Page 16 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

E wan had been riding hard across his estate, trying to outrun the restless energy that had plagued him since their heated encounter two nights prior.

The memory of Samantha’s response to his kiss, the way she’d melted against him before pulling away, haunted his thoughts and made concentration on estate matters nearly impossible.

He’d been pushing his horse harder than necessary, taking jumps that were perhaps more reckless than wise, when he spotted the familiar sight of his ducal carriage in the village square.

Curious about what had brought Samantha to the village, he drew closer and witnessed a scene that stopped him cold.

Samantha emerged from a modest cottage, her usually perfect hair slightly disheveled, her morning dress less than pristine, contrary to what an aristocratic lady would look like.

But it wasn’t her disheveled appearance that caught his attention; it was the way she moved through the crowd that had gathered.

She spoke quietly with a tearful woman who clutched her hands gratefully, then turned to address an elderly man who was clearly thanking her for something.

She listened intently to each person who approached her, offering comfort and practical assistance with the natural grace of someone born to the role.

“Bless you, Your Grace,” he heard one villager say. “Tommy’s mother was beside herself with worry.”

“The child needed help,” Samantha replied simply. “Anyone would have done the same.”

But Ewan knew that wasn’t true. Most members of the aristocracy would have sent a servant or made a monetary donation rather than personally involving themselves.

Very few would have risked contagion by holding a sick child, and fewer still would have spent hours of their day ensuring a tenant’s family received proper care.

When she finally approached the carriage, clearly preparing to return to Valemont Hall, she found him waiting beside it, having dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to a groom.

“Your Grace,” she said, clearly startled by his unexpected presence. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you,” he replied, helping her into the carriage before settling beside her. “Though I must say, watching you work was illuminating.”

“I hardly call helping a sick child work,” she said quietly, settling her skirts around her.

As their carriage began the journey back to Valemont Hall, Ewan found himself studying his wife’s profile. There was a flush of satisfaction on her cheeks, a brightness in her eyes that he’d never seen before.

She looked… fulfilled. Happy, even.

“You were born to be a duchess,” he said quietly, the words emerging before he could stop them.

Samantha turned to him, her blue eyes wide with surprise and something that looked almost like vulnerability. “I beg your pardon?”

“What you did back there,” he continued, surprised by his own directness, “the way you handled the situation, cared for that child, comforted his mother… it came naturally to you. You didn’t hesitate, didn’t worry about propriety or appearance.

You simply saw a need and filled it. You were born for this role. ”

The praise seemed to stun her into silence, and Ewan felt something shift between them, something warmer and infinitely more dangerous than mere physical attraction.

For a moment, he glimpsed the woman beneath the careful composure, and what he saw there made his chest tighten with an emotion he wasn’t prepared to name.

“There’s something else we need to discuss,” he continued, forcing himself to focus on practical matters before the growing intimacy between them could overwhelm his good sense. “We’ll be returning to London within the week.”

“London?” Her voice held a note of surprise, and perhaps disappointment.

“Percy requires more guidance than I initially anticipated,” he explained, noting the way her expression changed.

“His behavior at recent social gatherings has been… memorable, and not always in positive ways. I need to take a more direct hand in his education before he creates any lasting scandals.”

He paused, then added more gently, “And you’ll be able to see your sister more frequently. I know you’ve missed her.”

Her face brightened immediately at the mention of Jane. “Yes,” she said, nodding eagerly. “Yes, that would be… very welcome indeed.”

“I thought you might feel that way.”

The remainder of the journey passed in charged silence, yet Ewan was acutely aware of her presence, of the growing complexity of their relationship.

He found himself stealing glances at her, noting the way the afternoon light caught the copper highlights in her hair, the elegant line of her neck, the way her hands rested gracefully in her lap.

You were born to be a duchess . His own words echoed in his mind, and he realized with startling clarity that they were absolutely true.

More than that, she was born to be his duchess. The thought should have terrified him; instead, it filled him with a possessive satisfaction that he wasn’t entirely comfortable examining.

