“Research?” Samantha asked, grateful for the distraction from Percy’s original question.
“For my poetry, of course. One cannot write convincingly about love without understanding its various manifestations.”
“I thought we’d agreed you weren’t writing poetry anymore,” Ewan said sharply.
“Not about people, Uncle. But surely there’s no harm in exploring love as an abstract concept? The divine spark that unites two souls in?—”
“Percy,” Ewan interrupted, his voice carrying a warning edge. “We’ve discussed this.”
Samantha could also hear an edge of tiredness there as well.
“But Uncle, how else am I to develop as an artist if I cannot explore the most fundamental of human experiences?”
“By focusing on becoming a gentleman first and a poet second,” Ewan replied curtly.
Samantha found herself unexpectedly defensive on Percy’s behalf. “Surely there’s room for both pursuits? Many noblemen have written poetry without damaging their reputations.”
Ewan’s green eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Are you questioning my judgment regarding my nephew’s education?”
“I’m merely suggesting that perhaps a more balanced approach?—”
“A balanced approach?” Ewan’s voice had dropped to that dangerously quiet tone she’d learned to recognize. “From someone who’s known him for how long, exactly?”
“I may not have known himlong,” Samantha replied, her own voice growing cooler, “but I can recognize genuine passion when I see it. Some things shouldn’t be suppressed entirely.”
The double meaning in her words hung in the air between them, and she saw Ewan’s jaw tighten in response.
“Some passions,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, “lead to nothing but trouble.”
“And some,” she countered, lifting her chin defiantly, “lead to the most beautiful art ever created.”
“Beauty built on chaos and destruction.” He snapped back, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed irritation.
“Beauty that emerges from authentic feeling, rather than cold calculation.” She replied, unwilling to back down even though she wasn’t quite sure what they were arguing about anymore.
Percy’s head was swiveling between them like a spectator at a tennis match, his eyes wide with fascination. “Are we still discussing my poetry?”
“Yes,” Ewan and Samantha said simultaneously, neither breaking eye contact.
“I see,” Percy said slowly, though clearly he didn’t see at all. “Well, this is fascinating. The tension between artistic expression and social conformity, played out in domestic drama. I really must make notes?—”
“Don’t you dare,” Ewan snapped, finally breaking his stare with Samantha to glare at his nephew.
“Uncle, surely you can see the poetic potential in?—”
“What I can see,” Samantha interrupted, her patience finally snapping, “is that this conversation has become completely ridiculous.”
She threw her napkin down on the table and rose abruptly, unable to bear another moment of the charged atmosphere and Percy’s oblivious commentary.
“Aunt Samantha, wait—” Percy called out, but she was already striding toward the door.
“Duchess.” Ewan’s voice followed her into the hallway, and she heard his chair scrape against the floor as he rose to follow.
She didn’t slow her pace, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor as she headed toward the stairs.
What exactly was she running from?
She didn’t know, but she knew that if she spent another second staring into her husband’s infuriating gaze, she would possibly do something to be ashamed about tomorrow.
