Scandalously Wed to the Captain
Author
Joanna Johnson
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17.0K
Chapters
14
Bound to a stranger… in a secret ceremony! With her finances, reputation and heart all broken by a family scandal, Grace Linwood seeks employment. But the lady she's companion to isn't long for this world. She's intent on seeing Grace protected and quickly wed to her son, curt and closed-off Captain Spencer Dauntsey. With little choice, all Grace can say is "I do"… but who is the man she has just married?
Chapter One
Grace Linwood stared out at the flat haze of the horizon until she could no longer tell if the tang of salt on her tongue was from the sea spray or her own tears.
How long she’d stood on the rain-lashed Cobb she couldn’t say; only that when Henry Earls had pushed a piece of paper into her hand he had worn a halo of January sunlight and now that same sun was setting over the sea somewhere far beyond her reach.
The cries of gulls wheeling overhead mixed with the whistle of wind in her ears, its invisible hands lifting her cloak to snap behind her as though it were alive. Tiny needles of rain pricked at her cold cheeks, at the hands that held a letter between nerveless fingers, but Grace was numb to everything but the lead weight of despair that had settled behind her breastbone.
In light of your father’s recent incarceration I must rescind my offer of marriage. The unfortunate reversal in your position and fortune render me unable to continue our engagement and I am certain you will be good enough to release me from any obligation towards you.
A hot tide of tears rose up, stinging her eyes alongside the salt spray thrown into her face. If only they would stop coming. Surely there couldn’t be many left to fall, but each time she recalled Henry’s callous words pain twisted like a knife in her guts and a fresh stream fell to mingle with the rain.
Perhaps some part of her should have questioned why such a man would notice her, pursue her above all the other young ladies of Lyme Regis, who danced and sang and flirted as brazenly as they dared, bright eyes fixed on whichever fortunate gentleman sparked their interest.
I was never one of their number.
Too bookish, too quiet, too plain—it had seemed a miracle when Henry singled her out less than a year previously, asking her to partner him in a quadrille, and the strange thrill that had torn a gasp from her lips at the first touch of his hand on hers was something she would never forget. Staring out across the barren sea, Grace felt those same lips twist into a grimace of pain no words could hope to capture as she recalled another unforgettable moment: how he had left her that afternoon, turning and walking away from her for ever without so much as a backward glance at the woman whose heart he had just ripped from her chest. There could surely be no better proof his interest had only ever stretched as far as her connections and fortune, and now she had neither there was nothing left for him to covet.
The approach of a pair of older women hurrying along behind her, heads tucked down and cloaks clutched tightly to them, almost made Grace turn. Instead, she stepped closer to the Cobb’s slippery edge as she heard their voices lower into rapid whispers as they passed by her without so much as a nod, the words barely audible above the keen of the wind, but their tone of malice unmistakable.
‘...surprised she dare stir out of doors...a shameful business...’
‘They claim he was wrongfully accused! They’ll have to give up that fine house, and with so many daughters...’
‘Bankrupt, I heard. Can’t imagine her young man will stay much longer, or that any other is like to make advances now.’
Grace flinched as each barbed word pricked her with their poison. It was hard enough that everything they said was true without the bleak reality of her situation thrown into her face: with no money, no good name and the shame of an incarcerated father—wrongfully or otherwise—neither Grace nor her three younger sisters could hope for any man half as eligible as Henry to so much as glance in their direction ever again, let alone allow himself to be shackled to a wife so humbled to dust.
She drew her hand across her eyes, feeling the wet tracks that streaked her cheeks, and took a deep breath like fire in her lungs.
‘Enough. Enough of this now.’
Crying would do nothing. No words would bring Henry back to her arms, nor any river of tears make him change his mind. Nothing could undo Papa’s mistake, his willingness to see the best in others the sorry cause of his family’s disgrace. Mama’s face was already drawn with worry, deep lines creasing the formerly smooth plane of her forehead below blonde curls that matched Grace’s own; she wouldn’t add to her mother’s burden by arriving home with trembling lips and eyes made red by weeping.
The thought of Mama’s tired face sent a fresh shard lancing through Grace’s insides and she pressed a cold hand to the place where her unhappiness lay like a rock in her stomach.
