Page 38 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
“ T he Marchwood children are absolute treasures, are they not?” Jane remarked as their carriage rolled through the London streets toward the Marchwood townhouse. “I’ve heard the youngest has quite the talent for pianoforte, despite being only six years old.”
Samantha smoothed the silk of her evening gown—a creation of deep sapphire that complemented her auburn hair and brought out the blue of her eyes.
“Annabelle mentioned as much at our last Athena Society meeting. Though I believe she was quick to add that her daughter’s enthusiasm occasionally outstrips her technical proficiency. ”
Beside her, Ewan chuckled softly. “A diplomatic way of saying the child makes a frightful noise, no doubt.”
“Much like your nephew’s poetry,” Samantha quipped, earning a warm smile from her husband that still made her heart flutter, even after these few months of marriage.
“Percy’s verses have improved considerably,” Ewan protested, though his eyes danced with amusement. “He’s limited himself to only three celestial metaphors in his latest sonnet to Miss Waverly.”
“A miracle indeed,” Samantha replied, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Jane, who had joined them for the evening’s engagement.
The carriage slowed as they approached the elegant townhouse belonging to the Duke and Duchess of Marchwood.
Lights blazed from every window, casting golden rectangles onto the cobblestone street below.
Footmen in immaculate livery stood at attention beside the entrance, ready to assist arriving guests.
“I wonder if Lord Tenwick will be in attendance,” Jane mused, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she peered out the window.
“I believe His Grace mentioned he had extended an invitation,” Ewan replied, his tone carefully neutral though Samantha detected the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
Jane’s blush deepened, and Samantha squeezed her sister’s hand in silent understanding. The Marquess of Tenwick had become a frequent caller at their uncle’s home, his visits ostensibly to discuss estate matters but increasingly devoted to lengthy walks in the garden with Jane.
As the carriage drew to a halt, Ewan descended first, turning to offer his hand to Samantha with a grace that still struck her as remarkable in so imposing a man.
His fingers lingered against hers a moment longer than necessary, the simple contact sending a familiar warmth cascading through her veins.
“Ready to face society, my tigress?” he murmured, his voice pitched for her ears alone.
“With you beside me? Always,” she replied, the words emerging more earnestly than she had intended.
Something flickered in his green eyes—a vulnerability quickly masked behind his customary confident demeanor. Before she could decipher it, they were being announced and swept into the glittering reception room.
“Your Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Valemont! Lady Jane Brennan!”
The Marchwood drawing room hummed with the pleasant cadence of aristocratic conversation, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter and the delicate notes of a string quartet positioned near the enormous windows.
Annabelle, resplendent in emerald silk that complemented her dark hair, immediately broke away from a cluster of guests to greet them.
“Samantha! How delightful to see you outside of our book discussions.” The Duchess embraced her warmly before turning to Ewan with a curtsy. “Your Grace, thank you for honoring our invitation. And Lady Jane—what a pleasure to have you join us as well.”
“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Ewan replied with practiced charm. “Your home is as welcoming as its mistress.”
“You are quite the flatterer, Your Grace,” Annabelle laughed, though her eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure. “Henry will be delighted you’ve come. He’s been hoping to discuss that new agricultural method you mentioned at White’s.”
“Thrashing machines?” Her husband inquired, his interest visibly piqued. “I’ve had remarkable results at Valemont—increased our yield by nearly fifteen percent this harvest.”
“Yes, that was it!” Annabelle confirmed, then added with an indulgent smile, “Though I confess the technical details escape me entirely. Henry is in the library with several gentlemen, including your friend Lord Tenwick.”
At the mention of the Marquess, Jane straightened, her eyes brightening with interest that did not escape Annabelle’s notice.
“Perhaps Lady Jane would enjoy seeing our conservatory?” she suggested with delicate tact. “Lord Tenwick mentioned only yesterday how much he admired your knowledge of exotic flora, my dear.”
“How thoughtful,” Jane murmured, her blush returning with renewed vigor. “I should be delighted to see it.”
As Annabelle guided Jane toward the conservatory, Samantha found herself momentarily alone with Ewan. She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Thrashing machines? I had no idea you harbored such passionate interest in agricultural equipment, Your Grace.”