London proved to be as chaotic as Ewan had feared, particularly where Percy was concerned.

Within hours of their arrival at the London townhouse, he found himself dealing with yet another of his nephew’s well-intentioned disasters.

“Good God, what has he done now?” Ewan muttered, striding into the foyer to find his butler, Hendricks, wearing an expression of barely contained exasperation mixed with what might have been amusement.

“Lord Stonehall has… entertained several callers this morning, Your Grace,” Hendricks reported carefully. “I believe he was attempting to practice his conversational skills in preparation for tonight’s soirée.”

Ewan closed his eyes, already dreading the answer to his next question. “How many callers, exactly?”

“Seven, Your Grace. Including Lord Pemberton, the Earl of Blackwood, Viscount Hartley, and Lord Ashford. They seemed… bemused by Lord Stonehall’s approach to social discourse.”

“Christ,” Ewan swore under his breath. “Please tell me he didn’t compose poetry for them.”

“Not exactly, Your Grace. Though there was mention of ‘the divine music of masculine fellowship’ and several comparisons to figures from Greek mythology.”

“Where is he now?”

“In the library, Your Grace, composing what he described as ‘an ode to social triumph.’ He seemed quite pleased with the morning’s interactions.”

Within the hour, Ewan had collected both Percy and Ralph, practically dragging them to White’s for what he grimly termed a “training session” in proper social behavior.

“Now listen carefully,” Ewan began, settling into a leather chair in a quiet corner of the club while Percy fidgeted nervously across from him. “When conversing with senior members of the ton, you do not—under any circumstances—compare them to mythological figures.”

“But Uncle,” Percy protested, his eyes bright with enthusiasm, “Lord Pemberton does rather resemble Zeus with that magnificent white beard and his thunderous voice. Surely acknowledging such noble bearing is a compliment?”

Ralph snorted into his brandy, earning a sharp look from Ewan.

“Did you actually tell him that?” His friend asked, grinning widely.

“I may have mentioned his godlike bearing and the wisdom reflected in his countenance,” Percy admitted somewhat sheepishly. “He seemed quite pleased, actually. He patted my shoulder and called me an interesting young man .”

“That’s because he thought you were drunk or mad,” Ewan said through gritted teeth. “What else?”

“Well,” Percy continued, warming to his theme, “I thought Lord Blackwood might appreciate being compared to Adonis, given the noble strength evident in his physicality?—”

“Percy,” Ewan interrupted, his voice dangerously low, “Lord Blackwood is seventy-three years old and weighs at least eighteen stone.”

“Yes, but his eyes still hold the spark of divine fire, and I thought?—”

“Stop,” Ralph was gasping now, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “Just… stop. You compared a seventy-three-year-old man to the god of beauty?”

“I emphasized his inner beauty,” Percy said defensively. “The radiance of a noble soul transcends mere physical?—”

“This is precisely the problem,” Ewan continued, ignoring his friend’s continued amusement.

“You cannot simply throw about poetic comparisons and expect to be taken seriously in society. These men have reputations, influence, power. They don’t want to be compared to mythological figures by a nineteen-year-old viscount. ”

“Then how does one make proper conversation?” Percy asked plaintively. “If I cannot speak of beauty, of the divine spark I see in human nature, of the poetry inherent in daily existence, what is left to discuss?”

“Normal topics,” Ewan replied through gritted teeth. “The weather. Politics. Horse racing. Agricultural improvements. The state of the roads. Not the divine gleam in a septuagenarian’s eye or the ethereal quality of morning light reflected in someone’s spectacles.”

Percy looked genuinely confused. “But Uncle, that’s so… ordinary. So mundane. How can one forge meaningful connections through such banal subjects?”

“Ordinary,” Ewan said firmly, “is precisely what we’re aiming for. Ordinary keeps you from being labeled as eccentric or, worse, an utter lunatic.”

“But surely there’s room for a little poetry in conversation?” Percy asked hopefully.

“No,” Ewan and Ralph said simultaneously.

The lesson continued for another hour, with Percy’s attempts at conventional conversation proving almost as disastrous as his poetic ones.