It wasn’t just my future that was tied to Henry’s love of me—or lack of it.
Freed from the expense of maintaining all four daughters, Mama might have been able to scrape together enough money to allow them to remain in their home. This was now surely but a fantasy and Grace felt herself sag in mute despair.
She closed her eyes, screwing them shut against the grey creep of dusk. The roar of the waves and plaintive cries of gulls called to her, curiously melancholy and mingling with her grief. She should leave this rain-sodden place and go home to face her poor mother’s disappointment, she knew, but something inside her held her fast to the spot on which she had last seen Henry, where she had realised her only chance at happiness had slipped from her grasp like sand through her fingers.
The wind had picked up, its strength increasing with the final disappearance of the sun’s feeble rays. It whipped about Grace like a pack of savage wolves, plucking at the ribbons on her bonnet and flattening her skirts against the chill flesh of her legs. With her eyes still tight shut and her mind reeling with anguish, perhaps it was inevitable that a particularly strong gust caught her off guard—all Grace knew was that one moment she was standing buffeted by the harsh coastal air, the next that her cloak had swirled round to unbalance her and then the world was tilting, the wet ground sliding beneath her feet.
Far too late she realised how close she stood to the edge. Her eyes flew wide as she grasped for something to save her, anything but the sickeningly empty air that surrounded her on all sides. Henry’s letter slid from her outstretched hand, fluttering away like a small white bird to drift out across the sea—but there was nothing Grace could do as she felt her balance shift to follow it, her heart leaping up into her throat in a silent cry of terror as she began, for what felt like a tortuously slow eternity, to fall.
‘Watch out!’
Grace’s head snapped back so abruptly her neck screamed in pain, the movement forcing a cry from her gaping mouth. The tumbling waves surged below her, spray reaching for her with freezing fingers, but they came no closer and when her senses jolted back into order she became aware of a vice-like grip encircling the top of her arm, the strength of one large hand the only thing restraining her from a drop that with a sudden wave of nausea she realised could have killed her.
Her unseen saviour jerked her back from the Cobb’s edge with a rough movement that made her wince. Still reeling, she turned to face him on shaking legs, her breath coming hard in short, painful pants as she struggled to control the frenzied racing of her heart. It took a moment for her to register the identity of the man whose countenance she peered up into, who returned her look with a scowl, but when her whirling mind finally managed to place his familiar features it was with a sharp punch of shock that she recalled his name.
Captain Spencer Dauntsey?
All the fright of a split second before faded into the background as she stared up into that face with frozen disbelief, weeks and months scrolling backwards in her memory until clicking to a halt on the last day she had seen him. Because it had to be him: eight years might have passed since she had watched in dismay as the identical, newly fatherless Dauntsey twins swung up on to their horses and turned for the long road to York, but there could be no mistaking that dark hair or the masculine cleft in a well-shaped chin. Only Spencer’s nose ever made it possible to tell which brother was which; healed badly after a break, its crooked line had always struck Grace as strangely attractive. The irregularity gave him—in her eyes at least—an advantage over William, whose pristine profile somehow hadn’t made her younger heart beat faster beneath skinny ribs in quite the same way. It had been a sad day for Grace’s mother when Mrs Dauntsey left Lyme Regis following the death of her husband and headed north with her sons to settle near their first posting, as well as spelling the end of Grace’s wistful fancies. The pair of matriarchs had kept up a warm correspondence afterwards, trading news of the twins’ military progress and other triumphs, although for the past two years Mrs Linwood’s letters had been unable to find their recipient and all attempts at tracing the Dauntseys had failed. In the absence of anything else to do Mrs Linwood hoped her old friend was well, wherever she was, and her two fine sons likewise...which had been Grace’s hope, too, until evidence that was not the case stood in front of her, glowering and showing not the faintest glimmer of recognition for the girl he had last seen as a blushing child of thirteen, now before him a grown woman of twenty-one.
‘What the devil were you thinking?’ Her grudging rescuer glared down at her, a pair of dark eyebrows drawn tightly together above warm brown eyes—the colour of which was presently the only pleasant thing about them, so filled were they with unconcealed ire that it made Grace blink. ‘To be so foolish as to stray that close to the edge in this weather? Don’t you know the sea is particularly vicious in winter?’
