Page 27 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

Y ears .

The word hung between them, full of promise and possibility, suggesting a future stretching before them like an unexplored country waiting to be discovered together.

They lay in a warm, heavy silence, the only sound the slowing cadence of their breaths and the faint tick of the mantel clock across the room. Samantha rested her cheek against the solid breadth of his chest, her skin still tingling everywhere he had touched her.

Her palm moved in slow, idle circles over the hard muscle there, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath. It struck her—how strong he was, how tightly coiled with control most of the time, and yet how that same heart seemed to race whenever she was near.

She closed her eyes, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull her, but her mind refused to be still.

Now, in this rare, quiet moment, with their bodies tangled and the world shut out, she didn’t want the space between them to close again come morning.

“Ewan,” she began hesitantly, tracing the line of his collarbone with tentative fingers, “may I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

Well, that was rather reassuring, to say the least.

“Why are you so adamant about not having children? I understand your concerns about Percy inheriting, but…” She trailed off, uncertain how to continue without seeming to press him on a clearly sensitive topic, aware that she was venturing onto precarious ground that might shatter their newfound intimacy.

The silence stretched so long that she feared she had indeed overstepped, that the walls he had momentarily lowered would rise again, higher and more impenetrable than before. But then he sighed, his arms tightening around her as if seeking strength from her presence.

“My father,” he began, his voice low and measured, as if each word were being carefully extracted from some deeply buried vault of painful memories, “was a cruel man. Not merely stern, as many nobles are with their children, but genuinely cruel. He took pleasure in punishment, in breaking spirits, in causing pain. My mother was little better—cold, distant, more concerned with appearances than affection.”

Samantha remained silent, offering comfort through her presence, understanding instinctively that interruption would stem the flow of confidences he had never shared.

“Benedict, my brother, inherited not only their title but their worst qualities. He was brutal to servants, to animals, to anyone weaker than himself. And to me.” The last words were spoken so quietly she might have missed them had she not been lying so close, feeling the tension in his body that belied the controlled delivery of his confession.

“Oh, Ewan,” she whispered, pressing closer to him, as if her warmth might somehow soothe the wounds that lingered beneath his skin, invisible but no less real for their lack of physical manifestation.

“I spent most of my childhood at Matthew’s estate…

Percy’s father. It was the only place I knew any kindness.

” His voice was distant now, lost in painful memories that had shaped the man he had become.

“When Benedict died, I felt… relief. And then guilt for feeling relieved. And then terror, because I was now the heir, and what if I became like them? What if cruelty runs in our blood?”

She raised herself on one elbow to look into his face, to study the vulnerability that he had never before allowed her to witness. “That is why you made Percy your heir. Not just because he’s Matthew’s son, but because you… you fear what your own children might become.”

“Yes,” he admitted, his eyes searching hers for signs of judgment or revulsion and finding only compassion. “I swore I would never risk passing on whatever darkness flows through the Wildingham line. I would rather see it end with me.”

Samantha touched his face gently, tracing the strong line of his jaw with tender fingers. “Ewan, what makes a person cruel or kind is not their blood, but their choices. You chose kindness, despite everything.”

“Did I?” His smile was bitter, a twisted reflection of self-loathing she had never glimpsed beneath his confident exterior. “I’ve spent years avoiding attachment, using women for pleasure and discarding them, pushing away anyone who might get too close.”

“And yet, you raised Percy. You married me to protect my reputation. You defended me against Adam. These are not the actions of a cruel man.” Her voice was soft but firm, carrying a conviction born of her growing understanding of the complex man before her.

She leaned down to press her lips to his in a tender kiss, pouring all her newfound understanding into the gesture, an offering of acceptance that required no words.

“You are not your father, Ewan. Nor your brother. You are simply yourself—a man who has known darkness but still seeks the light.”

He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair as if seeking shelter in her presence. “How do I deserve you?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion that a lifetime of aristocratic restraint had taught him to suppress.

“Perhaps you do not,” she teased with a small smile, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on his skin. “But you have me nonetheless.”

As the fire burned low and the night deepened around them, they remained entwined, the barriers between them, once so insurmountable, now finally beginning to crumble. Samantha found herself hoping that this moment would last forever.

Ewan woke to the unfamiliar weight of another body pressed against his side, copper hair spilling across his chest like liquid fire caught in the morning light.

For a moment, disorientation gripped him—he was unaccustomed to women lingering in his bed past the act itself—but then memory returned in a warm rush.

Samantha. His wife . His duchess . His .

He studied her sleeping face, marveling at the softness that sleep brought to her features. The sharp wit and fierce intelligence that so often animated her countenance had yielded to peaceful vulnerability, her lips slightly parted, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her freckled cheeks.

Something tightened in his chest at the sight—a peculiar ache that was not entirely unpleasant.

It reminded him of Matthew’s house, where he’d felt safe, protected, and most importantly, wanted.

This feeling had been lost to him for so long that its return felt almost foreign, yet achingly familiar.

Her eyes fluttered open, blue as a summer sky, confusion momentarily clouding them before recognition dawned. She stiffened slightly, then relaxed, a becoming blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.

“Indeed, it is,” he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Though I believe ‘afternoon’ might be more accurate.”

She bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest. “Afternoon? Surely not!”

“Nearly noon, at least.” He chuckled, enjoying her dismay. “It seems I’ve thoroughly exhausted you, my tigress.”

Her blush deepened. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet here you are, suffering my presence quite admirably.” He traced the line of her shoulder with idle fingers, delighting in the way her skin pebbled at his touch. “In fact, if I recall correctly, you were begging for more of it just hours ago.”

