Page 17 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

“ S amantha, my dear girl!” Uncle William’s voice boomed across the drawing room as she entered their London townhouse. “You look absolutely radiant. Marriage certainly agrees with you.”

“Uncle William,” Samantha replied, moving to embrace her portly uncle with genuine affection. “How wonderful to see you. I trust your business matters are proceeding well?”

“Indeed they are, though terribly dull stuff. Investments and property management. Nothing that would interest you ladies.” He gestured toward the settee where Jane sat, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows.

“Jane has been positively vibrating with excitement since we learned of your arrival in London.”

“Sister!” Jane leaped to her feet, nearly knocking over a delicate porcelain figurine in her haste. “Oh, how I’ve missed you! You must tell me everything—absolutely everything—about married life and Valemont Hall and your duke.”

“My duke?” Samantha raised an eyebrow, settling beside her sister. “He’s hardly mine in any meaningful sense.”

“Nonsense,” Jane declared, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “He married you, didn’t he? That makes him yours by law, if nothing else.”

Uncle William cleared his throat diplomatically. “Perhaps you girls would enjoy a promenade in the park? The weather is quite pleasant, and I have several tedious meetings to attend this afternoon.”

“Oh yes!” Jane clapped her hands together. “We could walk through Hyde Park and catch up properly. Without stuffy drawing rooms and proper behavior.”

“Jane,” Samantha warned, though she couldn’t suppress a smile at her sister’s enthusiasm.

“What? I merely meant we could speak more freely outdoors. Come, Samantha. I’m positively bursting with curiosity.”

Half an hour later, the sisters strolled arm in arm through the tree-lined paths of Hyde Park, Mary following at a discrete distance. The autumn air was crisp and invigorating, and Samantha found herself relaxing for the first time since arriving in London.

“Now then,” Jane said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “you must tell me everything. How are you finding married life? Is His Grace terribly romantic? Does he send you flowers and write you poetry?”

“Jane, please,” Samantha protested, her cheeks warming. “Marriage isn’t like the novels you read.”

“But surely there’s some romance? Some passion? The way he looked at you at your wedding …” Jane sighed dreamily. “It was like something from a Gothic novel! Dark, intense, and absolutely thrilling.”

Samantha’s steps faltered slightly as memories of Ewan’s kiss flooded her mind. The way his hands had framed her face, the desperate hunger in his voice, the fire that had consumed them both for those brief, intoxicating moments.

“Samantha?” Jane’s voice sharpened with concern. “You’ve gone quite pale. What is it?”

“Nothing,” Samantha said quickly, then found herself unable to meet her sister’s penetrating gaze. “That is… there was an incident. A moment of… confusion.”

That was the only thing she could call it now.

“Confusion?” Jane’s eyes widened with interest. “What sort of confusion?”

Samantha glanced around to ensure they weren’t being overheard, then leaned closer to her sister.

“He kissed me,” she whispered, her cheeks slowly heating.

Jane stopped walking entirely, her mouth falling open. “He kissed you? Your husband kissed you, and you call it confusion?”

“It wasn’t… it wasn’t a gentle, matrimonial sort of kiss,” Samantha explained, her voice barely audible. “It was… intense.”

“Oh my goodness,” Jane breathed, her eyes now sparkling with romantic fervor. “Samantha, don’t you see? This is exactly like something from a novel! The brooding duke, overcome with passion for his reluctant bride. The kiss that changes everything. The?—”

“Jane, stop,” Samantha interrupted firmly. “You’re romanticizing what was clearly a mistake. Men like him… they have certain appetites. The kiss meant nothing beyond physical desire.”

“You don’t truly believe that,” Jane said, studying her sister’s face intently. “If it meant nothing, why are you blushing? Why do you look as though you’re remembering something wonderful and terrible at the same time?”

“Because it was terrible,” Samantha insisted. “Terrible because it reminded me how foolish I can be when it comes to men.”

Jane shook her head vigorously. “You’re wrong, Samantha. The way His Grace looked at you… it is a look of passion and?—”

“You’re being fanciful,” Samantha said, her fingers curling into fists that dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palms.

“I do not think so.” Jane said stubbornly. “Mark my words, sister. Your story is far from over. In fact, I suspect it’s only just beginning.”

Samantha was not all that optimistic, however. She knew that just because something begun, did not mean that it would… continue, or bloom into better.

No. It could just as easily meet a premature end.

That evening, Samantha found herself seated across from her husband at the elegant dining table in their London townhouse, with Percy holding court at the head of the table. The young viscount seemed particularly animated this evening, his conversation flowing with unusual enthusiasm.

“Uncle, you simply must hear about my triumph at Lady Pemberton’s this afternoon,” Percy announced, gesturing dramatically with his fork. “I managed an entire conversation about the weather without once mentioning mythology or poetry.”

“Remarkable,” Ewan replied dryly, cutting into his beef with perhaps more force than necessary. “A breakthrough worthy of celebration, I’m sure.”

“Indeed it was! Though I must confess, it required tremendous self-restraint. When Lord Ashford commented on the beauty of the sunset, I nearly launched into a comparison with Helios driving his chariot across the heavens?—

“ Percival .”

“—but I caught myself just in time.”

Samantha found herself fighting a smile at Percy’s earnest pride in his accomplishment. “That does sound like quite an achievement, Lord Stonehall.”

“Oh, you must call me Percy, Aunt Samantha. We’re family now, after all.

