Page 64 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
“I may be the loquacious type, but I’m certainly not going to accept my wife picturing herself with another,” Simon said, grinning so that everyone knew he was not taking it too seriously. “What do you think, my friend? Your wife calls you too quiet.”
“My wife may call me whatever she pleases,” Dominic merely grunted, sipped from his flute, and looked away.
Despite their differences in personalities, the conversation among the four had been going smoothly. Then, a man Marianne did not know approached them.
“Your Grace,” he drawled. “I must commend your shot during Lord Grisham’s stag hunt. I’ve heard it was a clean shot. Well done! You are a rare talent.”
“I do what I can,” Dominic said simply.
“Well,” Marianne commented, unable to stop herself, “I find it curious how many people, particularly men, consider a hunt like that a sport. It only leads to the slaughter of innocent creatures.”
She felt Dominic stiffen beside her, but she could not bring herself to say sorry. She had started liking her husband more, but the mention of the stag hunt made her remember why they were at odds from the very beginning.
“Beg pardon, Your Grace?” the lord asked, looking utterly shocked.
“My lord, hunting is cruel,” she clarified. “It is unnecessary. It is a misplaced display of dominance.”
“Perhaps you mistake the purpose of a hunt. Remember that animals need to be hunted to bring food to the table. Not to mention the years of tradition behind it,” Dominic argued.
“Not every tradition needs to be upheld. Let us speak plainly: a stag hunt is little more than a display of class and masculine supremacy. It asserts man’s dominion, not only over his fellow creatures but also over the entire world.”
“Pardon me, Your Grace, but if I recall correctly, Lord Grisham—your father—hosted a stag hunt recently,” the lord remarked, looking bewildered.
“It was indeed her father,” Dominic confirmed with a smirk. “Pardon my wife, my lord. She adores debates. Even if that means playing the devil’s advocate every now and then.”
“Ah, but of course! What a rigorous intellect your wife possesses, Your Grace.”
“Indeed, she keeps me on my toes,” Dominic said lowly, narrowing his eyes at Marianne.
A tense silence ensued.
Lady Darfield was the first one to buckle under the pressure.
“Shall we find out seats, then?” she asked lightly.
With perfect timing, Lord Cheswick appeared to greet his guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. The performance is about to begin.”
Marianne walked beside Dominic, still fuming. Judging by the sharp set of his jaw, he felt much the same. Yet there was no avoiding it—they had to sit together, or else they’d invite the scrutiny of every whispering tongue in the room.
Rows of chairs had been arranged before a modest stage framed by makeshift velvet drapes. Marianne had to admit—if the elegance of the preparations were any indication, the performance promised to be impressive.
Dominic guided her to a seat with a gentle hand at the small of her back. Even that brief contact thrummed with tension. She could feel it in him—the tight coil of restraint beneath his composed exterior.
The music began.
Marianne forced her thoughts to the stage, willing herself to be swept away by the performance. But then his leg brushed hers—warm and unyielding—a subtle reminder of the man beside her and how he’d felt in her arms.
Then, without warning, his hand settled on her thigh.
Her breath caught. A flicker of heat curled low in her belly. She didn’t dare look at him, barely trusted herself to breathe, but every nerve in her body was suddenly, undeniably awake.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
Dominic leaned in, his voice low and dark. “Teaching you a lesson about antagonizing me in public. And reminding you of our agreement.”
She glanced up—his smirk was infuriating.
