Page 47 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke (The Athena Society #3)

“Nothing so dramatic,” Ewan replied, moving to examine a porcelain figurine on the mantelpiece with apparent interest. “I am a man of considerable influence, Lord Comerford. My connections extend through Parliament, the banking houses, even the admiralty. I wonder how your sugar plantations in the West Indies would fare should certain questions arise regarding their management? Or perhaps your timber concerns in Hampshire might attract unwelcome scrutiny from the Crown?”

The color drained from the Earl’s face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” Ewan assured him, setting the figurine down with careful precision.

“I would use every resource at my disposal to dismantle your holdings piece by piece. Your reputation would be in tatters, your credit destroyed, your social standing reduced to ashes. It would be thorough, methodical, and entirely legal.”

“Over a mere social indiscretion?” Lord Comerford scoffed, though his voice lacked conviction. “Come now, Valemont. We both know such threats are beneath a man of your station.”

“What I know,” Ewan replied, “is that you deliberately provoked my nephew, a boy barely nineteen, with calculated malice. That you have repeatedly approached my wife with improper familiarity despite her obvious distaste for your company. That you speak of my family with a disrespect I have tolerated far too long.”

“Your family?” The Earl laughed again, a desperate sound that revealed his growing unease. “Your precious bloodline? We both know what runs in those veins, Valemont. Your father was a monster in ducal clothing. Your brother worse still. And you?—”

Ewan moved with a swiftness that belied his aristocratic bearing. His fist connected with the Earl’s jaw with precision, the impact driving the other man backward into an ornate side table. The crash of falling porcelain punctuated his startled cry.

“That,” Ewan said calmly, “was for mentioning my father.”

Lord Comerford struggled to regain his footing, one hand raised in feeble defense. “You’ve lost your mind! I’ll have you?—”

The second blow caught him in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a painful wheeze. “That was for my nephew, Lord Stonehall.”

The Earl doubled over, gasping for breath, his earlier bravado entirely evaporated. Ewan grasped him by the lapels, hauling him upright with a strength honed by years of physical exertion rather than indolent luxury.

“And this,” he said softly, “is for Samantha Wildingham. My wife . And the next time you call her by her given name, I will break your neck.”

The final blow sent Lord Comerford sprawling to the carpet, blood staining his immaculate cravat. He stared up at Ewan with genuine fear now, all pretense abandoned.

“You’re mad,” he whispered. “As mad as your brother was.”

“No,” Ewan replied, straightening his coat with methodical calm. “I am merely a man who has finally recognized what matters most in this world. My family—my wife and my nephew—are not to be threatened, not to be disrespected, not to be approached by the likes of you. Am I perfectly clear?”

The Earl nodded jerkily, one hand pressed to his bleeding lip. “Crystal,” he managed.

“Excellent.” Ewan moved toward the door, pausing only to glance back at the fallen nobleman. “I would suggest a lengthy sojourn to your country estate, Lord Comerford. The air might prove beneficial to your… health.”

He departed as he had arrived, with measured steps and perfect composure, leaving the Earl to contemplate the shattered remnants of his pride amid the broken porcelain on his morning room floor.

Outside, the spring air filled Ewan’s lungs with sweet clarity. For the first time in days—perhaps years, really—his purpose stood sharp and defined before him. The anger that had driven him to Lord Comerford’s door now settled into something calmer, more resolute: determination.

He had protected Percy, avenged the insult to Samantha’s dignity. But those actions, necessary as they were, addressed only the external threats to his happiness. The greater danger—his own fear, his own stubborn refusal to embrace the future Samantha offered—remained to be confronted.

As his carriage carried him back toward Lord Norfeld’s townhouse, Ewan considered the path forward with clear-eyed honesty.

He had spent his life in terror of becoming his father, of passing that darkness to the next generation.

Yet in that fear, he had nearly destroyed the very thing his father had never possessed: the capacity for true love.

Samantha deserved better than his cowardice. Percy deserved better than a guardian who preached courage while retreating from his own heart. And he—perhaps most surprisingly of all—deserved better than the barren existence he had accepted as his lot.

By the time the carriage slowed before Lord Norfeld’s residence, Ewan had come to a decision that felt like emerging from a long, dark tunnel into sunlight. Whatever the future held, he would face it with Samantha at his side.

If she would still have him.

He would beg on his knees, if that was what it took.