” Percy beamed at her with such genuine warmth that she felt a flutter of affection for the dramatic young man.

“On that note, I’ve been wondering… how long were you two in a secret courtship?

Uncle Ewan has been terribly secretive about the whole affair. ”

Samantha nearly choked on her wine, shooting a panicked glance at her husband, his uncle. Of course, she hadn’t expected the duke to reveal the truth of their circumstances to his nephew, but it was still jarring to say the least.

“Perhaps,” Ewan said smoothly, “some stories are better left private.”

“But surely there’s no harm in sharing a few romantic details,” Percy persisted. “I’m attempting to understand the nature of true love, you see. For research purposes.”

“Research?” Samantha asked, grateful for the distraction from Percy’s original question.

“For my poetry, of course. One cannot write convincingly about love without understanding its various manifestations.”

“I thought we’d agreed you weren’t writing poetry anymore,” Ewan said sharply.

“Not about people, Uncle. But surely there’s no harm in exploring love as an abstract concept? The divine spark that unites two souls in?—”

“Percy,” Ewan interrupted, his voice carrying a warning edge. “We’ve discussed this.”

Samantha could also hear an edge of tiredness there as well.

“But Uncle, how else am I to develop as an artist if I cannot explore the most fundamental of human experiences?”

“By focusing on becoming a gentleman first and a poet second,” Ewan replied curtly.

Samantha found herself unexpectedly defensive on Percy’s behalf. “Surely there’s room for both pursuits? Many noblemen have written poetry without damaging their reputations.”

Ewan’s green eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Are you questioning my judgment regarding my nephew’s education?”

“I’m merely suggesting that perhaps a more balanced approach?—”

“A balanced approach?” Ewan’s voice had dropped to that dangerously quiet tone she’d learned to recognize. “From someone who’s known him for how long, exactly?”

“I may not have known him long ,” Samantha replied, her own voice growing cooler, “but I can recognize genuine passion when I see it. Some things shouldn’t be suppressed entirely.”

The double meaning in her words hung in the air between them, and she saw Ewan’s jaw tighten in response.

“Some passions,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, “lead to nothing but trouble.”

“And some,” she countered, lifting her chin defiantly, “lead to the most beautiful art ever created.”

“Beauty built on chaos and destruction.” He snapped back, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed irritation.

“Beauty that emerges from authentic feeling, rather than cold calculation.” She replied, unwilling to back down even though she wasn’t quite sure what they were arguing about anymore.

Percy’s head was swiveling between them like a spectator at a tennis match, his eyes wide with fascination. “Are we still discussing my poetry?”

“Yes,” Ewan and Samantha said simultaneously, neither breaking eye contact.

“I see,” Percy said slowly, though clearly he didn’t see at all. “Well, this is fascinating. The tension between artistic expression and social conformity, played out in domestic drama. I really must make notes?—”

“Don’t you dare,” Ewan snapped, finally breaking his stare with Samantha to glare at his nephew.

“Uncle, surely you can see the poetic potential in?—”

“What I can see,” Samantha interrupted, her patience finally snapping, “is that this conversation has become completely ridiculous.”

She threw her napkin down on the table and rose abruptly, unable to bear another moment of the charged atmosphere and Percy’s oblivious commentary.

“Aunt Samantha, wait—” Percy called out, but she was already striding toward the door.

“Duchess.” Ewan’s voice followed her into the hallway, and she heard his chair scrape against the floor as he rose to follow.

She didn’t slow her pace, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor as she headed toward the stairs.

What exactly was she running from?

She didn’t know, but she knew that if she spent another second staring into her husband’s infuriating gaze, she would possibly do something to be ashamed about tomorrow.

“Duchess, stop.” He called from behind her, his tone a whip across her senses.

The command in his voice made her whirl around to face him, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and something far more dangerous.

“Don’t you dare order me about,” she said, her voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

“Then stop running away every time we have a conversation that grows the least bit heated.” He replied, still advancing towards her.

“Heated?” She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Is that what you call that performance in there?”

“I call it honesty,” Ewan replied, moving closer until she could see the golden flecks in his green eyes. “Something you seem determined to avoid at all costs.”

“I avoid nothing.”

“No? Then why do you flinch every time I come near you? Why do you flee every room I enter? Why do you act as though I’m some sort of threat to your virtue when we both know what happened between us the other night?”

Samantha’s cheeks flamed at the reference to their kiss. “That… That was a mistake.” She could not let herself be swayed by carnal passions when she knew that he had no intention of giving her anything more.

Of course, theirs was a marriage born out of scandal, but she was not going to subject herself to one being viewed as nothing but a body to her husband. He would not even let her bear a child!

“Was it?” His voice had dropped to that low, intimate tone that made her knees weak. “Because you didn’t seem to think so at the time.”

“Men like you leave nothing but ruin in their wake,” she said desperately, backing away from him until she felt the wall against her spine. “I won’t be another casualty of your appetites.”

He went completely still at her words, his face draining of color as something dark and painful flickered in his eyes.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears and misunderstandings. Samantha watched as her husband seemed to retreat somewhere inside himself, his expression becoming carefully blank.

“Your Grace?” she whispered, suddenly uncertain.

But whatever vulnerability she’d glimpsed was gone, replaced by the cold distance she’d grown to dread.

Unable to bear the weight of that silence, she gathered her skirts and fled up the stairs, leaving him standing alone in the hallway with the echoes of her accusations ringing in the air.