Page 102 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
A chorus of delighted exclamations erupted, with Uncle William looking particularly pleased as he stepped forward to clap Lord Tenwick on the shoulder. “About time, my boy! I was beginning to think you’d never work up the courage to ask properly.”
“Some treasures require patience in the seeking,” Lord Tenwick replied, his eyes never leaving Jane’s radiant face. “And are all the more precious for the waiting.”
As congratulations flowed around the newly engaged couple, Percy seized the moment to make his own announcement, his natural dramatic timing impeccable as always.
“While we are sharing joyous news,” he proclaimed, “I too have an exciting development to report. I shall be embarking on my Grand Tour next month! Italy, France, Greece—all the classical lands await my poetic sensibilities!”
“Heaven help the continent,” Ewan murmured, though his pride in Percy’s growing confidence was evident in his smile.
“I shall send regular dispatches,” Percy continued enthusiastically, “chronicling my adventures in verse and prose. And gifts, of course—trinkets and treasures from every port of call!”
“We shall await them eagerly,” Samantha assured him, her affection for Percy evident in her warm smile. “Though we shall miss your presence at Valemont terribly.”
Percy’s expression softened, his usual theatricality giving way to genuine emotion. “And I shall miss you all. Though I go forth to seek inspiration, I carry my heart’s true home with me.”
Ewan crossed to his nephew then, placing a hand on his shoulder with rare public demonstration of affection. “You’ll do the Wildingham name proud, Percy. Just try not to compose sonnets to every Italian maid you encounter.”
“I make no such promises, Uncle,” Percy replied with a grin, though his eyes shone suspiciously bright at Ewan’s approval.
As the afternoon stretched into evening, guests gradually departed with warm farewells and promises of future gatherings. Uncle William left for London with Jane and Lord Tenwick, the betrothed couple radiant with newfound happiness. Percy retired to his chambers, ostensibly to begin planning his itinerary, though Ewan suspected poetry composition was the likelier occupation.
When the last carriage had rolled down the drive, Ewan found Samantha waiting for him in the entrance hall, an expectant smile playing about her lips.
“Shall we?” she asked softly.
No further explanation was needed as they ascended the stairs together, their steps leading not to their own chambers but to the nursery where the newest member of their family awaited.
The room was bathed in soft lamplight, the nurse rising from her chair with a curtsy as they entered. “The young master has just awakened, Your Grace,” she informed them before discreetly withdrawing.
Samantha moved to the cradle, lifting the tiny bundle with practiced tenderness. “Someone is eager to see his papa,” she murmured, placing their son in Ewan’s waiting arms.
Ewan cradled his child, marveling as he always did at the perfect miniature features—the wisps of dark hair, the tiny fingers that curled instinctively around his own. Matthew William Wildingham, barely three months old, regarded his father with solemn eyes that already showed hints of his mother’s brilliant blue.
Matthew was now the heir of the duchy, much to Percy’s relief, which he’d mentioned several times throughout Samantha’s pregnancy.
“Hello, little one,” Ewan said softly, his voice containing a gentleness that would have astonished those who knew only the stern Duke of Valemont. “Have you been keeping your mama awake with your demands again?”
“He has his father’s commanding presence,” Samantha observed, leaning against Ewan’s shoulder to gaze down at their son. “And, I suspect, his father’s stubborn nature as well.”
“Heaven help us all,” Ewan replied with a low chuckle that made the baby blink in surprise.
After precious moments of quiet communion, Matthew was returned to his cradle, drifting back to sleep with the contented ease of the deeply loved. Hand in hand, Ewan and Samantha made their way to their chambers, the day’s events settling into peaceful completion.
As the door closed behind them, Ewan drew his wife into his arms, his lips finding hers with the familiar heat that had only deepened with time and intimacy. Samantha responded eagerly, her body molding to his with perfect understanding of what he needed, what they both craved.
“You were magnificent today,” he murmured against the sensitive skin of her throat as his fingers worked the fastenings of her gown. “The consummate duchess. The perfect hostess.”
“And now?” she asked, her breath catching as his hands slipped beneath the loosened fabric to find the warm silk of her skin.
“Now,” he replied, his voice dropping to the register that never failed to send a shiver through her, “you are simply my Samantha. My tigress. My heart.”
They moved to the bed in perfect harmony, garments discarded along the way until they lay entwined, skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat. Desire stirred in him with a familiar yet ever-renewed urgency as he pressed her into the mattress, the sight of her auburn hair spilling like silk across the pillows one that never ceased to undo him.
She was his duchess, yes, the mistress of his house and the lady who bore his heir—but here, now, she was simply his woman, the one who still had the power to bring him to his knees without even trying.
Ewan’s mouth found hers again, slower this time, savoring, claiming. The kiss was not of courtly formality or ballroom civility—it was of hunger, possession, and reverence all wound together. His hand traced the familiar slope of her waist, the curve that had sheltered their son only months ago, and his chest ached with a blend of pride and protectiveness so fierce it was nearly pain.
She arched into him with an eagerness that drove all restraint to ashes. Samantha had always met him unflinchingly, passion answering passion, and tonight was no exception. Her soft gasp as his palm slid lower, caressing the heat of her, undid what little control he had left.
