Page 4 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“It was… memorable,” Samantha said diplomatically. “Though I’ve counseled my sister to be cautious. Lord Stonehall seems very young and given to dramatic gestures.”
“Youth and drama often go hand in hand,” Lady Witherspoon observed. “But what of his guardian? The Duke of Valemont was present, was he not?”
Several ladies exchanged knowing glances, and Samantha sensed she was entering dangerous conversational territory.
“The duke is certainly handsome,” a woman sighed, lifting her cup to her lips. “Though terribly mysterious. He rarely appears at social gatherings.”
“There are rumors,” Lady Winterbourne added in a lower voice, “about his… associations with certain types of women.”
“Opera singers,” Lady Langston said with the air of someone imparting state secrets. “And actresses. The type of women who understand the temporary nature of such arrangements. Scandalous!”
“A rake, then,” Samantha said coolly. “How refreshing to encounter a gentleman who makes his limitations so transparent.”
The ladies turned to her with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.
“My dear,” Lady Witherspoon said carefully, “do you know the duke personally?”
“Oh no… but we’ve met,” Samantha replied carefully. “Once. Briefly.”
But her fellow book club members possessed the feminine intuition she had praised earlier. They leaned forward with collective interest, recognizing the careful neutrality of her tone.
“There’s more to this story,” another elderly spinster declared. “I can hear it in your voice.”
“We danced,” Samantha said finally. “Once. At the Ashworth ball, six years ago. A single dance, after which he disappeared entirely from society gatherings.”
“Ah,” Lady Witherspoon said softly, understanding dawning in her eyes.
Samantha did not like that look. “It was merely a dance,” she said. “Nothing more.”
She stared into her teacup, unwilling to admit how often she had replayed those minutes in her memory, searching for some misstep that might explain his subsequent avoidance of society.
But no answer ever came.
CHAPTER 2
“Wine?” 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.
