Page 42 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

“ H e wouldn’t dare,” Ewan growled, though he knew the threat was empty. Percy’s devotion to Samantha had grown deep in the months of their marriage, his theatrical nature finding in her a patient audience and genuine appreciation that Ewan himself had sometimes lacked the temperament to provide.

“Oh, he absolutely would,” Ralph corrected with a hint of amusement. “The boy may write dreadful poetry, but he has a good heart. And he’s as miserable without her as you are, though considerably more willing to admit it.”

A reluctant smile tugged at Ewan’s lips despite everything. “He does wear his heart rather prominently on his sleeve.”

“Unlike his uncle,” Ralph observed dryly. “Though I must say, your current state hardly qualifies as concealing your feelings effectively.”

Ewan sighed, the fight draining from him as suddenly as it had appeared days ago in the Marchwood drawing room. “What would you have me do, Ralph? Compromise on a matter of fundamental importance? Pretend I can be something I’m not?”

“I would have you be honest,” Ralph replied simply. “With yourself first, and then with your wife. Fear makes poor counsel, my friend, and you’ve been listening to its whispers for far too long.”

The words struck with uncomfortable precision, echoing his own thoughts during sleepless nights when the walls he had built around his heart seemed less like protection and more like a prison of his own making.

“I shall consider what you’ve said,” he conceded finally.

“See that you do,” Ralph replied, moving toward the door. “Before that remarkable woman decides her happiness lies elsewhere than with a stubborn duke who cannot recognize a blessing when it stands before him.”

As the door closed behind his friend, Ewan remained at the window, his gaze drawn inexorably to the roses that Samantha had planted with such care in the early days of their marriage.

The crimson blooms nodded in the gentle breeze, their beauty achingly perfect against the green of the surrounding foliage.

“She would never leave,” he told himself, yet even as the words formed, doubt crept in like a shadow.

Hadn’t he told her to go? Hadn’t he declared their entire relationship a mistake? And wasn’t that precisely what he had feared from the beginning—that allowing himself to care for her would inevitably lead to this ache of loss?

The irony was not lost on him. In his determination to avoid pain, he had inflicted it upon himself more thoroughly than any external force ever could.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Enter,” he called, expecting Hendricks with some household matter requiring his attention.

Instead, Percy stepped into the room, his usual exuberance subdued but determination evident in the set of his shoulders. “Uncle, I wish to speak with you about Aunt Samantha.”

Ewan sighed, too weary to maintain the coldness of recent days. “I thought I made my feelings on that subject clear.”

“Perfectly clear,” Percy agreed, advancing further into the room. “Which is why I feel compelled to disregard them entirely. Uncle, I’m going to call upon her today.”

“Percy—”

“No, Uncle. I have respected your wishes for nearly a week now, watching you grow more miserable by the hour. But I cannot stand by any longer while you destroy your happiness—and hers—through sheer stubbornness.”

The echo of Ralph’s words in his nephew’s speech might have amused Ewan under different circumstances. Now, they only heightened his sense of being besieged on all sides by well-meaning interference.

“This is not a matter for your concern,” he said firmly.

“Isn’t it?” Percy challenged, a flash of genuine anger lighting his usually good-natured features. “Am I not to be your heir? Have you not raised me as your own son these past years? What affects you affects me, Uncle. And what affects Aunt Samantha affects us both.”

Ewan stared at his nephew, momentarily struck speechless by this uncharacteristic display of vehemence.

“She makes you happy,” Percy continued, his voice softening. “Happier than I’ve ever seen you. Whatever has come between you cannot possibly be worth sacrificing that happiness.”

“Some matters are not so easily resolved,” Ewan replied but found his own words empty.

“Perhaps not,” Percy conceded. “But they certainly cannot be resolved while you remain here and she remains at Lord Norfeld’s townhouse, both of you too proud or too afraid to bridge the distance.”

The simple truth of this observation struck Ewan with unexpected force. What had these days of separation accomplished, beyond deepening the misery for them both? What principle was served by this stubborn adherence to solitude when every fiber of his being longed for her presence?

“Very well,” he said finally. “You may call upon her. Convey my…” He hesitated, uncertain what message could possibly encapsulate the tumult of his feelings. “Convey my regard.”

