Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward Samantha, including those of the formidable dowagers who had been discussing bonnets moments before. She felt heat creep up her neck as she clutched her copy of the novel.
“I… well, that is to say …” Samantha began, her mind suddenly blank of any coherent literary analysis. Instead, treacherous memories flooded her thoughts—Ewan’s hands on her skin, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, the way he’d whispered her name like a prayer.
“My dear?” Lady Harrington prompted gently, her brows raised with interest.
“Marriage,” Samantha blurted, then immediately wished she could disappear into the Persian carpet. “I mean, the institution of marriage as portrayed in Mrs. Canterbury’s work reflects the… the …” She swallowed hard, fighting to focus on anything other than the phantom sensation of her husband’s touch. “The complexities of… of emotional attachment versus practical considerations.”
Jane bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh at her sister’s flustered state.
“Quite right,” one elderly woman agreed. “Though one must wonder about the author’s own experiences with such matters.”
“Indeed,” Lady Harrington nodded. “The tension between duty and desire is masterfully portrayed. But my dear Duchess, you seem rather… distracted this afternoon. Perhaps your thoughts are elsewhere?”
The knowing gleam in the dowager’s eyes made Samantha’s stomach lurch.
Could everyone see how thoroughly Ewan had undone her? How even now, three days later, she could barely concentrate on simple conversations without her mind drifting to the way he’d looked at her, touched her, worshipped her with such devastating tenderness?
“Not at all,” Samantha managed, though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. “I find Mrs. Canterbury’s exploration of… of intimate relationships quite compelling.”
She immediately regretted her choice of words as several ladies exchanged meaningful glances.
“Speaking of intimate relationships,” Lady Harrington said with a sly smile, “might we expect news of an heir soon, Your Grace? You’ve been married several months now.”
The question hit Samantha like a physical blow. The book slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. The room seemed to tilt, and she gripped the arm of her chair to steady herself.
An heir. Children. The one thing Ewan had made abundantly clear he would never want with her.
“I… we …” she stammered, her throat closing around the words.
“Oh, look at the time!” Jane exclaimed suddenly, rising from her seat with bright desperation. “Samantha, didn’t you mention an appointment with your modiste? We really must be going.”
“Yes,” Samantha whispered gratefully, practically leaping to her feet. “Yes, quite right. Forgive me, ladies, but we simply must dash.”
The dowagers murmured polite farewells as the sisters made their hasty escape, but Samantha could feel their speculative gazes following her out of the room.
Once they were safely in their carriage, she slumped against the velvet cushions and covered her face with her hands.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Jane reached over and squeezed her hand. “What are sisters for? Though you really must stop looking so thoroughly ravished when anyone mentions marriage, Sam. It’s rather giving the game away.”
Despite everything, Samantha couldn’t help but laugh, though it sounded a bit hysterical. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you don’t,” Jane said with a grin. “That’s why you’ve been walking about like you’ve discovered some magnificent secret, and why you practically melted into your chair when Lady Langston mentioned… well, you know.”
Samantha groaned. “Am I truly so obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows you as well as I do,” Jane assured her. “But Sam… what happened? You’ve been different since that dreadful soirée. Happier, but also more… I don’t know how to describe it.”
More alive, Samantha thought. More aware of herself as a woman rather than simply a duchess playing a role. But also more confused, more frightened of the feelings Ewan had awakened in her.
“Nothing happened,” she lied.
Jane gave her a look that suggested she wasn’t fooled for a moment but mercifully chose not to press the matter.
“Uncle Ewan, might I have a word?” Percy appeared in the doorway of Ewan’s study, his usually dramatic demeanor subdued.
Ewan looked up from the estate ledgers he’d been pretending to review for the past hour, his mind thoroughly distracted bythoughts of his wife. “What is it, Percy? And please tell me it doesn’t involve synonyms again.”