Grace looked up at him, still not yet able to form a suitable response to his bewildering anger.
What is he doing here? When did he arrive?
It seemed so unbelievable that she hadn’t heard even as much as a whisper to suggest the Dauntseys had returned to town after such a long time. She could hardly credit it, although a half second later she realised the unpleasant truth.
It’s no wonder, really. Who would have told us? Nobody wishes to associate themselves with us any longer, or stop to speak—we have no friends left to tell us news.
It was just so jarring to see a shadow from the past so unexpectedly before her. His frown only deepened as he waited for her to find her tongue and she could have cursed herself—if she’d known any curses—for allowing her wits to escape her so completely. For any other man she could have formed a response immediately, she was sure—but he was an altogether different prospect.
The recollection of how her cheeks used to burn whenever Spencer as much as nodded in her direction returned now to prick at Grace’s insides, a memory—given her current circumstances—she had no desire whatsoever to revisit. Spencer had seemed so much more mature when he had left to escort his grieving mother halfway across the country, an almost grown lad of seventeen, so it was hardly surprising Grace hadn’t had a similar effect on him. It was all too easy to imagine what he would have seen as he’d happened to glance at her all those years ago: a mousy child with her nose stuck in a book, far too shy to return the easy smile the Dauntsey boys had for everyone they met. There was no trace of that trademark grin now, however, and the difference less than a decade had wrought in the first man who had ever made Grace blush was startling.
She gave a small shudder of apprehension at the glint of danger in his narrowed eye, more unfriendly than she had ever seen before and shocking in its coldness. It would have been difficult to think what to say anyway, having stumbled across an acquaintance she’d never thought to see again; the fact he had morphed from a laughing youth to this granite-faced man only made her confusion worse, rising to mingle horribly with the unhappy weight Henry had forced into her chest.
Managing to at last bully her brain into working, Grace swallowed down her unease. Spencer towered above her, his powerful build barely concealed by the expensive cut of his clothes, but there was a touch of something like reluctant concern in his expression where moments before there had been only displeasure and it was enough to help her gather her courage and attempt to muster a reply.
His mama and mine were such friends. Perhaps he might look less severe if I remind him who I am.
‘I’m so grateful to you for your help, sir.’ She peeped up at him from below the brim of her bonnet, gauging his reaction. He stared back, silent and stony-faced, and her courage faltered a little. ‘Even if you don’t recollect we were once acquainted.’
For a long moment Spencer said nothing, the silence between them stretching out unbroken but for the insistent patter of Grace’s rapid pulse and the relentless crash of waves breaking over the rocks that could have been her demise. The pinch of his brows tightened, but still no light flickered in the flinty eyes as they swept from the top of Grace’s sodden bonnet to her ruined shoes, their chilly scrutiny sending a curious shiver through her jangled nerves. His face was as handsome as ever, but the new hardness she saw in every line somewhat tempered the admiration she had felt as a young girl. Only Henry’s features were burned into her mind like a brand, a face that with a pinch of pain she remembered she would never touch again.
‘You’re correct, madam. I don’t.’ Spencer answered flatly, as though barely able to summon any interest, and Grace wondered again at the change in the individual she remembered. That version of Spencer would never have been so brusque, but this one evidently was and she was left with no other option but to answer his indifference.
‘My name is Grace Linwood. Your mother and mine were close friends before you left for York—do you recall?’ She tried to force a smile, but her cheeks felt rigid with cold and frank discomfort. ‘It’s so pleasant to see you returned to town! Are your mother and brother with you?’
Grace felt a flicker of relief as the first hint of recognition sparked in Spencer’s expression, although it did nothing to thaw the coolness that remained.
‘Miss Linwood. I didn’t recognise you.’ He gave a short nod, the closest thing to a greeting she might have expected from this strange new creature. ‘My mother asked I bring her here in search of a warmer winter. Her health has not been good of late.’
Determinedly ignoring the mechanical tone of Spencer’s voice, Grace persevered in her quest for a convincing smile. ‘My mama will be so pleased to see her! And William? Will he be joining you later?’
