Page 43 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

T he exhibition surpasses all expectations,” Lord Tenwick remarked as they moved through the crowded gallery the following afternoon. “Though I confess, the artistic merits of these sculptures are somewhat overshadowed by the political controversy surrounding their acquisition.”

“How like you to introduce politics into an artistic discussion,” Jane teased, her arm linked comfortably through his. “Though I must admit, the idea that these treasures were simply carried away from their homeland does raise certain moral questions.”

“Precisely my point,” Lord Tenwick replied, his expression warming as he gazed down at her. “Beauty without ethical consideration is a fruitless pursuit, is it not?”

Samantha observed their easy rapport with a mixture of pleasure and wistfulness.

Ahead of them, Percy guided Miss Waverly from one exhibit to the next, his gestures animated as he expounded upon the mythological significance of each piece.

The young lady appeared genuinely enchanted by his discourse, her intelligent face alight with interest that seemed to extend to the speaker as much as his subject.

“They make a charming couple,” Uncle William observed, following Samantha’s gaze. “Though I fear Lord Stonehall’s poetic tendencies may overwhelm the poor girl.”

“I rather think she appreciates his enthusiasm,” Samantha replied, watching as Miss Waverly laughed delightedly at something Percy had said. “Few young men of the ton take such genuine interest in art or literature.”

“True enough,” her uncle agreed. “Most are too concerned with appearing fashionably bored to risk displaying actual passion for anything beyond horses or hazard.”

They continued their progress through the exhibition, Samantha maintaining a serene expression that belied the hollow ache within her chest.

Several acquaintances approached to exchange pleasantries, their curious glances at her unaccompanied state confirming her fears regarding speculation.

She offered polite explanations—His Grace regrettably detained by estate matters, yes, such a pity he could not attend, perhaps next time—while inwardly cringing at each repetition of the transparent falsehood.

It was during one such exchange with Lady Montague, a prominent member of the Athena Society, that Samantha caught sight of a familiar figure across the crowded gallery.

Lady Knightley waved enthusiastically, making her way through the press of bodies with remarkable determination for a woman of her years.

“My dear Duchess,” she exclaimed upon reaching them, her kind eyes assessing Samantha with disconcerting acuity. “How delightful to encounter you here. Several of us from the Society have come to admire these marvelous works. You must join us for tea afterward to discuss our impressions.”

“That is most kind,” Samantha began, searching for a graceful refusal.

“I insist,” Lady Knightley continued, taking her arm with gentle firmness. “Emma and Annabelle are particularly eager to hear your thoughts on our next selection. And you look as though you could use a proper conversation among friends, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

The concern underlying the brisk manner touched Samantha unexpectedly. “Very well,” she conceded. “Though I must first fulfill my duties as chaperone to Lord Stonehall and Miss Waverly.”

“Of course, of course,” Lady Knightley agreed, already steering her toward a small cluster of women examining a particularly fine sculpture of Apollo.

“Lord Norfeld and Lady Jane will surely manage that task admirably for a short time. Now, you simply must meet Lady Barnwell—she has the most fascinating perspective on Mrs. Radcliffe’s use of the supernatural… ”

The next hour passed in a blur of introductions and conversations, the familiar rhythms of literary discussion providing a welcome distraction from the constant awareness of Ewan’s absence.

Emma greeted her with genuine warmth, while Annabelle’s perceptive gaze lingered on Samantha’s face with an understanding that suggested she recognized the signs of a troubled heart.

“You must tell us what you think of the exhibition,” Lady Barnwell urged as they moved together through the gallery. “I find these sculptures positively transcendent, though my husband insists they appear rather dull without their original coloration.”

“I confess I had not considered that they were once painted,” Samantha replied, studying the serene face of a marble goddess. “It seems almost sacrilegious to imagine these pure white forms adorned with vivid colors.”

“Yet historically accurate,” Annabelle observed. “We often mistake the passage of time for artistic intention, do we not? Seeing beauty in what is merely… incomplete.”

The comment, innocent as it seemed, struck Samantha with peculiar force.

Was that not precisely what she had done with Ewan?

Mistaken his carefully maintained distance for strength rather than fear?

Interpreted his reluctance to embrace fatherhood as principled resolve rather than the wounded response of a child who had never known true paternal love?

“Duchess? Are you quite well?” Emma’s concerned voice penetrated her reverie. “You’ve gone rather pale.”

“Merely overwhelmed by the crowds, I think,” Samantha demurred, though her mind continued to race with newfound insight. “Perhaps we might find a quieter corner?”

As they moved toward a less populated section of the gallery, Samantha caught sight of Percy once more, now deep in conversation with an elderly gentleman who appeared to be a critic of some renown.

Miss Waverly stood at his side, occasionally interjecting comments that were received with evident approval by both men.

“Your nephew-in-law possesses remarkable social grace for one so young,” Annabelle observed, following Samantha’s gaze. “Though I understand his literary endeavors tend toward the… exuberant.”

“He has a generous heart,” Samantha replied, unable to suppress a fond smile despite her tumultuous thoughts. “And a talent for finding beauty in the world that I have come to greatly admire.”

“A family trait, perhaps?” Emma suggested gently. “The Duke has always struck me as a man who appreciates beauty, though he expresses it rather more… selectively.”

The oblique reference to Ewan renewed the ache in Samantha’s chest, yet she found herself nodding in agreement. “He sees deeply, when he allows himself to look.”

The conversation drifted to safer topics, but Samantha’s thoughts remained fixed on this new perspective.

As she rejoined her family some time later, exchanging pleasantries with acquaintances and maintaining her carefully composed expression, a resolution began to form within her heart—one that would require courage she was not entirely certain she possessed.

