Page 48 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“And I overheard enough at the soirée,” he added, his voice clipped. “Thetonmay be bored, but their memory is as long as their list of grievances.”
A dry sound escaped her. Not quite a laugh. “They never forget. Especially not when there’s humiliation involved. Or the appearance of it.”
He didn’t speak.
“I was naïve,” she said after a moment. “Everyone else saw through him. I should have, too.”
Ewan stepped closer, his gaze sharp. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Lay his choices at your feet.”
“I waited for him,” she said flatly. “Like a fool. While he played the hero abroad and married someone else. I don’t recall anyone forcing me.”
“And I don’t recall loyalty being a sin,” Ewan bit out. “He asked you to wait. Then married another woman. That makes him a coward, or worse, a liar. Not you a fool.”
She blinked at the vehemence in his voice.
“You were young. He made promises. You believed him.” Ewan’s jaw tightened. “I do not find that laughable at all.”
Her throat burned, but she said nothing.
He took a step forward, then another, stopping just short of touching her. “Do not speak of yourself the way they do. You’re worth ten of that simpering imbecile and he knew it. That’s why he ran.”
A beat passed. The room seemed to hold its breath.
“Why do you care?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“I don’t stomach dishonor. And I especially don’t stomach cowards who cloak betrayal in uniform and duty.”
The heat between them surged again—anger, indignation, the dark pulse of something unnamed.
“I’m not heartbroken,” she lied.
“Good,” he said. “He doesn’t deserve to have broken anything.”
She swallowed. “You’re very sure of your opinions.”
“Only when I’m right.”
She should have turned away. Should have walked past him with a sharp remark, as she always did when he grew too close. But her feet remained rooted, her breath coming shallow.
He looked at her a long moment, then lifted a hand. Slowly. His fingers brushed her cheek.
“You shouldn’t have had to thank me,” he said. “It should be your due.”
The words struck something deep and forgotten.
“I don’t need rescuing,” she managed, but her voice lacked conviction.
“No,” he said. “But you’ve been left to fend for yourself long enough.”
And then, without another word, he bent and kissed her.
There was nothing tentative about it. It was not the polite press of lips exchanged in public. No. This was aprivate complaintwrapped in touch, hunger and frustration and weeks of smoldering tension snapping free. It was him claiming her mouth as his, fierce and possessive.
His arms wrapped around her, pulling her tight against him. The heat of his skin soaked through the thin layers of her night robe, branding her. She felt the hard press of his body against hers, the barely restrained intensity in the way his fingers splayed across her lower back.
