Page 10 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
“ G ood morning, Your Grace.”
Samantha froze in the doorway of the breakfast room, her heart sinking. She had risen before dawn specifically to avoid this—to avoid him . Yet there he sat at the head of the table, looking infuriatingly composed as he sipped his coffee and perused what appeared to be correspondence.
“Good morning,” she replied stiffly, moving toward the sideboard with as much dignity as she could muster.
“I trust you slept well?” His voice held that same dangerous undertone from the night before, though his expression remained perfectly polite.
“Quite well, thank you.” She selected a piece of toast and some jam, acutely aware of his eyes following her every movement. “And you?”
“Adequately.” He set down his cup. “Though I confess, I found myself wondering if you were comfortable. The chambers can be rather… drafty.”
Heat crept up her neck. Was he referring to the connecting door between their rooms? She had indeed checked the lock twice before retiring, and then again when she’d heard movement from his side of the wall.
“I found the accommodations perfectly suitable,” she said, sitting back in her chair… as far from him as possible.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” The slight curve of his lips suggested he was anything but fooled by her formal tone. “I’ve asked Mrs. Blackwood to prepare a tour of the estate for you today. I thought you might wish to familiarize yourself with your new home.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” She spread jam on her toast with more concentration than the task required. “I’m sure it will be educational.”
“Indeed. There are several centuries of family history within these walls.” His tone grew cooler. “Some more pleasant than others.”
Before she could ask what he meant, the door opened to admit a woman Samantha didn’t recognize. Where Mrs. Blackwood had been severe but efficient, this woman possessed a warmth that immediately put her at ease.
“Your Grace,” the woman said, curtsying to Samantha. “I am Mrs. Thatcher, the second housekeeper. Mrs. Blackwood sends her regrets. She’s been called away on urgent business. I’ll be conducting your tour today, if that suits?”
“Of course.” Samantha nearly jumped from her chair in her eagerness to escape the suffocating tension of the breakfast room. “Shall we begin now?”
The duke’s low chuckle made her cheeks burn. “So eager to explore, my dear?”
“I simply believe in making good use of one’s time,” she replied primly, though she couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Admirable.” He rose from his chair with fluid grace. “I shall be visiting the tenant farms today. Perhaps we might dine together this evening? I have some matters I’d like to discuss with you.”
The way he said ‘matters’ sent a shiver down her spine. “I… yes, of course, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” He moved toward the door, pausing beside her chair.
For a moment, she thought he might touch her; his hand hovered near her shoulder, but then he seemed to think better of it.
“Enjoy your tour, Samantha.”
The use of her given name in front of the housekeeper made her pulse quicken traitorously. She waited until his footsteps faded before letting out a deep breath that had done absolutely nothing to calm her racing heart.
“Shall we begin with the portrait gallery, Your Grace?” Mrs. Thatcher asked kindly.
The portrait gallery stretched the length of the east wing, with its high-ceilings and eerie silence, its mullioned windows casting slanting afternoon light across parquet floors.
Samantha walked slowly, her fingers lightly brushing the worn silk of her skirts as she took in the paintings that lined the walls: none recent, none familiar.
She had expected to see the looming visages of the late Duke and Duchess of Valemont somewhere along this stretch. But the faces looking down at her were strangers: long-dead men in powdered wigs, women in stiff brocade gowns, all rendered in that same solemn, painterly stillness.
“Mrs. Thatcher,” she asked quietly, pausing near a portrait of a young man in hunting attire, “are there no likenesses of His Grace’s parents in the house?”
The housekeeper hesitated. “No, Your Grace.”
Samantha glanced once more at the wall. Empty spaces where newer frames might have hung, but none now. “I see.”
So much silence around the subject. The duke had rarely spoken of his family. And she could not deny that she was curious.
Samantha looked once more at the blank stretches of wall between the ancestral portraits. No trace of the people who had raised her husband. No lingering presence of the voices that must have once echoed through this house.
She thought of the duke’s silences, his guardedness. The way he sometimes stood very still after she touched him, as though trying to determine whether to lean in or flinch.
She had assumed it was the weight of the title.
But maybe it was the house itself.
“Shall we move further, Your Grace?” the housekeeper offered.
