Page 28 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

W hen they lay together afterward, catching their breath, he marveled at how differently he felt. With other women, the act had been a release, a momentary pleasure quickly forgotten. With Samantha, it felt like coming home to a place he had never known existed but had somehow always sought.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingers.

“That I’ve been a fool,” he admitted, capturing her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.

“In what way?”

“In thinking that keeping everyone at a distance was the way to avoid becoming like my father.” He met her gaze steadily. “Perhaps it was precisely that distance that made him so cruel.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes full of understanding. “Loneliness can harden even the kindest heart.”

“And yours?” he asked, suddenly needing to know. “Has it hardened after what Adam did to you?”

Pain flickered briefly across her features. “I thought it had. I convinced myself I was better off alone, that loving someone only led to humiliation.”

“And now?”

Her smile was tinged with sadness, but also with hope. “Now I think perhaps the greater humiliation would have been never risking my heart again.”

He pulled her closer, overwhelmed by a surge of protectiveness that surprised him with its intensity. “He never deserved you.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed softly. “But his rejection led me here, to you. So perhaps it was a blessing disguised as heartbreak.”

Ewan considered this, struck by the generosity of spirit required to view such pain as ultimately beneficial. “You’re a remarkable woman, Samantha Wildingham.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the use of his surname, as if only now fully realizing that it was her own as well. “It still sounds strange to my ears.”

“It suits you,” he told her, meaning it. “You were born to be a duchess.”

“As you have said before,” she reminded him. “Though I believe at the time, you were merely noting my efficiency with tenants.”

He laughed, remembering their carriage ride after he had found her tending to a sick child in the village. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. Though I confess, I see far more than efficiency when I look at you.”

“What do you see?” she asked, her expression open, vulnerable.

He hesitated, unaccustomed to articulating such feelings.

“I see strength. Kindness. A fierce intelligence that challenges me at every turn. Beauty that goes beyond the merely physical.” He paused, then added softly, “I see the woman who is teaching me that perhaps I am not destined to become my father after all.”

He looked down at her face, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks, and marveled at the difference in himself.

With other women, the act had been a fleeting relief, a moment’s indulgence soon forgotten.

But with Samantha, it felt like more—like finding a place he had never known existed yet had always, in some quiet part of himself, been seeking.

“Percy will be back from London tomorrow,” Ewan remarked several days later as they strolled through the gardens of Valemont Hall, her hand tucked securely in the crook of his arm. “Ralph sent word that they’ll arrive by midday.”

“How splendid,” Samantha replied, genuinely pleased. “I’ve missed his theatrical displays.”

Ewan laughed, the sound coming more freely these days. “You’ll regret saying that when he’s reciting his latest verse over breakfast.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded with a smile, “but there’s something refreshing about his earnestness, don’t you think? He feels everything so completely, without reservation.”

“Unlike his stodgy old uncle?” Ewan teased, though he felt a flicker of unease at the comparison.

She stopped, turning to face him fully. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

He studied her face, seeking signs of dissatisfaction but finding only sincerity. “I know I’m not as… expressive as Percy.”

“Thank heavens for that,” she said with a laugh that eased the tension in his shoulders. “One dramatic poet in the family is quite sufficient.” And there was that edge that continued to seduce him, no matter what she did.

“And yet, you seem fond of him.” It wasn’t a question, but rather an observation he had made over the weeks they had spent together.

“I am,” she admitted readily. “He reminds me a bit of Jane, actually. That same willingness to see the world as more wondrous than it often is.”

Ewan nodded, understanding dawning. “While you and I are more…”

“Practical,” she supplied. “Perhaps overly so, at times.”

He considered this as they resumed walking. “Is that why you defended his poetry that night? Because you saw something of your sister in him?”

She glanced at him, surprise evident in her expression. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about you,” he admitted, the words emerging before he could consider their weight. “Even when I pretended not to.”

