Page 40 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)
T he soft knock at her bedroom door came just as Samantha had managed to compose herself, her tears dried to salt tracks on her cheeks. She did not respond, hoping whoever sought entrance would assume she had retired for the night.
“Samantha?” Jane’s voice, gentle with concern, filtered through the wooden panel. “Are you awake? May I come in?”
Samantha hesitated, reluctant to burden her sister with her marital troubles yet desperately in need of comfort. “Yes,” she called finally, her voice hoarse from weeping.
The door opened to reveal Jane still in her evening attire, her blonde curls slightly disheveled from the evening breeze. Her expression shifted from curiosity to alarm as she took in Samantha’s tear-stained face and rumpled gown.
“Good heavens! What’s happened?” Jane rushed to her side, sitting beside her on the bed and taking her hands. “Lord Tenwick escorted me home and mentioned that you had left with the duke hours ago. I was so surprised to hear from Simmons that you had returned here instead.”
“Ewan and I…” Samantha began, then faltered, the words sticking in her throat. “We had a disagreement.”
Jane’s blue eyes widened with concern. “A disagreement? It must have been a terrible one to bring you here in such a state.”
“It was,” Samantha admitted, fresh tears threatening despite her determination to maintain composure. “I fear I may have ruined everything.”
“Nonsense,” Jane declared with unexpected firmness. “Nothing could be so dire between you. Anyone with eyes can see how deeply attached you’ve become to one another.”
A bitter laugh escaped Samantha. “Apparently not deeply enough.” She drew a shuddering breath before continuing. “I asked him about children, Jane. After seeing the Marchwood family tonight, I couldn’t help but imagine what it might be like—to have that kind of life, that kind of love.”
Understanding dawned in Jane’s expression. “And he refused.”
“Not just refused,” Samantha whispered, the pain fresh in her voice. “He said our entire relationship has been a mistake. That we should return to our original arrangement—a marriage of convenience only.”
“Oh, Sam.” Jane wrapped her arms around her sister, holding her close as she had when they were children and Samantha had fallen from a tree or torn her favorite dress. “Men can be such fools when confronted with their deepest fears.”
Samantha drew back slightly, surprised by this unexpected insight. “What do you mean?”
“Only that His Grace strikes me as a man who guards his heart most carefully,” Jane replied thoughtfully. “And nothing threatens that guard more thoroughly than the prospect of becoming a father.”
“Because of his own father,” Samantha acknowledged, recalling Ewan’s haunted expression when he spoke of his childhood. “He’s so convinced that cruelty runs in his blood, Jane. That any child of his would inherit that darkness.”
“And you disagree?”
“Of course I do!” Samantha exclaimed, rising to pace the room with agitated steps. “I’ve seen his gentleness with Percy, his kindness to the village children, his consideration for our tenants. There isn’t a cruel bone in his body, despite what he believes about himself.”
Jane watched her sister’s movements with thoughtful eyes.
“Perhaps what truly frightens him is not that a child might inherit his father’s cruelty, but that fatherhood might somehow transform him—that the responsibilities and pressures might awaken something in him that he has spent his life suppressing. ”
Samantha paused, struck by her sister’s perception. “I hadn’t considered that.”
“Men like to think themselves entirely rational,” Jane continued with surprising wisdom, “but their fears are often as irrational as ours. And more difficult to acknowledge, since they’re not permitted the luxury of admitting to fear.”
“When did you become so insightful about the male mind?” Samantha asked, momentarily distracted from her own troubles.
A faint blush colored Jane’s cheeks. “Perhaps I’ve had opportunity for observation lately.”
Despite her distress, Samantha felt a flicker of curiosity. “Lord Tenwick?”
“He is… not what I expected,” Jane admitted, her blush deepening. “Beneath his playful exterior, there’s a depth of feeling I never anticipated.”
Under different circumstances, Samantha would have pressed for details, but her own heart was too raw for such sisterly confidences. She sank back onto the bed, suddenly exhausted.
“What am I to do, Jane? I cannot abandon our marriage, but I cannot pretend I don’t want children. That I don’t long for a family of our own.”
Jane took her hand once more, her touch gentle but firm. “You must give him time, Sam. This isn’t a simple matter of preference—it’s deeply rooted in his most profound fears. If you truly love him, you must allow him the space to confront those fears at his own pace.”
