Page 92 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“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. Hestood 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. “Thetonwhispers 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?—”
