop lingering in doorways, but it was strangely difficult to think what that something should be—especially