“One of my many hidden depths,” he replied, his voice dropping to that intimate register that never failed to send a shiver down her spine. “Though I’d much rather discuss your passionate interests, Duchess.”
As she started to formulate a suitably witty response, a clear, high voice cut through their exchange.
“Papa says you’re a duke like him, but your castle is bigger. Is that true?”
They turned to find a small girl of perhaps six or seven years regarding them with frank curiosity, her dark curls framing a heart-shaped face that unmistakably belonged to Annabelle’s daughter.
“Eleanor!” A harried-looking governess hurried forward. “Your Grace, Duchess, please forgive the intrusion. Lady Eleanor has been told repeatedly not to interrupt adult conversations.”
“But I wasn’t interrupting,” the child protested with impeccable logic. “They had stopped talking when I asked my question.”
Samantha bit back a smile, charmed by the girl’s forthright manner.
“No apology necessary,” she assured the governess before kneeling slightly to address the child at her level.
“And to answer your question, Lady Eleanor, I believe your papa’s title is older and therefore more distinguished, even if our home might be somewhat larger. ”
“Is it very large?” Eleanor persisted, wide-eyed with the endless curiosity of childhood. “Do you have a hundred rooms? And a maze in the garden like we do at our country house?”
“Not quite a hundred,” Samantha replied solemnly, “though I confess I’ve never counted them all. And while we don’t have a maze, we do have a most excellent tree for climbing near the south lawn.”
Eleanor’s eyes grew even wider. “You climb trees? But you’re a duchess!”
“Only when no one is looking,” Samantha confided with a conspiratorial wink that drew a delighted giggle from the child.
Ewan, who had been watching this exchange with an unreadable expression, suddenly knelt beside her. “I’m afraid my duchess is being modest,” he told Eleanor gravely. “She climbs trees with remarkable skill. Almost as well as she rides her horse or manages our estate.”
The child considered this information seriously before nodding. “Mama says duchesses can do anything they set their minds to. That’s why Papa looks scared sometimes when she gets ideas.”
This startled a laugh from both Samantha and Ewan, drawing the attention of their host, who approached with a rueful smile.
“I see my daughter has been entertaining you with family observations,” the Duke of Marchwood remarked dryly. “Eleanor, I believe your brother was looking for you in the nursery.”
“But I wanted to ask about their castle,” Eleanor protested, though she obediently took her governess’s hand.
“Another time, perhaps,” her father promised. “Now run along—your mother has arranged for a special treat after you and your siblings have supped in the nursery.”
As the child departed with her governess, the Duke of Marchwood turned to them with a warm smile. “My apologies for the interruption. Eleanor has inherited her mother’s curiosity and my unfortunate tendency toward directness.”
“She’s utterly charming,” Samantha assured him sincerely. “You must be very proud.”
“Indeed, we are,” he agreed, his expression softening with paternal pride.
“Though they can be rather exhausting at times. Celia—my daughter from my first marriage—assures me that parenthood grows no less demanding even as they age. She’s expecting her first child next month and already wondering how she’ll manage. ”
“Your first grandchild,” Samantha noted, ignoring the sudden tightness in her chest. “How wonderful.”
“I confess I’m still adjusting to the notion of becoming a grandfather,” the Duke admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “It seems only yesterday that Celia was Eleanor’s age, following me about the estate and asking endless questions.”
As their host continued to reminisce about his children’s antics, Samantha found her gaze drawn to the nursery door through which Eleanor had disappeared.
Something must have shown in her expression, for she felt Ewan’s hand come to rest at the small of her back—a gesture of support or perhaps restraint, she could not be certain.
The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly enough.
Dinner was served in the Marchwood’s elegant dining room, where crystal glittered in the candlelight and conversation flowed as freely as the excellent wine.
Samantha found herself seated between an elderly viscount with a passion for exotic butterflies and a political friend of the Duke of Marchwood who seemed determined to explain the intricacies of parliamentary procedure to anyone within earshot.
Across the table, Ewan appeared equally trapped between a dowager with impaired hearing and a gentleman farmer whose enthusiasm for crop rotation rivaled Percy’s love of poetry.
Their eyes met briefly over the centerpiece of hothouse flowers, shared amusement flickering between them despite the distance.