Samantha nodded, and they moved on to more pleasant subjects; portraits of the late Lord Stonehall, and the duke as young men, their arms slung around each other’s shoulders in easy camaraderie.
The difference in the duke’s expression was striking; with his cousin, he looked relaxed, genuinely happy.
“The late Lord Stonehall was His Grace’s cousin and his closest friend,” Mrs. Thatcher explained. “More like a brother, really. His death was a terrible blow to His Grace.”
“And this must be the current Lord Stonehall as a child,” Samantha said, pausing before a portrait of the late Lord Stonehall with his wife and a young boy who possessed Percy’s animated features.
“Yes, Your Grace. Such a sweet child, and Lord and Lady Stonehall doted on him. His Grace has been very good to the boy since …”
“Since he became his guardian,” Samantha finished.
Something about the way Mrs. Thatcher spoke suggested there was more to the story, but she didn’t press.
As they reached the far end of the gallery, Samantha noticed several portraits had been turned to face the wall, as if prepared for removal.
“What are those?” she asked.
The woman’s expression grew uncomfortable. “His Grace has requested that certain portraits be relocated to the attic. Family members he prefers not to be reminded of.”
“His parents?”
“Among others, yes.” The housekeeper’s tone suggested the subject was closed.
But Samantha found herself curious. “Why now? Surely they’ve hung here for years.”
“His Grace has his reasons, I’m sure,” Mrs. Thatcher said, her tone edged with diplomacy. “Perhaps it’s time for a fresh start. New beginnings, and all that.”
New beginnings. Like his marriage to her.
Was he truly trying to distance himself from his family’s legacy, or was there something more sinister in his past that he was desperate to hide?
Over the following week, Samantha threw herself into learning the routines of Valemont Hall. She met with the cook to discuss menus, reviewed the household accounts with Mrs. Thatcher, and even ventured into the gardens to speak with the head gardener about the winter preparations.
It was a pleasant enough existence, she told herself. Certainly more engaging than the quiet spinsterhood she’d resigned herself to at Norfeld Hall.
If only she could shake the constant awareness of her husband’s presence in the house.
She developed an unfortunate habit of encountering him at the most inopportune moments.
On Tuesday, she’d been exploring the library when she’d heard voices from the terrace beyond.
Through the French doors, she’d caught sight of him in animated conversation with his estate manager, and she’d been entirely unprepared for the sight of him in his shirtsleeves, his coat discarded in the morning warmth.
The fine linen of his shirt had clung to his broad chest, and when he’d raised his arm to gesture toward the stables, she’d caught a glimpse of the dark hair at the top of his chest, peeking out from the open top buttons. Her mouth had gone dry, and she’d fled before he could catch her staring.
But Thursday brought an even more mortifying encounter. She’d been walking through the grounds when she’d heard the rhythmic sound of something striking wood.
Following the noise, she’d discovered a small building she hadn’t noticed before, and through its open door, she’d seen him.
He’d been exercising with what appeared to be a wooden sword, his shirt discarded entirely, his dark hair damp with perspiration.
The muscles of his back and shoulders had moved with fluid precision as he’d worked through what looked like a complex series of movements, and she’d found herself mesmerized by the play of light and shadow across his skin.
“Enjoying the view?”
Samantha gasped. “I was simply… I heard a noise,” she’d stammered, her cheeks burning.
His expression had been unreadable, but there’d been something predatory in his eyes that had made her stomach flutter. That gaze was dangerous… as it’d reminded her of the fact that she was standing in the presence of a very half-naked rake.
“Mmm.” He’d stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his skin, the salt and musk, a scent she’d never been this close before, or had been so intoxicated by. “And what did you think of what you saw?”
“I… that is… I should return to the house.” She stammered, taking a step back.
“Are you certain, duchess?” His voice had dropped to that dangerous whisper that made her knees weak. “You don’t want to watch me… finish?” The emphasis on the last word was positively sinful .
She’d fled then, her heart hammering as his low laughter followed her across the lawn.
By Friday, she’d taken to checking around corners before venturing anywhere, terrified of what she might stumble upon next.
The awareness of him was becoming unbearable; the way he moved through the house with that predatory grace, the way his eyes seemed to find her across any room, the way her traitorous body responded to his proximity.
She was clearly losing her mind.
And worse, she suspected he knew it.