“Ewan!” She swatted his hand away, though he caught the smile she tried to suppress. “You are incorrigible.”

“Another of my many charms,” he agreed, pulling her back down beside him. “One you seemed quite appreciative of last night.”

Her expression softened as she settled against him once more. “I was, wasn’t I?”

The way she looked at him then—trusting, open, without guile—struck him more powerfully than he could have anticipated. For years, he had maintained careful distance from anyone who might breach his defenses, yet here she was, effortlessly dismantling walls he had spent a lifetime constructing.

“Mmm.” He pressed his lips to her temple, inhaling the scent of her into his lungs. “Are you hungry? I could ring for breakfast.”

“Luncheon, you mean,” she corrected primly, though her eyes danced with amusement. “And yes, I’m famished.”

He smiled, pressing the bell to summon a servant before turning back to her. “I must admit, I’ve never been one for idle mornings in bed, but I find I’m rather enjoying this one.”

She glanced at him curiously. “Never?”

“Never.” The admission came more easily than he expected. “I’ve always preferred… efficiency in such matters.”

Understanding dawned in her eyes. “You mean you’ve never stayed the night with a woman before?”

“Not since I became duke, no.” He watched her carefully, uncertain how she would receive this confidence. “It seemed… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary,” she repeated, the word carrying a hint of her usual sharpness.

“You disapprove,” he noted, not a question but an observation.

“I find it rather sad,” she replied with unexpected candor. “To share one’s body but never truly connect.”

He considered this, struck by the simplicity of her assessment. “Perhaps I never wished to connect.”

“Oh? And now?” Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, as if she feared his answer.

Before he could respond, a discrete knock at the door interrupted them. Ewan called for the servants to enter, and two maids appeared with a tray laden with food, their eyes carefully averted from the disheveled bed.

“Place it on the table by the window,” he instructed, noting with amusement how Samantha clutched the sheets higher, her cheeks flaming anew.

Once the maids had departed, he rose, unabashed in his nakedness, and retrieved his dressing gown from where it had been flung the night before. Donning it loosely, he brought the tray to the bed.

“To answer your question,” he said, settling beside her once more, “now I find I rather enjoy the connection.”

She smiled then, a true smile that transformed her face and sent that strange ache resonating through his chest again. “As do I.”

They shared the meal in companionable silence, and he found himself occasionally feeding his duchess morsels with a playfulness he’d never before permitted himself to truly feel.

When a drop of honey slid from the edge of the spoon and landed upon her collarbone, the golden bead caught in the hollow just above her breast, glistening in the rays of the morning.

He followed its path with his eyes, then leaned forward to capture it with the slow drag of his tongue, savoring the way her sharp intake of breath shivered against his lips.

“Hmm,” he pretended to consider, his voice low, a dangerous purr against her skin. “You taste sweeter.”

“Flatterer,” she accused, but the huskiness in her voice betrayed her, her words catching on a small hitch of breath when his mouth brushed upward to the tender line of her throat. He smiled against her skin, pleased at the evidence of his effect on her.

Her hands slid into his hair when his lips found hers, and she melted into him with a willingness that sent a hot thrill through his veins.

He set the tray hastily aside, no longer interested in anything but her, and bore her back into the pillows.

The mattress dipped beneath their weight, and he followed her down, covering her body with his own.

His hands roamed with new familiarity, mapping the graceful lines and soft curves as if he were learning a language through touch alone—one he intended to master.

His palms skimmed over her ribs, the warm swell of her breasts, his thumbs brushing the peaks until she gasped.

Her hips shifted beneath him, seeking more, and he chuckled low in his throat.

“I want to know what makes you gasp,” he murmured, letting his lips trace a languid path down the slope of her neck, “what makes you moan …” His hand drifted lower, over the silk of her gown bunched at her waist, sliding beneath to find her heat. “And what makes you whisper my name like a prayer.”

“You insatiable rake!” His spitfire gasped, “You already know all those things!”

His wolfish grin was a slash across his face. “Hm, I’m the type who likes to ascertain the extent of my knowledge. Surely you understand, my tigress?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a low mewl, instead.

Her breath came faster as his fingers found her slick and ready, stroking in unhurried circles until her back arched, pressing her against him.

He drank in every sound she made—the stifled gasp, the tremulous sigh, the choked whisper of his name on her lips; each one feeding the deep, aching need that coiled low in his belly.

This time, when he slid inside her, it was not with the frenzied urgency of the first joining, but with exquisite deliberation. He sank into her slowly, watching her face as pleasure flickered there—wonder first, then heat, then something softer that gripped at his chest.

His hips rocked into hers in a steady rhythm, his hands framing her face as he kissed her between breaths, tasting her moans as if they were wine. The morning light peeking in through the blinds gilded her skin, painting her in warm gold, her hair a fiery spill over the pillows.

She touched him too. Not with the shyness of before, but with a growing boldness, her palms mapping the planes of his back, the taut muscles of his shoulders. Her nails bit into his skin when he shifted his angle, and her cry in that moment made his control falter.

“Ewan …” she breathed, and he buried his face against her neck, inhaling her scent, his own breath ragged.

Each thrust was a discovery anew, each sigh from her lips a revelation he had a feeling he would never tire of receiving. He had bedded women before, but never like this. Never with the sense that he was not just possessing a body, but touching something unguarded, something fiercely precious.

When her release came, it swept through her with a gasp and a trembling that he felt to his very bones. Her arms locked around him, holding him there as though she could keep him from leaving even after the world righted itself.

He found that he liked the idea of that immensely, too, and found himself captivated by the changing expressions that crossed her face—wonder, pleasure, vulnerability, trust. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, yet also as if he had known her forever.