Page 3 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
“ W ine?” He offered, moving toward the side table where a decanter of port caught the candlelight.
That same evening, Ewan, Duke of Valemont, stood before his chamber mirror while his valet adjusted his cravat.
Behind him, barely visible in the reflection, a woman stretched languidly across his bed, her dark hair spread like ink across the white pillows.
Isabella Marchetti, the opera singer currently performing at Lady Worthington’s private musical, possessed exactly the qualities he preferred in his temporary companions; experienced, discreet, and utterly uninterested in anything beyond their mutually satisfying physical arrangement.
“Please,” she murmured, her Italian accent lending music to the simple word.
He poured two glasses, appreciating the familiar ritual of post-coital courtesy. With women like Isabella, the rules were clear, the expectations minimal, and the risk of emotional entanglement nonexistent.
The chamber door flew open without warning.
Isabella shrieked, scrambling to pull the sheet over her exposed form while Ewan spun toward the intruder with dangerous calm.
“Uncle!” Percy, his nephew, burst into the room, his face flushed with excitement.
“I desperately need your help with—oh.” His eyes widened as he took in the scene, his gaze bouncing between his uncle’s partially dressed state and the woman clutching the bedsheets.
“Oh dear. I… that is… I saw the light beneath your door and assumed you were awake…”
“Percy,” Ewan said, his voice deadly quiet, “get out.”
“Yes, of course, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to…” he continued babbling as Ewan crossed the room in three swift strides, grasped his nephew’s arm, and propelled him into the hallway.
He pulled the door shut behind them with controlled force.
“What,” Ewan said, his voice still dangerously low, “possessed you to barge into my chambers without knocking?”
His nephew’s face had turned an alarming shade of crimson. “I’m sorry, Uncle. Truly. I was so excited about the poem I’m writing for Lady Jane that I forgot… I mean, I should have knocked, but I was just so desperate for help with the meter…”
Ewan drew in a calming breath. “You needed help with poetry so urgently that you couldn’t wait until morning?”
“Well, yes,” the boy said earnestly. “You see, I’m trying to capture the exact shade of her eyes, and I’ve been wrestling with whether ‘cerulean’ or ‘azure’ better conveys the depth of?—”
Blast it all , he thought. “Percy.”
“Yes, Uncle?”
“After your display at Lord Norfeld’s party, I should think you’d recognize the need for more subtlety in your romantic endeavors.”
Percy nodded vigorously, not a thought behind those eyes. “Absolutely. You’re entirely right. I realize now that the pony might have been excessive.”
“Might have been,” Ewan repeated dryly.
“So, you’ll help me with the poem?” The younger man stared at him,
“Tomorrow,” Ewan said firmly. “After you’ve learned to knock.”
“Of course, Uncle. Tomorrow.” Percy began backing toward his own chambers, then paused. “Should I… should I apologize to the lady? For the interruption?”
Certainly not. “Go to bed, Percy.”
“Right. Good night, Uncle.”
Ewan watched his nephew disappear around the corner, then returned to his chambers.
Isabella was already dressed, her earlier languor replaced by brisk efficiency.
“I should go,” she said, accepting the glass of wine he offered. “Your nephew seems… enthusiastic.”
“That’s one word for it,” Ewan replied, but his mind was already elsewhere.
As Isabella gathered her things and prepared to leave, Ewan found himself thinking not of her departure, but of another pair of blue eyes—not cerulean or azure, but the deep blue of a summer sky just before storm clouds gathered.
Lady Samantha.
Lady Samantha Brennan was… feisty. Their argument in the garden was proof of that. The fire that had sparked in her eyes when he’d challenged her… he’d wanted to continue their verbal sparring with the woman who tugged at something in his memory.
The mere idea disturbed him greatly. Because ladies like her represented everything he’d sworn to avoid.
Yet as he watched Isabella disappear into the night, it wasn’t her face that lingered in his memory, but the image of a red-haired woman with freckles and fierce blue eyes who had once made him forget, for the space of a single dance, all the reasons why he should stay away from ladies of the ton.
From the hallway came Percy’s voice, slightly muffled by the closed door: “I’m terribly sorry again, Miss… er… signora!”
Ewan let out a tired sigh and reached for the port.
“Good heavens, what is that?” Lady St. Clair’s voice carried across the elegant drawing room of Worthington House, her fan snapping shut with audible disdain.
Samantha turned from her conversation with Jane and their uncle to witness yet another of Lord Stonehall’s theatrical displays.