It hardly seemed possible, but Spencer’s face managed to draw into an even tighter mask that sent dismay skittering at the back of Grace’s neck. Evidently she’d made some grave error, although what she had said to make the firm jaw clench she only realised once it was far too late.
‘He would find that difficult. He’s been dead these past two years.’
A cold trickle of dread crawled down Grace’s spine, drenching her with wordless horror that made her lips part in a silent gasp.
William? Dead?
It was unthinkable and for a sickening moment Grace wondered how Spencer could make such a tasteless joke. Surely the idea of him without his matching other half was impossible? Wherever one twin went the other had always been sure to follow, their identical mouths quirked into charismatic curves and long-legged strides so eye-catching it was hardly surprising Grace’s cheeks had warmed with heat she hadn’t understood. There was no way in the world one could exist without the other, yet the tension in Spencer’s broad shoulders was the proof he did not lie.
Whatever could have happened?
She couldn’t exactly recall the contents of Mrs Dauntsey’s final letter, but surely there had been no mention of the tragedy that now made Grace’s blood turn cold and dismay hold her tighter in its grip. All that life, all that animation and charm and potential snuffed out so mercilessly, leaving behind only its silent mirror image that brought intense pity roaring up from the very depths of Grace’s soul.
‘I’m so very sorry. I had no idea. We hadn’t heard—of late my mother’s letters were always returned and we had no way of knowing your new address...’
Grace’s words tripped over themselves, disjointed and stumbling, although she might as well have been talking to herself for all the notice Spencer took. He waited for her to tail off into mortified nothingness beneath his hard gaze before changing the subject so abruptly there was no hope of return.
‘Why are you out on the Cobb in this mire?’ It was almost an accusation, delivered so tersely Grace nearly flinched. ‘You could have been killed if you’d fallen. I would have thought you’d know better, living here all your life.’
The sudden veer into a completely different conversation caught Grace by surprise. Shock still echoed through her mind, the shattered image of the Dauntsey twins flickering as she peered up at the rain-flecked face of the only one left, and she answered with honesty she regretted at once when she felt pain crackle within her once again.
‘I came to meet with my fiancé. Or the man who was my fiancé, until a few hours ago.’
Spencer raised an eyebrow, some shadow of enquiry in its dark line. ‘Was?’
Grace nodded mutely, eyes downcast and fixed now on the expensive boots planted immovably before her. The agony that had run through her like a cruel river prior to Spencer’s appearance returned with a vengeance, freezing into a shard of ice that lodged itself in the pit of her stomach to merge with the ache of sympathy and awful surprise that already circled.
‘He requested I break our engagement, ostensibly on account of my father’s situation. You’ll have heard all about that, I’m sure.’
Tears threatened to gather at the corners of Grace’s eyes again at the thought of poor Papa and she blinked them away, although she was unable to stop one from slipping down to mix with the cold rain spotting her cheeks. If Spencer saw he gave no sign, instead merely shrugging one huge shoulder in a movement Grace found oddly unsettling.
Had he always been so...broad? The youth she remembered had been agile and lithe, his movements fluid like those of a dancer. The intervening years had increased the width of shoulder beneath a green coat darkened by rain, so different now but not unappealing, and Grace wondered distantly why she should have noticed such a trivial thing.
‘We arrived only three days ago. My mother was intending to surprise yours with a visit, but has been too ill to leave the house and was in no fit state to receive guests. If her health had allowed, I imagine they would be gossiping together as we speak. As it is, we’ve heard no news and I’ve been in no hurry to chase any.’
Grace flexed her cold fingers, her mind too full of a complex jumble of thoughts and emotions to know how to reply. Horror for William’s loss chased sympathy for Spencer that touched her heart, in turn surrounded by a dull pulse of unhappiness and shame.
If Spencer doesn’t know the particulars of my family’s situation, it won’t be long until he does.
No doubt Henry had told all their formerly mutual acquaintances of his clever dodge at once and lapped up their congratulations at his narrow escape. The whispers that already chased Grace down every street would surely only increase now with such fascinating fuel to stoke the flames of delicious scandal higher—how long until the stares turned to nudges and her name was dragged lower than ever before? Nobody would care that as the daughter of a bankrupt and supposed criminal all Grace now had to remind her of her broken dreams was a wedding gown that would never see the light of day and a heart battered by the person she had hoped would always cherish it. She was reduced to an object of ridicule, to be pitied at best and scorned at worst, and in her knowledge of just how far she had fallen her anguish was complete.