“That sculpture of Aphrodite seems to have attracted quite the crowd,” Lady Barnwell observed, gesturing toward a gathering near the far corner of the exhibition hall. “Though I daresay the goddess herself would have approved of such admiration.”

“The artistry is remarkable,” Emma agreed, “though I find the Athena pieces more compelling. There’s something about wisdom rendered in stone that speaks to the permanence of knowledge, don’t you think?”

Before Samantha could reply, a voice cut through their scholarly discussion, its familiar cadence sending an immediate chill through her veins.

“What a delightful assembly of literary ladies. Discussing the finer points of ancient anatomy, are we?”

Samantha turned to find Adam Graston, Earl of Comerford, regarding their group with barely concealed amusement. He stood with the easy confidence of a man who believed himself untouchable, his lips curved in a smile that did not reach his eyes.

“Lord Comerford,” she acknowledged coolly. “I was unaware you had an interest in classical art.”

“My interests are varied and… evolving,” he replied, his gaze moving deliberately from her face to survey the gallery. “Though I find myself more intrigued by the social tableaux on display today.” His eyes held a calculated gleam that set her nerves on edge.

Samantha allowed herself to take a calming breath before she asked, “And what might that be?”

Comerford’s smile was positively predatory, as if he had been waiting for her to ask that very question. “A duchess without her duke, chaperoning a viscount too young to know his limitations.”

Jane stepped closer to Samantha, a silent gesture of support that steeled her resolve. “If you’ll excuse us, my lord,” Samantha said, preparing to move past him.

“Of course,” Adam replied, stepping aside with exaggerated courtesy. “Though I wonder if I might have a private word with you first, Samantha? For old times’ sake.”

“You will address Her Grace properly,” Lady Knightley interjected sharply, drawing herself up to her full, if diminutive, height. “Such familiarity is entirely inappropriate.”

Comerford’s smile did not waver. “My apologies. The Duchess and I are such… old acquaintances that formality sometimes feels excessive. But you are quite right, Lady Knightley.”

“If you ladies would excuse me briefly,” Samantha said, unwilling to create a scene that would only fuel tomorrow’s gossip. “I shall rejoin you momentarily.”

With reluctance evident in their expressions, the Athena Society ladies moved a discreet distance away, though Samantha noted Emma positioning herself where she could observe the interaction.

“What do you want, Lord Comerford?” Samantha asked once they were nominally alone, keeping her voice low despite the anger simmering beneath her composure.

“Merely to express my sympathies on your… predicament,” he replied, his voice dripping with false concern. “The ton whispers that the Duke has grown tired of his bride already. How history repeats itself.”

Samantha’s fingers tightened around her fan, the delicate ivory creaking in protest. “You presume too much, sir.”

“Do I?” Adam’s eyebrows rose in feigned surprise. “Perhaps. But one cannot help noting the similarities. First abandoned by a suitor, now by a husband. One might almost discern a pattern.”

Before Samantha could deliver the scathing retort that burned on her tongue, Percy appeared at her side, his normally cheerful countenance unusually grave.

“Aunt Samantha, Miss Waverly was hoping you might join us to view the Parthenon frieze,” he said, placing a protective hand at her elbow. “Lord Comerford, good day to you.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed at the interruption. “Lord Stonehall. How fortuitous. I was just discussing your uncle’s… domestic arrangements with the Duchess.”

“A subject, I’m certain, that falls well outside the bounds of proper conversation,” Percy replied with surprising firmness. “If you’ll excuse us?—”

“Such loyalty,” Lord Comerford remarked, his tone sharpening. “Particularly from one whose own position is so… precarious. Tell me, Lord Stonehall, does it trouble you to know you inherit your title only because your cousin had no stomach for fatherhood?”

Samantha felt Percy stiffen beside her. “You speak of matters you do not understand, sir.”

“Oh, I understand more than you might imagine,” Comerford countered, his voice dropping to ensure only they could hear. “I merely observe what is evident to any discerning eye. The Duke of Valemont appears to have inherited more than just his title from his esteemed father.”

The color drained from Percy’s face. “What do you mean by that?”

“Simply that certain… temperaments seem to run in families,” the Earl replied silkily.

“The Wildingham men have always harbored darkness beneath their ducal dignity. I’m sure you know your own lineage’s history.

The late Duke was known for his coldness toward his dependents.

His eldest son for his cruelty. And now the current Duke demonstrates a similar indifference to those foolish enough to care for him.

Your uncle is merely the latest to demonstrate the family temperament. A most unfortunate lineage.”

“You will retract those words,” Percy demanded, color rushing back into his face with a fury.

The Earl’s smile was cruel now, all pretense of civility abandoned.

“Why should I? Surely even your poetic sensibilities can recognize truth when presented with it? Your uncle is cut from the same cloth as his predecessors—cold, unfeeling, incapable of genuine attachment. Why else would he discard a wife as lovely as?—”

“Lord Comerford, that is quite enough,” Samantha interjected, alarmed by the rising tension.

But Comerford seemed to enjoy the effects his words were having on the lad, and the crowd it was gathering around them. So, he continued relentlessly, his gaze fixed on Percy.

“Your uncle lacks even the courage to face his failures directly. Instead, he hides behind estate matters while his duchess makes public appearances without him. One might almost pity the poor fool if his cowardice weren’t so?—”

The blow came with surprising swiftness, Percy’s fist connecting with the Earl’s jaw with enough force to snap the older man’s head back and send a collective gasp through the witnessing crowd. Samantha gasped as he staggered, momentarily stunned by the unexpected attack.

“Percy!” she exclaimed, horrified by the sudden violence.