Page 23 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

“ U ncle Ewan, I fear I may expire from the sheer magnitude of my mortification,” Percy declared dramatically, adjusting his cravat for the fifth time in as many minutes as they stood at the edge of the Ashworth ballroom.

“You’ll survive,” Ewan replied dryly, though his attention was hardly focused on his nephew’s theatrical distress.

Instead, his gaze kept drifting to where Samantha stood beside them, radiant in emerald silk that made her auburn hair gleam like burnished copper in the candlelight. The neckline was perfectly respectable, yet somehow it still made his mouth go dry.

“But what if I stumble? What if I forget the steps? What if she laughs at my poetry?” Percy continued, wringing his hands as he stared across the room at Miss Charlotte Waverly, a pretty blonde who was currently surrounded by eager suitors.

“Then you’ll learn to write better poetry,” Samantha said gently, placing a reassuring hand on Percy’s arm. “But truly, you mustn’t work yourself into such a state. Miss Waverly seems perfectly lovely.”

“She is perfection incarnate,” Percy sighed, pressing a hand to his chest. “An angel descended from the heavens to?—”

“That is enough,” Ewan interrupted firmly. “Percy, if you approach her spouting that drivel, she will indeed laugh at you. And not in a charming way.”

Percy’s face fell. “Then what should I say?”

Samantha shot her husband a reproving look before turning back to Percy with an encouraging smile. “Simply ask her to dance. Compliment her gown, perhaps comment on the music. Ask her about herself. Nothing too elaborate.”

“But how will she know the depths of my admiration if I don’t?—”

“She’ll know you’re not completely addled,” Ewan said bluntly. “Which is more than can be said at present.”

“Your Grace,” Samantha chided, though he caught the hint of amusement in her voice that made something warm unfurl in his chest.

“What? He needs to hear it. Percy, approach her like a normal human being, not like some lovesick fool from a Gothic novel.”

Percy straightened his shoulders with visible effort. “Right. Like a normal. Human. Being.” He took a deep breath. “Wish me luck.”

They watched as he made his way across the ballroom, weaving between the other guests with determination that was only slightly undermined by his obvious nervousness.

“You could have been kinder,” Samantha murmured, not looking at Ewan as she spoke.

“Kindness won’t help him if he makes a fool of himself,” Ewan replied, hyper-aware of her proximity, of the subtle scent of jasmine that seemed to cling to her skin. “He needs to learn confidence, not coddling.”

“There’s a difference between confidence and arrogance, Your Grace.”

The formal address stung more than it should have. After what had passed between them in his chambers, the return to such cold courtesy felt like a slap. “Indeed, there is, Duchess. Though I suspect you’ve forgotten which is which.”

She turned to face him then, her green eyes flashing with irritation. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me perfectly well.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “You’ve been avoiding me for days, skulking about the house like a guilty child. If that’s not arrogance, I don’t know what is.”

Her cheeks flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment he couldn’t tell. “I have not been skulking.”

“No? Then what would you call it?” He challenged, one brow raised at her even as he maintained a socially acceptable smile on his lips.

“I would call it maintaining appropriate boundaries in our arrangement,” she said stiffly.

“Appropriate boundaries.” He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

The orchestra began the opening notes of a waltz, and couples began moving toward the center of the ballroom, cutting off that conversation before it could even fully begin. Ewan held out his hand with practiced elegance.

“Shall we dance, my dear tigress?”

For a moment, he thought she might refuse. Her gaze flickered to his outstretched hand, then back to his face, something unreadable passing through her expression. Finally, she placed her gloved fingers in his.

“Very well,” she said. He decided not to think about the way his heart fluttered in response.

The moment his hand settled on her waist, the moment her fingers curled around his shoulder, every rational thought fled Ewan’s mind. The ballroom, the other dancers, the watching eyes of the ton—it all faded into insignificance.

There was only Samantha, the warmth of her body mere inches from his, the way she moved with unconscious grace as he led her through the steps.

“You dance beautifully,” he said, his voice rougher than intended.

“Thank you.” Her reply was polite, distant, but he could feel the tension thrumming through her body, could see the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat.