A flush crept up her neck, and she looked away, though he caught the pleased curve of her lips. “To answer your question, yes, partly. But also because I believe there’s value in passion, even when it’s imperfectly expressed.”

“Like us,” he murmured, drawing her closer to his side.

“Like us,” she agreed softly.

They walked in comfortable silence for a time, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the manicured lawns. Ewan found himself experiencing a contentment he had not known since childhood visits to Matthew’s estate; a sense of rightness, of belonging, that had eluded him for decades.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally, as they approached the rose garden that had been his mother’s pride, now tended with more care and warmth under Samantha’s direction.

“A dangerous pastime,” she teased, echoing his own words from a prior conversation.

He smiled, acknowledging the jest. “Indeed. Nevertheless, I’ve been considering what you said about visiting the village more regularly.”

Her eyes brightened with interest. “Oh?”

“There’s a small cottage on the estate that has fallen into disrepair. I thought perhaps we might restore it as a school for the tenant children.” He watched her carefully, gauging her reaction. “If you would oversee the project, of course.”

“Ewan, that’s a wonderful idea!” Her enthusiasm was immediate and genuine, her hand tightening on his arm. “The nearest school is in the next parish, much too far for most families to send their children regularly.”

“I thought as much,” he agreed, pleased by her reaction. “We could engage a proper teacher, provide books and slates…”

“And perhaps a small library,” she added eagerly. “Oh, and we must ensure there’s a proper stove for winter. Children cannot learn if they’re shivering from cold.”

He chuckled at her immediate practical considerations. “Whatever you deem necessary, my tigress. The project is yours to direct as you see fit.”

She stopped walking again, turning to face him with an expression of such sincere gratitude that it momentarily robbed him of breath. “Thank you for this, Ewan. Truly.”

“I’ve done nothing yet,” he demurred, uncomfortable with her praise.

“You’ve shown you’re listening,” she corrected gently. “That you care about the same things I do. That’s not nothing.”

Before he could respond, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed a swift kiss to his lips, there in the garden where any servant might see them. The spontaneous gesture stunned him more than their most intimate moments in the privacy of their chambers.

“What was that for?” he asked when she pulled away.

“For being a better man than you believe yourself to be,” she replied simply, and something in Ewan’s chest peeled open, like the cracking of a shell to reveal the vulnerable thing beneath it.

He did not yet know what it was, but there was one thing he was very certain of, and it was this:

That his feisty duchess had managed to capture the thing within that shell and, for some reason he was yet to fathom, he did not detest knowing that it was within her grasp.

“You look absolutely ravishing today, my tigress,” Ewan murmured against her ear as they descended the grand staircase of Valemont Hall, his hand warm and steady at the small of her back.

Samantha felt a now-familiar heat rise to her cheeks at his words. Even after weeks of sharing his bed, his compliments still managed to disarm her completely. “You needn’t flatter me so persistently, Your Grace. We are already married, after all.”

“It is not flattery when it’s the truth,” he replied, his green eyes glinting with mischief that made her heart flutter treacherously against her ribs. “Besides, Percy returns today. I must stake my claim before he monopolizes your attention with his latest poetic endeavors.”

She laughed, the sound echoing through the grand foyer. “Jealous of your own nephew, my lord? How terribly unbecoming.”

“Merely practical,” he countered, drawing her closer as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve grown accustomed to having you all to myself these past days.”

The admission, simple as it was, warmed something deep within her. These small confessions of his need for her presence were precious, rare gifts from a man who had spent a lifetime guarding his vulnerabilities.

“A pity, then, that we must share each other with the world again,” she said, allowing herself to lean slightly into his embrace, savoring the solid strength of him.

“Indeed,” he agreed, his voice dropping to that low register that never failed to send a shiver down her spine. “Though I intend to ensure we have ample private time as well.” His fingers traced a teasing path up her arm, and she felt her breath catch.

“Incorrigible,” she murmured, though there was no reproach in her tone.

“Only with you, my?—”

“Uncle Ewan! Aunt Samantha!”