Page 20 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

“ Y our Grace,” Samantha called, voice low as she knocked.

She did not let herself think about what she was doing in that moment. If she did, she knew that she would certainly lose her nerve. After all, it hadn’t been that long since she’d vowed to herself that she would avoid encouraging the use of this door between their chambers.

And yet, here she was, violating that promise all by herself.

She found that she couldn’t sleep, her thoughts consumed with the very man on the other side of this door, and the way he’d stood up for her, despite the fact that they rarely agreed on anything.

She did not like feeling like she owed anyone anything, and she especially did not want to owe her husband.

Yes . It was certainly because she did not like the feeling of owing him that pushed her so, not the way her heart hadn’t stopped pounding since they returned from the party.

And she didn’t have any time to analyze her own body’s reactions to thoughts of her husband, because the click of the lock from the other side sliced through the air.

The door between their adjoining rooms creaked open, revealing not just her husband… but her very shirtless husband.

Her breath hitched in her throat, and her heartbeat soared, tumbling between the ridges of her ribcage to settle in her stomach, a flush of heat rushing through her veins at the sight of him.

Every inch of him was hard muscle and lean, golden skin, the firelight behind him casting him in a warm, almost mythic glow.

The flicker of flames played against his bare chest, illuminating the ridge of muscle and bone like sculpture brought to life.

He looked like a man forged of heat and steel and secrets.

And he looked at her with those maddening, knowing green eyes.

He arched a brow, even as a slow smile ghosted over his luscious lips. “To what do I owe this pleasure, my dear wife?”

She said nothing at first. Her eyes had locked on the arresting lines just above his hips, where his form dipped with a kind of effortless provocation, before she managed to drag her gaze upward.

It was only when she heard his sultry chuckle that she jerked her gaze upward with effort, her cheeks suddenly afire.

“Put… put a shirt on, Your Grace.” She said, her words coming out in unflattering croaks.

She cleared her throat subtly, cheeks scorching now.

He didn’t move, but the amusement in his eyes had only increased in intensity, and that ghost of a smile now curved his lips fully.

“Did you come to ask me to dress… or to help me undress?”

Her lips parted in disbelief. “You?—!”

She went to slam the door in his face, heat rising all the way to her ears now, but his palm pressed against the wood with unhurried confidence.

“Wait.” His voice had dropped, softened, threaded with apology. “I was simply trying to make a joke, my tigress. I apologize.”

She hesitated, her pulse thundering in her ears. She could still feel the phantom heat of him across the threshold, and he’d gone and fanned the flames by using that ridiculous pet name. Why did it affect her so?

No , she thought to herself, steeling her spine, focus, Samantha .

She cleared her throat once, and said, “I only came to thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, stepping back at last, allowing her to enter.

Where she would have hesitated, as she probably should have, Samantha pushed aside her apprehension at walking willingly into a wolf’s den, and stepped over, into the glow of the hearth, into his space.

The air in the room felt warmer somehow.

He tugged a shirt from the chair and pulled it on rather halfheartedly. It remained unbuttoned, revealing the deep planes of his chest, the dip of muscle down his abdomen. He moved toward the mantel, one hand braced there, his gaze never leaving her.

“For tonight,” she said softly, clasping her hands in front of her like a shield. “For defending me. At the soirée. With… with Comerford.”

Something darkened in his eyes. “I merely said what any husband ought to say.”

Ah. Yes. Of course he had. She knew what this marriage was, to him. But she still couldn’t deny that he’d stood up for her nonetheless.

“Yet not many husbands truly do say those things.” She swallowed. “So, I thank you.”

Even if he did it for his ego.

He continued to hold her gaze, his focus unwavering. It was quite unnerving. The fire flickered between them, shadows dancing up the wall.

“I think,” he said, “I should teach you never to take as a privilege what is yours by right.”

Samantha’s breath caught at the fire in his eyes… at the velvet seduction of his tone. And at exactly what he meant by those words.

He took a single step toward her. Then another. Slowly, deliberately. He lifted his hand and touched her cheek, brushing back a stray curl that had fallen loose. The barest graze of his knuckles along her skin made her entire body hum with awareness.

