Page 22 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

“ A re you quite certain you wish to discuss this particular passage, Lady Pemberton?” Jane whispered, leaning closer to Samantha as they settled into the ornate drawing room of Lady Harrington’s townhouse.

“Hush,” Samantha murmured back, though her cheeks warmed at her sister’s knowing look. “It’s a perfectly respectable literary discussion.”

The Athena Society had gathered for their monthly meeting, hosted by the dowager Lady Harrington, who was in town for her goddaughter’s wedding.

The elderly woman commanded attention from her high-backed chair, her silver hair perfectly coiffed and her sharp eyes surveying the assembled ladies with evident satisfaction.

“Ladies, if we might begin,” Lady Harrington announced, tapping her walking stick against the marble floor. “Today we shall discuss Mrs. Canterbury’s latest work and the themes of?—”

“Oh, Samantha has the most fascinating thoughts on marriage dynamics in literature,” Jane interrupted cheerfully, blatantly ignoring her sister’s mortified gasp. “Don’t you, dearest sister?”

Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward Samantha, including those of the formidable dowagers who had been discussing bonnets moments before. She felt heat creep up her neck as she clutched her copy of the novel.

“I… well, that is to say …” Samantha began, her mind suddenly blank of any coherent literary analysis. Instead, treacherous memories flooded her thoughts—Ewan’s hands on her skin, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, the way he’d whispered her name like a prayer.

“My dear?” Lady Harrington prompted gently, her brows raised with interest.

“Marriage,” Samantha blurted, then immediately wished she could disappear into the Persian carpet.

“I mean, the institution of marriage as portrayed in Mrs. Canterbury’s work reflects the…

the …” She swallowed hard, fighting to focus on anything other than the phantom sensation of her husband’s touch.

“The complexities of… of emotional attachment versus practical considerations.”

Jane bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh at her sister’s flustered state.

“Quite right,” one elderly woman agreed. “Though one must wonder about the author’s own experiences with such matters.”

“Indeed,” Lady Harrington nodded. “The tension between duty and desire is masterfully portrayed. But my dear Duchess, you seem rather… distracted this afternoon. Perhaps your thoughts are elsewhere?”

The knowing gleam in the dowager’s eyes made Samantha’s stomach lurch.

Could everyone see how thoroughly Ewan had undone her? How even now, three days later, she could barely concentrate on simple conversations without her mind drifting to the way he’d looked at her, touched her, worshipped her with such devastating tenderness?

“Not at all,” Samantha managed, though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. “I find Mrs. Canterbury’s exploration of… of intimate relationships quite compelling.”

She immediately regretted her choice of words as several ladies exchanged meaningful glances.

“Speaking of intimate relationships,” Lady Harrington said with a sly smile, “might we expect news of an heir soon, Your Grace? You’ve been married several months now.”

The question hit Samantha like a physical blow. The book slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. The room seemed to tilt, and she gripped the arm of her chair to steady herself.

An heir. Children. The one thing Ewan had made abundantly clear he would never want with her.

“I… we …” she stammered, her throat closing around the words.

“Oh, look at the time!” Jane exclaimed suddenly, rising from her seat with bright desperation. “Samantha, didn’t you mention an appointment with your modiste? We really must be going.”

“Yes,” Samantha whispered gratefully, practically leaping to her feet. “Yes, quite right. Forgive me, ladies, but we simply must dash.”

The dowagers murmured polite farewells as the sisters made their hasty escape, but Samantha could feel their speculative gazes following her out of the room.

Once they were safely in their carriage, she slumped against the velvet cushions and covered her face with her hands.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Jane reached over and squeezed her hand. “What are sisters for? Though you really must stop looking so thoroughly ravished when anyone mentions marriage, Sam. It’s rather giving the game away.”

Despite everything, Samantha couldn’t help but laugh, though it sounded a bit hysterical. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t,” Jane said with a grin. “That’s why you’ve been walking about like you’ve discovered some magnificent secret, and why you practically melted into your chair when Lady Langston mentioned… well, you know.”

Samantha groaned. “Am I truly so obvious?”

“Only to someone who knows you as well as I do,” Jane assured her. “But Sam… what happened? You’ve been different since that dreadful soirée. Happier, but also more… I don’t know how to describe it.”

More alive, Samantha thought. More aware of herself as a woman rather than simply a duchess playing a role. But also more confused, more frightened of the feelings Ewan had awakened in her.

“Nothing happened,” she lied.

Jane gave her a look that suggested she wasn’t fooled for a moment but mercifully chose not to press the matter.

“Uncle Ewan, might I have a word?” Percy appeared in the doorway of Ewan’s study, his usually dramatic demeanor subdued.

Ewan looked up from the estate ledgers he’d been pretending to review for the past hour, his mind thoroughly distracted by thoughts of his wife. “What is it, Percy? And please tell me it doesn’t involve synonyms again.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Percy said, settling into the chair across from Ewan’s desk with uncharacteristic seriousness. “I wanted to speak with you about the duchess.”