The young viscount approached through the gathering crowd, his arms wrapped around an enormous bouquet that appeared to contain half the contents of Covent Garden’s flower market.
“Lady Jane,” Lord Stonehall announced, his voice projecting with stage-worthy confidence, “I present to you the most beautiful blooms England has to offer, though they pale in comparison to your radiance.”
Jane’s cheeks flushed as she accepted the towering arrangement. “Lord Stonehall, this is… quite overwhelming.”
“Overwhelmingly ridiculous,” Samantha muttered, earning a sharp look from her uncle.
“Now, Samantha,” Lord Norfeld said quietly, “the boy is making an effort.”
“That’s precisely what concerns me.”
The bouquet trembled in Jane’s hands, and Samantha frowned. Had she imagined that flutter of movement among the roses?
“Lady Jane,” Lord Stonehall continued, “these flowers represent the depth of my?—”
A white dove burst from the center of the bouquet with violent flapping of wings, causing Jane to shriek and nearly drop the arrangement. The bird soared toward the refreshment table, where it promptly knocked over a silver tea service and sent cucumber sandwiches flying.
The assembled guests gasped as the dove circled the room in obvious distress, its wings beating frantically against the painted ceiling. Ladies ducked behind their fans while gentlemen reached for walking sticks, though no one seemed inclined to pursue the creature.
“Oh!” Lord Stonehall exclaimed, his face cycling through several shades of mortification before settling on determined brightness.
With surprising agility, he lunged forward and captured the dove, cradling it gently against his chest.
The room fell silent.
Lord Stonehall looked around at the sea of shocked faces, his mind clearly working to salvage the situation. Then, with a flourish that would have impressed the most seasoned performer, he raised the dove above his head and bowed deeply.
“Part of the performance! A symbol of the peace your beauty brings to my troubled heart, Lady Jane!”
After a moment of stunned silence, polite applause began to ripple through the crowd. Jane clapped enthusiastically, though her smile appeared strained. Uncle William joined in with diplomatic approval, while other guests followed suit with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Samantha kept her hands firmly at her sides.
“Brilliant!” called out one young lady from near the window. “How wonderfully original!”
Soon a small circle of young ladies surrounded Lord Stonehall, their voices rising in animated praise. He handed the dove to a nearby footman with obvious relief, then turned back to his admirers with growing confidence.
“The symbolism was quite intentional,” he explained, his chest puffing with pride. “You see, the dove represents freedom, but also fidelity?—”
“Jane,” Samantha whispered firmly, taking her sister’s arm, “we need to discuss your expectations regarding courtship.”
“Samantha, please,” Jane whispered back, glancing toward the crowd still gathered around Lord Stonehall. “He’s being kind.”
“He’s being theatrical. There’s a significant difference.”
Uncle William approached them, his expression thoughtful. “You know, watching young Stonehall reminds me of my own courtship days. When I was pursuing your dear aunt, I once hired a string quartet to play beneath her window at dawn.”
“Uncle,” Samantha said with strained patience, “that’s entirely different.”
“Is it?” He smiled fondly. “She threw a boot at me from her bedroom window. Nearly knocked me unconscious. But she married me, didn’t she? Sometimes grand gestures work, my dear.”
From his position in the far corner of the drawing room, Ewan shook his head as he watched his nephew continue to bask in the attention of the surrounding debutantes. The boy was practically glowing with satisfaction, apparently having convinced himself that his latest disaster had been a triumph.
“Well,” came a familiar voice beside him, “that was certainly… memorable.”
Ewan turned to find the Marquess of Tenwick, Ralph Kennington, approaching with two glasses of wine and an expression of barely contained amusement.
“I specifically told him to be more subtle this time,” Ewan said, accepting the offered glass.
Ralph’s eyebrows rose. “Subtle? By God, Valemont, if that was subtle, I shudder to think what his previous attempts involved.”
“Pony. With a servant boy scattering rose petals.”
“Ah.” Ralph nodded as if this explained everything. “Well then, I suppose hiding livestock in floral arrangements does represent progress.”
“By Percy’s standards, yes.”
A subtle change in the room’s atmosphere caught his attention. The opera singer who had performed at his estate three evenings prior had entered the drawing room, her dark hair elegantly arranged and her burgundy gown cut to showcase her considerable assets.
Several guests turned to stare, and he caught the whispered speculation that always accompanied such women in polite society.
Isabella caught his eye and inclined her head slightly. He returned the gesture with careful neutrality.