Page 39 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
It was only after the ladies had withdrawn to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and politics, that Samantha found herself once more in Annabelle’s company.
“Your children are delightful,” Samantha said as they settled on a silk-upholstered settee near the fire. “Eleanor particularly is a credit to you.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle replied with genuine warmth. “Though I fear she’s developing a reputation for impertinence that would mortify my mother. Henry encourages her curiosity, which is wonderful for her mind but occasionally disastrous for our social standing.”
“Better an intelligent daughter than a decorative one,” Samantha observed, earning a look of approval from her hostess.
“Precisely my thinking. Though I’m certain you and Valemont will strike the perfect balance when your own children arrive.” Annabelle’s expression was kind, but her words pierced Samantha like a physical blow.
“I…” Samantha began, then faltered, uncertain how to respond without revealing the painful truth.
Annabelle’s expression shifted to one of concern. “Forgive me if I’ve spoken out of turn. I merely assumed, given how recently you wed…”
“No apology necessary,” Samantha assured her with a smile that felt brittle on her lips. “Ewan and I are still… adjusting to married life.”
Something in her tone must have betrayed her, for Annabelle reached over to squeeze her hand gently. “Marriage is a complex dance, is it not? Henry and I faced our own challenges in the beginning.”
The gentlemen rejoined them just then, and the moment for confidences passed. Yet the seed had been planted, taking root in her thoughts as the evening progressed.
Later, as their carriage carried them back to their townhouse—Jane having accepted Lord Tenwick’s offer to escort her home separately—Samantha found herself studying her husband’s profile in the flickering lamplight.
The strong line of his jaw, the thoughtful set of his mouth, the occasional flash of his green eyes when they passed a street lamp—all had become precious to her in ways she had never anticipated when they first wed.
“You’re staring, my tigress,” Ewan observed without turning his head. “Do I have wine on my cravat?”
“No,” she replied softly. “I was merely thinking how fortunate Eleanor and her siblings are to have parents who cherish them so completely.”
His posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. “The Marchwoods are indeed exemplary parents.”
“It made me wonder…” Samantha began, then hesitated, gathering her courage. “Ewan, seeing them tonight… seeing the children, the family they’ve created… it made me realize something.”
Now he did turn to face her, his expression guarded in a way it had not been for weeks. “What did it make you realize, Samantha?”
She drew a deep breath, knowing she was venturing onto dangerous ground yet unable to contain the longing that had been building within her heart. “That I want that too. A family. Children of our own.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch for an eternity, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestones and the occasional creak of the carriage springs.
“We’ve discussed this,” Ewan said finally, his voice carefully neutral. “My position remains unchanged.”
“I know what you said before,” Samantha acknowledged, reaching for his hand across the carriage. “But surely you must see how wonderful a father you would be? You’ve practically raised Percy, and he adores you despite your differences.”
“Percy is Matthew’s son,” Ewan replied, his tone cooling perceptibly as he withdrew his hand from her reach. “Not mine. Not of my blood.”
“But our children would be both of us,” she pressed, unable to stop now that she had begun. “They would have your strength, your honor, your intelligence?—”
“And my family’s darkness,” he cut in harshly. “Have you forgotten what I told you about my father? About Benedict? About the cruelty that runs in our veins?”
“I have forgotten nothing,” she assured him, fighting to keep her voice steady. “But I’ve seen no evidence of that darkness in you, Ewan. Only a man determined to be better than his past.”
“You cannot know what lurks beneath the surface,” he insisted, his jaw tight with tension. “I will not risk passing on that legacy. I will not father children who might inherit that cruelty. I’ve been clear on this point from the beginning.”
“I had hoped…” Samantha faltered, tears threatening to spill despite her best efforts to contain them. “I thought perhaps, as things changed between us, you might reconsider.”
Ewan’s expression hardened, the warmth she had grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes replaced by a cold remoteness that reminded her painfully of their earliest encounters. “This was a mistake.”
“What was?” she whispered, though she feared she already knew the answer.
“This pretense at something more than convenience,” he replied, the words falling between them like stones. “We had an arrangement, Samantha. A marriage to save your reputation, nothing more. Perhaps it’s best we return to those terms.”
The carriage seemed suddenly airless, the space between them expanding into an unbridgeable chasm. Samantha felt as though she had been struck, the pain of his rejection far more acute than any physical blow.
“Stop the carriage,” she managed, her voice scarcely audible.
“What?” Ewan frowned, confusion momentarily replacing the cold detachment.
“Stop the carriage,” she repeated, louder this time. “I wish to go to my uncle’s house.”
“Samantha, don’t be ridiculous?—”
“Please,” she interrupted, hating the pleading note in her voice but unable to suppress it. “I cannot… I need some time.”
Something flickered in his expression—regret, perhaps, or anger—before the mask descended once more. He rapped sharply on the roof, calling instructions to the driver that would redirect their course toward Lord Norfeld’s townhouse.
They did not speak again for the remainder of the journey. When the carriage finally halted before her uncle’s residence, Samantha gathered her dignity around her like a shield.
“I shall send for my things in the morning,” she said quietly, not looking at him as the footman opened the door.
“As you wish,” Ewan replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
Only when she had been admitted to her uncle’s house, only when she had climbed the stairs to the chamber that had once been hers, only when the door had closed behind her—only then did Samantha allow the tears to fall, silent sobs wracking her body as she mourned the death of dreams she had scarcely dared to acknowledge.