When Ralph attempted to engage him in a discussion about horse racing, Percy launched into an elaborate metaphor comparing thoroughbreds to “‘earthbound Pegasus, their hooves beating out the rhythm of mortal dreams striving toward divine flight.”‘

Ewan was not quite certain where he’d gone wrong in raising the boy for him to turn out so bloody dramatic.

“Right,” Ewan said when Percy paused for breath. “Let’s try something simpler. Ralph, ask him about his morning.”

“How was your morning, Lord Stonehall?” Ralph asked, his amusement a lantern light in his gaze.

Percy brightened. “Oh, it was absolutely transcendent! The golden sunlight of?—”

“No,” Ewan said sharply, cutting him off before he could go off on a tangent again. “Try again. Simple, direct, ordinary .”

Percy took a deep breath. “It was… pleasant?”

“Better. Continue.”

“I… broke my fast?”

“Good. What did you eat?”

“Ambrosia fit for the gods, with eggs that gleamed like tiny suns and toast golden as?—”

“Percy!” Ewan snapped, as Ralph roared uncontrollably with laughter at his side.

His eyes narrowed on his nephew, who shuffled his feet and tried to stifle a smile.

Was the imp deliberately trying to irritate him so?

It certainly seemed so, because he cleared his throat and said, “Sorry, Uncle. Eggs and toast. Very… ordinary eggs and toast.”

Ralph’s shoulders were trembling as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“We’re going to be here all afternoon,” Ewan muttered, rubbing his temples where a headache was beginning to form.

“Look on the bright side,” Ralph replied cheerfully. “At least he’s not waltzing into events on a pony.”

“Yet,” Ewan said darkly. “Give him time.”

As if summoned by his uncle’s pessimism, Percy suddenly straightened in his chair, his eyes bright with fresh inspiration.

“Uncle, what if I were to compose a small verse about the noble art of conversation itself? Something to demonstrate my refined sensibilities and perhaps share with potential friends to show them the depth of my?—”

“Absolutely not,” Ewan said firmly, holding up a hand to stop him. “Under no circumstances are you to write poetry about anything or anyone we encounter in London society.”

“But surely a tasteful quatrain about the music of discourse, the symphony of?—”

“Percy,” Ralph interrupted, still grinning but with a note of genuine sympathy, “your uncle is trying to save you from social ruin. Perhaps listen to the man who’s managed to navigate society for years without once comparing a dowager to a woodland nymph or describing someone’s cravat as having the beauty of morning mist kissed by dawn’s first light . ”

“You heard about that?” Percy asked, looking slightly embarrassed.

“Word travels fast in London, especially when it involves comparing elderly lords to Greek gods,” the Marquess replied. “The betting books at three different clubs now have odds on your next poetic comparison.”

Percy deflated slightly. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just so difficult to express oneself in ordinary terms when one’s soul yearns for beauty and meaning in every interaction.”

Ewan felt a familiar mixture of exasperation and affection for his nephew. Percy’s heart was in the right place, but his execution left much to be desired.

“Right then,” he said with grim determination. “We’re going to practice basic conversation until you can manage five minutes without mentioning mythology, poetry, or the ‘luminous quality’ of anyone’s anything. Ralph, you’re going to pretend to be Lord Pemberton again.”

“With pleasure,” Ralph said, affecting a pompous air and straightening his shoulders. “Good afternoon, Lord Stonehall. Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say?”

Percy opened his mouth, clearly preparing to launch into a soliloquy about nature’s splendor, then caught his uncle’s warning glare. He took a deep breath.

“Yes,” he said carefully, as if the word might explode if spoken too enthusiastically. “Quite… pleasant. The sun is… shining.”

“Very good!” Ralph encouraged. “And what are your plans for this evening?”

“I plan to attend Lady Worthington’s soirée and… engage in appropriate social discourse?”

Ewan felt a small surge of hope. Perhaps there was reason for optimism after all.

But that did not change the fact that it was going to be a very long afternoon indeed.