I will never give my heart away again.
Grace made the vow fiercely, almost oblivious to the handsome man who watched her sorrow in silent thought. To trust in the love of another person was to make a woman weak, to expose her to the pain, humiliation and agony of rejection that now swept over her like a flood.
She had one thing to thank Henry for, at least: exposing the naivety within her that could not distinguish real regard from false and the sad lack of her own good judgement. His cruel lesson would enable her to guard against making the same mistake twice and never again allow a man to impose on her who had no interests in mind other than his own.
I will never give my heart away again. Not as long as I live.
Spencer turned up the collar of his coat, feeling the wet material beneath cold fingertips. Ideally he would be inside now, warm before the fire in his favourite armchair and his black hair curling slightly as it dried, but the woman in front of him showed little sign of noticing the rain that was soaking them both to the skin or the howl of a bleak wind coming from over the sea, her grey eyes fixed now on the sodden ground and an expression of suffering obscuring her petite features.
Little Grace Linwood. I would never have known her.
She was almost pretty as a grown woman, Spencer noted reluctantly, or would have been if she wasn’t so frail-looking. Certainly her face was very pale, although ruddy spots of high colour showed she had recently been crying—for good reason, if her fiancé had so suddenly called off their engagement. A small part of him wondered why the man, whoever he was, might have acted so; something to do with her father, she’d said, although what she could have been alluding to he could only guess. Robert Linwood had been an amiable sort if he remembered correctly. Surely there was no reason to suspect he might have acted poorly?
Spencer looked down at Grace, weighing up how to proceed. In honesty, consoling an emotional young woman was at the very bottom of a list of ways he would choose to spend an evening. Already the whisper of the new bottle of port awaiting his return to his rooms called to him, its voice sweet in his ear, promising to blot out the memories Miss Linwood had unwittingly stirred with her innocent question about William. The glass and decanter had been his trusted companions these two years, ever since the day his life had fallen so spectacularly apart, and there was nothing more able to dim the echoes of the screams that haunted him.
However...
He clenched his jaw to fight back an irritable sigh. Something inside him, some relic of his moral Quaker upbringing, would not allow him to leave a lady in such obvious distress, especially the daughter of an old family friend. Most of his mother’s genteel teachings had fallen by the wayside in the past couple of years, beaten out of him by the grief and guilt never now more than a half thought away—but some dim gleam of propriety remained, to mutter that to abandon an unhappy woman in the growing darkness was not altogether acceptable.
Plus I’d never hear the end of it if Mother learned I left one of her beloved Miss Linwoods to her fate.
A swift scan about them showed no carriage waiting for her and Spencer made up his mind with only a half-suppressed outbreath of impatience. ‘We are getting steadily wetter and wetter by the minute. The house I’ve taken is only a step away and a good deal closer than your own, if I recall. You’re welcome to return with me and have my carriage deliver you home. My mother would be delighted to see you, I’m sure.’
He glanced down at her. She still avoided his gaze, blind eyes turned to the flooded ground beneath her feet, and Spencer’s brows twitched together in brief discomfort as a sudden glimmer of sympathy flared inside him, appearing from nowhere to surprise him before retreating just as quickly behind his usually impenetrable cynicism. Where the stray spark of weakness had crept from he hardly knew, but it was enough to unsettle him, more than a little taken aback by the uncharacteristic feeling. It was probably because she looked so small standing there, a curiously lonely figure swamped by her large blue cloak, unconsciously radiating such vulnerability that Spencer had to fight back another flicker of pity with more than a touch of alarm. He frowned again, the sense of unease beginning to rise within him that he sought to extinguish with a gruff cough.
You’re walking a fine line, Spencer, a little voice at the back of his mind piped up, a shade too disapprovingly for comfort. You don’t want to invite her in and yet you’ve gone too far to back away now. Was that offer truly necessary?