Every muscle in Ewan’s body tensed. “What about her?”

“Well, it’s only that she seems rather… melancholy lately. Distant.” Percy fidgeted with his cravat. “And you’ve been prowling about the house like a caged beast. I wondered if perhaps you’d quarreled?”

Ewan set down his quill with careful precision. “My relationship with my wife is not a matter for discussion, Percy.”

“Of course not,” Percy said quickly. “It’s only that… well, she’s been avoiding the family wing entirely. And yesterday I saw her in the garden, just standing there staring at nothing with the most forlorn expression.”

“The duchess is perfectly well,” Ewan said curtly. “She’s simply adjusting to married life.”

Percy nodded, but his expression remained troubled. “It’s only that she seems so very alone sometimes. And you …” He hesitated. “Forgive me, Uncle, but you seem rather alone as well.”

The observation struck closer to home than Ewan cared to admit.

Since that night in his chambers—since Samantha had fled back to her room and bolted the door between them—he’d felt her absence like a physical ache.

He found himself listening for her footsteps in the corridor, looking for glimpses of her auburn hair in the gardens, fighting the urge to seek her out simply to hear her voice.

It was unprecedented. And deeply unsettling, because it was not the life he’d intended to live. Not pining for a woman. He’d done everything he could to avoid being reduced to that.

And yet…

“I’m fine, Percy,” he said, returning his attention to the ledgers. “Was there anything else?”

“Actually, yes.” Percy’s voice took on a note of barely contained excitement. “I’ve been working on a new sonnet, and I wondered if you might?—”

“No.”

“But you haven’t even heard it yet!”

“I don’t need to hear it to know it’s terrible,” Ewan said dryly, though not without affection. “Why don’t you inflict it on your friends instead?”

Percy pouted. “You’re being beastly. The duchess would listen to my poetry.”

Something twisted in Ewan’s chest at the mention of his wife. Would she? He found himself wondering what other small kindnesses she might show his ridiculous nephew, what conversations they might have shared while he’d been deliberately avoiding the family wing.

“Then perhaps you should seek her out,” he heard himself saying.

“I would, but she’s been scarce as hen’s teeth lately. Rather like someone else I know.” Percy gave him a pointed look. “One might almost think the two of you are avoiding each other.”

Ewan’s jaw tightened. “One might mind their own business.”

“Touchy,” Percy observed. “You know, Uncle, for a man who minds his own business, you certainly seem rather invested in your wife’s whereabouts.”

“I am not?—”

“Yesterday you asked Mrs. Blackwood three times if the duchess had taken luncheon. And this morning you inquired about her plans for the afternoon.”

Had he? Ewan frowned, trying to recall the conversations. Perhaps he had mentioned Samantha once or twice, but surely not with the frequency Percy suggested.

“I was merely being polite,” he said stiffly.

His nephew’s grin was insufferably knowing. “Of course you were. Just as you were being polite when you glowered at every gentleman who so much as looked at her at the Worthington soirée.”

“I did not glower.”

“Uncle, you looked ready to call out half the ton . It was quite entertaining, actually. Rather like watching a wolf guard his mate.”

The comparison sent an uncomfortable jolt through Ewan’s system.

He was not possessive of Samantha. Their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more.

The fact that he’d found himself thinking about her almost constantly since their encounter was simply…

natural masculine interest. Nothing deeper.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Am I being ridiculous?” Percy leaned forward, his expression suddenly earnest. “Because it seems to me that you’re both miserable, and I can’t help but wonder why two people who are clearly attracted to each other insist on maintaining this elaborate charade of indifference.”

“ Percival .” The warning in Ewan’s voice was unmistakable.

And his nephew had good sense to hear it all the same. “I’m only saying that perhaps if you spoke to her?—”

“I will not discuss this further.” Ewan stood abruptly, moving to the window that overlooked the gardens.

As if summoned by their conversation, he caught sight of Samantha walking along the rose path, her burgundy dress a splash of color against the greenery.

Even from this distance, he could see the set of her shoulders, the careful way she held herself that spoke of bone-deep loneliness.

Percy was right. She did look forlorn.

“She’s not like the others, you know,” Percy said quietly. “The women you usually… entertain.”

Ewan’s hands clenched at his sides. “What do you know about the women I entertain?”

“I know they never mattered to you. Not really.” Percy joined him at the window, following his gaze. “But she does, doesn’t she?”

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications Ewan wasn’t prepared to examine.

Did Samantha matter to him? When had she stopped being merely a means to an end and become… something else entirely?

“She’s my wife,” he said finally. “Of course she matters.”

But that was not what his nephew had meant, and they both knew it. Ewan turned away from the window, away from the sight of his wife walking alone through gardens that should have been theirs to share.

“It doesn’t matter what I feel, Percy. Some things are better left uncomplicated.”

“Or perhaps,” Percy suggested gently, “some things are worth the complication.”

Long after his nephew had left, Ewan remained at the window, watching the empty garden path and wondering when exactly he’d become such a coward.