“Are you going to spend the entire dance pretending you can barely tolerate my presence?”

Her eyes snapped to his. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“No? Then why do you look like you’d rather be anywhere else in the world?”

“Perhaps because I would,” she shot back, though the breathless quality of her voice undermined the cutting words.

He spun her then, perhaps with more force than the dance required, bringing her back against his chest with an impact that made them both gasp.

“Liar.”

“You are insufferable,” she whispered, but her fingers tightened on his shoulder, and he could feel the way her body responded to his nearness despite her words.

“And you, my dear wife, are a coward.” He said, even as he knew he was referring to himself as much as he was accusing her.

But he knew that the accusation hit its mark. Her spine stiffened, and she glared up at him with fire in her eyes that made his pulse quicken.

“How dare you?—?”

“Shh, my tigress,” He leaned closer, his breath stirring the curls at her temple. “You felt it too, didn’t you? That night in my chambers. The way everything changed between us.”

He heard her breath hitch, could feel the way her body stiffened in his arms, but when she spoke, it was with a venomous stubbornness.

“Nothing changed,” she said, and it only made him smile.

Yes, he was probably losing his mind by this point, but he found that he wanted to push her even more.

“Everything changed,” he contradicted, his hand tightening possessively on her waist. “And you’ve been hiding from it ever since.”

The waltz drew to a close but neither of them seemed inclined to step apart. They stood there, caught in each other’s orbit, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension.

“You should check on your nephew, my lord,” Samantha said finally.

Disappointment bloomed in his chest. He pushed it away.

“Yes,” he agreed breathlessly. “I should.”

Still, it took several more heartbeats before he stepped back, bowing formally as the music ended. “Thank you for the dance, my tigress.”

She curtsied in return, her cheeks still flushed, her breathing unsteady. “Your Grace.”

He left her standing there, knowing that if he stayed a moment longer, he would do something that would scandalize the entire ballroom.

As he made his way through the crowd toward Percy, he could feel her gaze following him, could sense the confusion and desire warring within her as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud.

Percy was standing near the refreshment table, looking somewhat dazed but triumphant. “Uncle! I did it! I asked Miss Waverly to dance, and she accepted!”

“Well done,” Ewan said, attempting to focus on his nephew despite the lingering effects of his encounter with Samantha. “How did it go?”

“Wonderfully! She complimented my waistcoat, and I managed not to quote a single line of poetry. Though I did nearly trip during the allemande.” Percy’s face glowed with happiness. “She’s agreed to let me call on her tomorrow.”

“Excellent. Just remember?—”

“No poetry, I know.” Percy grinned. “Thank you, Uncle. For the advice, I mean. Even if it was rather brutally delivered.”

Ewan was about to respond when movement across the ballroom caught his eye. His jaw clenched as he saw Lord Comerford approaching Samantha. His wife.

Yes. She was his .

“Your Grace,” Adam said, executing a perfectly proper bow as he reached her side. “You look radiant this evening.”

Samantha forced a polite smile, though every instinct screamed at her to flee. “Lord Comerford. How unexpected to see you here.”

“The Ashworths are old family friends. I couldn’t possibly miss their annual ball.” His smile was charming, practiced, and it made her skin crawl. “Might I have the honor of the next dance?”

She wanted to refuse. Every fiber of her being recoiled from the idea of being in his arms, of enduring his conversation and his lingering looks. But they were in public, surrounded by the cream of society, and a direct refusal would cause exactly the sort of gossip she’d been trying to avoid.

“I… very well,” she said reluctantly.

As the music began—a country dance, thankfully, which would limit their physical contact—Adam led her onto the floor with practiced ease.

“You seem rather subdued tonight,” he observed as they moved through the opening figures. “Not quite the spirited woman I remember.”

“People change, my lord,” she replied coolly, focusing on the steps rather than his penetrating gaze.

“Hm. I wonder.” His voice dropped lower as they drew together for a brief moment. “You always were quite passionate, Samantha. Surely marriage hasn’t extinguished that fire entirely?”