Percy’s expression reflected clear disappointment at this tepid offering. “Your regard? Uncle, surely you can do better than that.”

Ewan turned back to the window, unable to meet his nephew’s earnest gaze. “It is all I can offer at present.”

Percy’s sigh spoke volumes, but he did not press further. “As you wish. Though I must warn you, I intend to plead your case far more eloquently than you seem inclined to do yourself.”

And even though he did not know what to feel about his nephew’s faith in him, Ewan could not help but hope that it was not in vain.

“Truly, Samantha, you must try some of this excellent lemon cake. Mrs. Winters has outdone herself,” Uncle William urged, pushing the plate toward her with well-meaning insistence. “You’ve scarcely eaten a morsel these past days.”

“Thank you, Uncle, but I find my appetite rather diminished of late,” Samantha replied, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes.

The mere thought of food turned her stomach, though she knew her uncle’s concern was justified.

Her gowns had begun to hang loosely about her frame, a fact Jane had noted with alarm just that morning.

“A small piece, then,” he persisted, cutting a sliver so thin it was nearly transparent. “For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

Unable to deny such gentle concern, Samantha accepted the offering, though each bite tasted like ash upon her tongue.

Five days had passed since she had fled to her uncle’s townhouse—five interminable days of carefully composed smiles and rehearsed assurances that she was perfectly well, thank you.

Five nights of staring at the darkened ceiling, remembering the warmth of Ewan’s arms and the quiet rumble of his voice in those precious moments before sleep claimed them.

“Perhaps you might accompany me to Lady Belford’s musicale this evening,” Jane suggested, her blue eyes alight with carefully modulated hope. “I hear Miss Thompson is to perform Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”“

“I fear I would make poor company,” Samantha demurred, setting aside her barely touched cake. “But you must certainly attend. I believe Lord Tenwick mentioned his fondness for Beethoven when last he called.”

Jane’s cheeks colored prettily, though her expression remained concerned. “I cannot bear to leave you alone in such low spirits, Sam.”

“I am not alone,” Samantha pointed out, gesturing to encompass their uncle’s comfortable morning room. “I have Uncle William, an excellent book, and the comforts of home. What more could I require?”

The question hung in the air, its answer unspoken yet painfully evident to all three occupants of the room. What she required—what she longed for with an ache that seemed to permeate her very bones—was a husband who had banished her from his heart as thoroughly as she had once feared.

“A visitor, perhaps?” Uncle William suggested, peering through the window that overlooked the street below. “For unless I am much mistaken, Lord Stonehall’s curricle has just drawn up before our door.”

Samantha’s heart leapt traitorously before settling into a more measured rhythm. Not Ewan, then, but his nephew. She smoothed her skirts with suddenly trembling hands, uncertain whether to feel disappointment or relief.

Percy was announced moments later, his tall frame filling the doorway as he executed a bow that managed to be both perfectly proper and slightly theatrical in its depth. “Lord Norfeld, Lady Jane,” he greeted, before his gaze settled on Samantha with undisguised concern. “Aunt Samantha.”

“Percy,” she replied, her heart clenching at how easily she said his name now, after months of easy familiarity. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I hope I do not intrude,” he said, accepting the seat Uncle William indicated with a wave. “I find myself in need of advice regarding a matter of some importance.”

“Of course,” Samantha responded automatically, the role of dutiful aunt easier to assume than that of estranged wife. “How may we assist you?”

Percy’s expression brightened. “There is to be an exhibition of classical sculptures at Somerset House tomorrow afternoon. Miss Waverly has expressed great interest in attending, and her mother has granted permission for me to escort her, provided a suitable chaperone accompanies us.”

“How delightful,” Her sister interjected with forced cheerfulness clearly meant to lift her own spirits. “Miss Waverly has always struck me as a young lady of refined taste.”

“Indeed, she is,” Percy agreed fervently.

“Her appreciation for art is as discerning as her literary sensibilities are acute. But I find myself in something of a quandary, for Uncle Ewan has declined to attend, and I…” He faltered, his gaze dropping to his hands.