Perhaps not. Perhaps he could have escaped without extending a helpful hand, always a hazardous action, but surely there could be no threat to his defences from this pitiful drowned rat of a woman who peered at him through the gloom and whose answer was uttered so low he had to stoop to catch it.
‘I admit I’d rather not linger in this storm for very much longer, and to see your mother again would be a rare treat. But—’ She broke off, shame stealing into her expression it took him a moment to understand. ‘I’m already remarked on quite enough. I can only imagine how much more people would talk if they were to see me alone, on the arm of a strange man...’
Spencer stared at her for a moment, taking in the flare of colour that gleamed on her pale cheeks.
That’s her fear? That people might think badly of her? Evidently I’m not the only one behind on current events, although how she could have failed to have heard I don’t know.
Grace was clearly ignorant of the mutters Spencer now drew whenever he stepped out of doors, tales of his behaviour the first night he had returned to Lyme Regis already spreading like wildfire throughout the town. A small flicker of guilt rose to nag at him at the memory of his mother’s face that evening: concern, distress and—worst of all—disappointment crossing it as he had stumbled up the front steps, still with a bottle in his hand and his knuckles bruised and swollen. He should never have allowed himself to lose control of his temper, answering some drunkard’s challenge in the tavern with his fists... If he’d only been able to douse the flames that leapt inside him he might have avoided ending his evening in a pointless brawl that now everybody—barring Grace, apparently—seemed to have heard of, sealing his reputation as uncouth, ungentlemanly and almost certainly dangerous. Society gossips hadn’t given a fig that he’d acted in self-defence, exaggerating and expanding the story until it had become a lurid tale Spencer barely recognised.
‘If anybody were to whisper, it wouldn’t necessarily be about you. You might consider pulling your bonnet a fraction to conceal your face, however, if you’d rather avoid my scandal as well as your own.’
The complete lack of understanding in Grace’s eyes was almost touching, a welcome change from the judgement he saw in those that had looked up at him since his return. ‘Why would they be whispering about you?’
That wasn’t a question he particularly wanted to answer. ‘I’m sure my mother will tell you soon enough. In the meantime, I suggest we leave at once. Watch your step on this wet ground.’
He slipped his hand beneath her elbow, feeling at once how she stiffened and seemed to curb the instinct to flinch away. It was hardly a surprising reaction, he supposed, given her prim propriety in stark contrast to his own unconventional manners, but there was still something decidedly unpleasant about her recoil from his fingertips.
Spencer felt once again that unwelcome sensation of something he couldn’t explain, a dangerous intruder into the usual indifference he so carefully cultivated. The opinions of young women—and the rest of society—as to his looks, conduct or any other part of him were worth less than nothing, so there was no obvious reason for her apprehension to disturb him. It should have been a relief that she didn’t giggle, or simper, or slide an appraising eye towards him when she thought he wasn’t looking as so many ladies of her type did, or had in York at any rate; but then there was something that set her apart, some flicker of suffering in her face that spoke to him like for like and forced him to pay attention. He wanted to disregard her and her quiet pain as he would anyone else, yet with another flare of discomfort he found he couldn’t turn away so easily.
His mother was the single person he usually felt it necessary to in any way consider and for her sake alone he did his best to conceal the melancholy that dogged him day and night that her rapidly failing health only added to. The one other he had held in such high regard was cold in his tomb and with him in the silence of the grave lay Spencer’s ability to see the world with anything other than a weary disgust now so deep it was etched on to his soul.
With a grim scowl of effort he pushed aside the icy creep of guilt and grief that attempted to rise up within him, driving the images that threatened to accompany it back with savage force.
Now is not the time. Later, with a glass in your hand, is when you can do battle with the past.
The wraithlike, damnably disturbing Miss Linwood was still standing close to him, his hand still cupping the delicate bend of her slight arm, and he nodded at her with a forthrightness he only half felt.
‘You needn’t worry about propriety, truly. Anyone with sense is indoors, so we shouldn’t be observed.’
Grace flicked a sideways glance up at him, apparently on the verge of saying something at the edge he knew she would have heard in his tone. Instead she dropped her eyes at once from his darkly questioning look, wincing with the swift turn of her aching neck, and allowed him to guide her away from the sea that could so easily have claimed her.