“And if he never does?” Samantha whispered, giving voice to her deepest dread.
“Then you will face that choice when it comes,” Jane replied pragmatically. “But don’t borrow tomorrow’s sorrows when today’s are heavy enough.”
They sat in silence for a time, hands clasped in the familiar comfort of sisterhood that had sustained them through childhood losses and adult disappointments alike.
“Will you stay here tonight?” Jane asked finally. “I could have Simmons prepare your old room.”
Samantha nodded, too emotionally drained to contemplate returning to the townhouse she shared with Ewan. “Just for tonight. I need… space to think.”
“Of course.” Jane rose and moved to the bellpull, then hesitated. “Sam, I don’t presume to know His Grace’s mind, but I’ve seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. Whatever he said tonight, I cannot believe he meant it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Samantha replied, trying to summon a smile that felt like a grimace. “But hope is a fragile thing, Jane. And mine feels rather battered at present.”
Jane crossed back to place a kiss on her sister’s forehead, a gesture so reminiscent of their mother that fresh tears sprang to Samantha’s eyes. “Rest tonight. Things often appear clearer in the morning light.”
As Jane departed to arrange for her accommodations, Samantha moved to the window, gazing out at the London street below. Somewhere across the city, Ewan was perhaps staring into the darkness as well, as alone in his thoughts as she was in hers.
“Oh, Ewan,” she whispered to the empty air, “why must you believe yourself unworthy of the very happiness you’ve shown me is possible?”
But the night offered no answers, only the distant sounds of carriages and the ache of separation from the man who, despite everything, still held her heart in his keeping.
“Your Grace, the steward awaits your instructions regarding the south pasture,” Hendricks announced from the doorway of the study, his tone carefully neutral despite the growing concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
Ewan did not look up from the ledger before him, the columns of figures blurring into meaningless patterns after hours of scrutiny. “Send him away. I’ll address the matter tomorrow.”
“But Your Grace, Mr. Finchley mentioned it was rather urgent?—”
“Did I not make myself clear?” Ewan snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet of the room like steel against stone. “I shall attend to it tomorrow.”
The butler bowed stiffly. “As you please, Your Grace.”
As the door closed with deliberate softness, Ewan pushed away from his desk with such force that his chair scraped harshly against the polished floor.
Three days had passed since Samantha had departed for her uncle’s townhouse—three interminable days that had stretched into a lifetime of sleepless nights and hollow days.
He moved to the window, staring unseeing at the manicured gardens below. In the east beds, Samantha’s roses had bloomed in a riot of crimson, their beauty a mocking reminder of her absence.
The knock that interrupted his brooding was less deferential than Hendricks’—a sharp, insistent rapping that could only belong to one person.
“Go away, Percy,” he called without turning.
The door opened regardless, his nephew’s lanky form appearing in the reflection of the window glass. “Uncle, you cannot continue like this. You’ve barely eaten since?—”
“I don’t recall asking for your assessment of my habits.” Ewan turned, fixing Percy with a glare that would have withered a less determined man. “Don’t you have some verse to compose? Some innocent debutante to terrorize with your metaphors?”
Percy flinched but stood his ground. “Actually, I was planning to attend Miss Waverly’s musical evening. She specifically mentioned hoping you and Aunt Samantha might?—”
“Your aunt is not here,” Ewan interrupted, the words like gravel in his throat.
“Yes, I had noticed her absence,” Percy replied with uncharacteristic sharpness. “As has every servant in this house. As has every flower in her garden that now blooms with no one to appreciate its beauty. As has every?—”
“Enough!” Ewan slammed his palm against the windowsill, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in his chest. “I forbid you to speak of her.”
“Uncle—”
“And you will not attend Miss Waverly’s musical evening.”
Percy’s eyes widened in genuine shock. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” Ewan turned back to the window, unable to bear the hurt confusion in his nephew’s expression. “Such frivolous pursuits are beneath your station. You would do better to focus on matters of substance.”
A tense silence filled the room. When Percy finally spoke, his voice carried none of its usual dramatic flair… only a quiet, wounded dignity.
“I see. Then I shall bid you good day, Uncle.”
The door closed behind him with barely a sound, yet it seemed to echo in the emptiness of the room. Ewan remained at the window, watching as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the garden, stretching like fingers toward the coming darkness.