“Comerford is a fool,” he said, voice low and rich with meaning. “No sane man would ever let a woman like you go.”

Her heart sputtered in her chest, as though struggling to function. She swayed where she stood.

“Oh.” It was more a sound than a word, her breath flowing out of her of its own volition.

She could feel her pulse in her throat, her wrists, the very tips of her fingers. Still, she held her ground.

“How did you know?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, but steady.

Ewan’s expression didn’t change, but something hardened around his eyes. “I saw the way you looked at him.”

She stiffened.

“And I overheard enough at the soirée,” he added, his voice clipped. “The ton may be bored, but their memory is as long as their list of grievances.”

A dry sound escaped her. Not quite a laugh. “They never forget. Especially not when there’s humiliation involved. Or the appearance of it.”

He didn’t speak.

“I was na?ve,” she said after a moment. “Everyone else saw through him. I should have, too.”

Ewan stepped closer, his gaze sharp. “No. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Lay his choices at your feet.”

“I waited for him,” she said flatly. “Like a fool. While he played the hero abroad and married someone else. I don’t recall anyone forcing me.”

“And I don’t recall loyalty being a sin,” Ewan bit out. “He asked you to wait. Then married another woman. That makes him a coward, or worse, a liar. Not you a fool.”

She blinked at the vehemence in his voice.

“You were young. He made promises. You believed him.” Ewan’s jaw tightened. “I do not find that laughable at all.”

Her throat burned, but she said nothing.

He took a step forward, then another, stopping just short of touching her. “Do not speak of yourself the way they do. You’re worth ten of that simpering imbecile and he knew it. That’s why he ran.”

A beat passed. The room seemed to hold its breath.

“Why do you care?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t stomach dishonor. And I especially don’t stomach cowards who cloak betrayal in uniform and duty.”

The heat between them surged again—anger, indignation, the dark pulse of something unnamed.

“I’m not heartbroken,” she lied.

“Good,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to have broken anything.”

She swallowed. “You’re very sure of your opinions.”

“Only when I’m right.”

She should have turned away. Should have walked past him with a sharp remark, as she always did when he grew too close. But her feet remained rooted, her breath coming shallow.

He looked at her a long moment, then lifted a hand. Slowly. His fingers brushed her cheek.

“You shouldn’t have had to thank me,” he said. “It should be your due.”

The words struck something deep and forgotten.

“I don’t need rescuing,” she managed, but her voice lacked conviction.

“No,” he said. “But you’ve been left to fend for yourself long enough.”

And then, without another word, he bent and kissed her.

There was nothing tentative about it. It was not the polite press of lips exchanged in public. No. This was a private complaint wrapped in touch, hunger and frustration and weeks of smoldering tension snapping free. It was him claiming her mouth as his, fierce and possessive.

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against him. The heat of his skin soaked through the thin layers of her night robe, branding her. She felt the hard press of his body against hers, the barely restrained intensity in the way his fingers splayed across her lower back.

Her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging. She kissed him back with all the confusion, all the ache she’d locked away since their first kiss, letting it all pour out in the form of the sensual duel of their tongues.

The fire had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. But now it roared. Her body responded to his with instinctive urgency, a yearning she hadn’t let herself feel for years.

His mouth left hers, trailing fire down her jaw, to her neck. He found the place just beneath her ear, where the skin was softest, and bit gently. She gasped, head tilting back to give him access. He licked the skin there with lazy reverence, then bit again.

“Oh!” She moaned, the sound starkly sexual in a way that shocked even her, her core throbbing urgently.

“You’re driving me mad, my tigress. Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice a low growl against her skin.

His hands gripped her hips, fingers flexing through the fabric. “You must say it, or I won’t.”

She didn’t. Couldn’t .

Instead, she let out a broken, desperate sound that had his breath catching. It was all the permission he needed.

“Samantha,” he breathed, as if the name alone was salvation. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

She didn’t know if that was a rhetorical question, or if he truly wanted an answer, because she was beset by all the ideas of what exactly he did to her .

He dropped to his knees before her, and her eyes bulged.

“What …” She was grasping for something—anything—to anchor her. “Your Grace, you don’t have to?—”

“Ewan.” He cut in gruffly, and Samantha blinked, confusion streaking through her brain.