“I had hoped you might consider fulfilling the role of chaperone, Aunt Samantha.”

The simple request carried a weight far beyond its surface meaning.

To appear in public without Ewan would invite speculation, whispers, the curious glances of the ton ever hungry for signs of discord among their ranks.

Yet to refuse Percy, whose hopeful expression reminded her painfully of the boy he still was beneath his dramatic exterior, seemed equally impossible.

“I should be happy to accompany you,” she heard herself say, the words emerging before she had fully considered their implications. “Though I must warn you, my knowledge of classical sculpture is rather limited.”

“Excellent!” Percy exclaimed, relief evident in every line of his lanky frame. “Miss Waverly will be delighted. And I assure you, no expertise is required beyond an appreciation for beauty—something you possess in abundance.”

The genuine warmth in his voice touched something in Samantha’s chest, a knot of tension loosening fractionally. Whatever had transpired between her and Ewan, Percy’s affection remained unchanged, a small constancy in a world suddenly rendered unstable.

“We shall make a day of it,” Uncle William declared, his face brightening at this development. “Jane and I shall join you, and perhaps even Lord Tenwick, if his schedule permits.”

“A most agreeable arrangement,” Percy agreed, though something flickered in his expression that Samantha could not quite interpret. “Shall we say two o’clock? The afternoon light is particularly favorable for viewing the marbles.”

As they settled the details, Samantha found herself studying Percy with newfound attention. Though he spoke with his usual exuberance, there was a subdued quality to his manner, a shadow beneath his customary animation that suggested all was not well at the Valemont townhouse.

“And how is your uncle?” she asked when the conversation had reached a natural lull, the question emerging despite her determination to maintain dignified detachment. “Does he fare well?”

Percy’s hesitation spoke volumes. “He is… occupied with estate matters,” he replied carefully. “The south pasture requires attention, I believe.”

It was a transparent evasion, and Samantha felt a treacherous flicker of hope at the implication that Ewan might be suffering as she was.

She quashed it immediately, reminding herself that it was his choice to sever the tentative bonds that had formed between them, his decision to retreat behind the walls of duty and propriety that had once seemed impenetrable.

“How diligent of him,” she remarked, her tone carefully neutral. “The estate always benefits from his attention.”

Percy’s gaze met hers, something like compassion softening his youthful features. “He asked me to convey his regard,” he said quietly. “Though I feel compelled to add that his eyes conveyed considerably more than his words.”

The simple statement pierced Samantha’s composure more effectively than hours of Jane’s gentle probing had managed. She felt her expression falter, the careful mask of indifference slipping to reveal the raw wound beneath.

“How kind of him to remember me at all,” she replied, unable to entirely suppress the bitter edge in her voice.

Percy leaned forward, his usual dramatic manner giving way to unexpected earnestness. “He does more than remember, Aunt Samantha. He?—”

“Perhaps we might discuss the sculptures we are most anticipating,” Jane interrupted smoothly, casting a meaningful glance at her sister’s rapidly paling countenance. “I have heard the Elgin Marbles are particularly magnificent.”

Percy accepted the redirection with good grace, though his eyes lingered on Samantha with an understanding that belied his youth.

The remainder of his visit passed in safer conversation, and when he took his leave, Samantha found herself both relieved and strangely bereft, as though a tenuous connection to Ewan had departed with him.

“You need not attend if it distresses you,” Jane said gently once Percy had gone. “I’m certain he would understand.”

“No,” Samantha replied, summoning a determination she scarcely felt. “I shall not disappoint him. And perhaps…” She hesitated, the admission feeling like a vulnerability she could ill afford. “Perhaps an afternoon surrounded by beauty might lift my spirits somewhat.”

The reality, of course, was far more complex than such a simple hope suggested.

As she prepared for bed that night, Samantha could not help but wonder if her true motivation was less about Percy’s happiness and more about the possibility, however remote, of news of her appearance reaching Ewan’s ears.

Was she so reduced that she would grasp at such petty satisfactions?

The thought was mortifying, yet she could not entirely dismiss it.

Her dreams, when sleep finally claimed her, were filled with marble statues that bore Ewan’s face, cold and perfect and eternally beyond her reach.