Page 52 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“Nothing of the sort,” Percy said, settling into the chair across from Ewan’s desk with uncharacteristic seriousness. “I wanted to speak with you about the duchess.”
Every muscle in Ewan’s body tensed. “What about her?”
“Well, it’s only that she seems rather… melancholy lately. Distant.” Percy fidgeted with his cravat. “And you’ve been prowling about the house like a caged beast. I wondered if perhaps you’d quarreled?”
Ewan set down his quill with careful precision. “My relationship with my wife is not a matter for discussion, Percy.”
“Of course not,” Percy said quickly. “It’s only that… well, she’s been avoiding the family wing entirely. And yesterday I saw her in the garden, just standing there staring at nothing with the most forlorn expression.”
“The duchess is perfectly well,” Ewan said curtly. “She’s simply adjusting to married life.”
Percy nodded, but his expression remained troubled. “It’s only that she seems so very alone sometimes. And you …” He hesitated. “Forgive me, Uncle, but you seem rather alone as well.”
The observation struck closer to home than Ewan cared to admit. Since that night in his chambers—since Samantha had fled back to her room and bolted the door between them—he’d felt her absence like a physical ache. He found himself listening for her footsteps in the corridor, looking for glimpses of her auburn hair in the gardens, fighting the urge to seek her out simply to hear her voice.
It was unprecedented. And deeply unsettling, because it was not the life he’d intended to live. Not pining for a woman. He’d done everything he could to avoid being reduced to that.
And yet…
“I’m fine, Percy,” he said, returning his attention to the ledgers. “Was there anything else?”
“Actually, yes.” Percy’s voice took on a note of barely contained excitement. “I’ve been working on a new sonnet, and I wondered if you might?—”
“No.”
“But you haven’t even heard it yet!”
“I don’t need to hear it to know it’s terrible,” Ewan said dryly, though not without affection. “Why don’t you inflict it on your friends instead?”
Percy pouted. “You’re being beastly. The duchess would listen to my poetry.”
Something twisted in Ewan’s chest at the mention of his wife. Would she? He found himself wondering what other small kindnesses she might show his ridiculous nephew, what conversations they might have shared while he’d been deliberately avoiding the family wing.
“Then perhaps you should seek her out,” he heard himself saying.
“I would, but she’s been scarce as hen’s teeth lately. Rather like someone else I know.” Percy gave him a pointed look. “One might almost think the two of you are avoiding each other.”
Ewan’s jaw tightened. “One might mind their own business.”
“Touchy,” Percy observed. “You know, Uncle, for a man who minds his own business, you certainly seem rather invested in your wife’s whereabouts.”
“I am not?—”
“Yesterday you asked Mrs. Blackwood three times if the duchess had taken luncheon. And this morning you inquired about her plans for the afternoon.”
Had he? Ewan frowned, trying to recall the conversations. Perhaps he had mentioned Samantha once or twice, but surely not with the frequency Percy suggested.
“I was merely being polite,” he said stiffly.
His nephew’s grin was insufferably knowing. “Of course you were. Just as you were being polite when you glowered at every gentleman who so much as looked at her at the Worthington soirée.”
“I did not glower.”
“Uncle, you looked ready to call out half theton. It was quite entertaining, actually. Rather like watching a wolf guard his mate.”
The comparison sent an uncomfortable jolt through Ewan’s system. He was not possessive of Samantha. Their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more. The fact that he’d found himself thinking about her almost constantly since their encounter was simply… natural masculine interest. Nothing deeper.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered.
