Page 83 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“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 himwith 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 toanswer 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.
It was only after the ladies had withdrawn to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and politics, that Samantha found herself once more in Annabelle’s company.
“Your children are delightful,” Samantha said as they settled on a silk-upholstered settee near the fire. “Eleanor particularly is a credit to you.”
