Page 57 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
The threat hung in the air between them, and Samantha could see Adam weighing his options. Finally, he stepped back with a stiff bow.
“Your Grace.” His tone was formal, but his eyes promised this wasn’t over. “I apologize for overstepping my bounds. If you would please excuse me.”
He stalked away, leaving Samantha alone with her husband in the shadowed alcove, her heart stuttering in her chest.
CHAPTER 16
“Come,” Ewan said quietly, curling his hand around Samantha’s trembling fingers. “Dance with me.”
Her eyes searched his face as if trying to gauge the sincerity of his offer—or perhaps his intentions. But when she didn’t pull away, he exhaled and drew her gently from the shadowed alcove.
The ballroom was still alight with candle fire and laughter, the orchestra easing into another waltz as though nothing had just transpired behind the potted palms.
As if Comerford hadn’t dared lay hands on his wife. As if Ewan himself hadn’t nearly lost control and bloodied a man in front of half the peerage.
He led her to the dance floor, placing one hand at the small of her back and taking her other in his, drawing her close—closer than the steps required, closer than propriety allowed. He didnot care much for society right then. Only the woman in his arms mattered to him in that moment.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, barely managing to restrain his rage.
“I’m fine,” Samantha replied too quickly.
His jaw ticked. “You’re not.”
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t elaborate either. Her posture remained taut, her face carefully composed. But her pulse—he could feel it fluttering erratically under his palm where it pressed against her spine.
The music swelled, and they moved in tandem—one, two, three—circling through the crowd as if nothing had happened.
“Now tell me what that bastard said to you.” Ewan said, voice low, threading steel beneath the question.
Samantha’s gaze snapped to his face before flickering away to fix on a point over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.” He said, the words so quiet, they were lethal.
But she lifted her chin at that, eyes flashing. “Why?”
He blinked. “What?”
“Why does it matter to you what he said?” Her voice was quiet but cutting. “Why would it matter at all, Your Grace?”
The formality in her tone was like a blade to the gut. He recoiled slightly, his grip tightening instinctively. “You’re my wife.”
“In name only.”
“Samantha.” Ewan loved that his wife was stubborn, and willful.
He couldn’t get enough of those beautiful blue eyes of hers flash with indignation, but right in this moment, he wasn’t playing around.
“We both know you only came to my defense because of appearances,” she continued, voice trembling. “Because someone else dared to touch what’s yours. That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Possession. The performance of it all.”
He stopped mid-step, forcing her to a halt with him in the center of the dance floor. Other couples spun around them, some casting curious glances, others whispering behind gloved hands. Ewan didn’t care.
“I defended you,” he said evenly, “because that man disrespected you. Because he upset you. Because the idea of him touching you made me want to put my fist through his ugly visage.”
Her eyes widened, but before she could speak, the music ended. The final notes of the waltz faded into a round of applause. She tore herself from his arms as if burned.
“I need some air.” She said, scrambling back, away from him.
Ewan didn’t like how eager she seemed to put some distance between them, and he had no intention of letting her run away from him this time.
