Page 90 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
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 invitespeculation, whispers, the curious glances of thetonever 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 illafford. “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.
CHAPTER 28