The familiar use of her first name made her stiffen. “I would prefer if you addressed me properly, Lord Comerford.”

“Oh, of course, Your Grace,” he said with mock contrition, though his eyes gleamed with something she didn’t like. “Forgive me. Old habits.”

They separated again as the dance required, and Samantha tried to use the brief respite to steady her nerves. When they came back together, Adam was standing closer than propriety dictated.

“I’ve been thinking about the last time we met,” he said quietly, his breath warm against her ear as they promenaded.

Samantha did not want to encourage whatever he was talking about. “Excuse me?”

“I couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable your husband made you.” His hand tightened on hers as they turned. “You’re unhappy, aren’t you? In your marriage.”

Samantha’s step faltered slightly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come now, Samantha. I have heard about why Valemont married you. A man like that… he doesn’t know how to appreciate what he has.” Adam’s voice was low, persuasive. “Not like I do.”

What was this cad talking about, right in front of her? “You forget yourself?—”

“I think I am simply saying what we’re both thinking.” They were moving to the edge of the dance floor now, and the disgusting man steered her toward a shadowed alcove behind a cluster of potted palms. “We had something once, you and I. Something real.”

“We had nothing ,” Samantha said firmly, trying to step away from him. “And we have even less now.”

“Oh, come now.” His hand caught her wrist, not painfully, but firmly enough to prevent her from leaving. “I can see it in your eyes, the same longing that’s been eating at me for months. We could have that again, Samantha. We could?—”

“Let go of me.” Her voice was sharp with panic and disgust.

“Just listen?—”

“I said let go.” She tried to pull free, but his grip tightened.

“Think about it,” he continued urgently. “We’re both trapped in boring, loveless marriages. Your husband clearly doesn’t value you as he should, not like I would, you know.”

The sheer irony of his words were not lost on her, however. The fact that the very man who’d broken her heart was now claiming to be the one better suited to caring for it, only made her skin crawl.

But of course, the arrogant idiot was oblivious to the disgust he was stirring within her.

“No one need be hurt.” He continued, obviously already in a fantasy of his own. “We could meet discretely, rekindle what we once?—”

“You are despicable,” Samantha hissed, her voice shaking with fury. “How dare you suggest such a thing to my face? How dare you?”

It was then that his face hardened at her rejection. “Don’t play the virtuous wife with me, Samantha. I know you better than that. You’re not happy, and neither am I. Why should we both suffer when we could?—”

“Get your hands off my wife.”

The voice was deadly quiet, but it cut through Adam’s words like a blade. Samantha’s head snapped up to see Ewan standing at the edge of the alcove, his green eyes blazing with a fury that made her breath catch.

Adam’s grip on her wrist loosened fractionally, though he didn’t release her entirely. “Your Grace. I was just?—”

“I know exactly what you were doing.” Ewan stepped closer, and something in his posture made the other man take an involuntary step backward. “Remove your hands from my wife. Now.”

For a moment, the two men stared at each other, tension crackling between them like lightning before a storm. Finally, the earl released Samantha’s wrist with obvious reluctance.

She saw the way Ewan’s eyes twitched at that detail, and she knew that she would not be able to stop him should he decide to draw blood for Adam’s blatant disrespect of their marital status.

“We were simply having a conversation,” Comerford said with forced casualness. “Nothing improper.”

Ewan’s smile was sharp as a razor. “Is that what you call accosting married women in darkened corners? How illuminating.”

Adam’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. “You’re being dramatic, Valemont. Samantha and I are old friends?—”

“Samantha,” Ewan interrupted with silky menace, “is the Duchess of Valemont. My duchess. And if I ever see you lay so much as a finger on her again, old friend or not, I will make sure to cut off your hands and feed them to the dogs.”

The threat hung in the air between them, and Samantha could see Adam weighing his options. Finally, he stepped back with a stiff bow.

“Your Grace.” His tone was formal, but his eyes promised this wasn’t over. “I apologize for overstepping my bounds. If you would please excuse me.”

He stalked away, leaving Samantha alone with her husband in the shadowed alcove, her heart stuttering in her chest.