Page 58 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
Not here. And certainly not after what had just happened. Besides, he also harbored a fear that should she leave him to his own devices, he would only spend the next few hours hunting Comerford down for the simple pleasure of breaking his nose, over and over again.
“Samantha—” He called after her, but she was already moving, her skirts sweeping behind her as she fled the ballroom.
He stood there, breathing hard, ignoring the buzz of murmured gossip rising like a tide all around him. Then he turned and followed.
He was going to find his wife.
He found her in the Ashworths’ library. The heavy door stood ajar, and inside, moonlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and a chaise in the far corner. She stood with her back to him, onehand braced on the mantel, the other pressed to her mouth. Her shoulders trembled.
“Samantha.” He breathed, and she stiffened immediately.
“Don’t.” Her voice was raw. “Don’t pretend to care.”
Ewan knew that he’d done a terrible job thus far of accepting his own attraction towards this woman and had done his best to keep her at arm’s length despite the fact that he could not resist her. And now, he intended to correct that error.
He said, “I’m not pretending.”
She turned then, eyes bright with unshed tears and rage. “Oh please! You only want me falling obediently into your bed. You say you care, but only when someone else threatens your control over me.”
He crossed the room in three strides. “Is that what you think this is? About control?”
“It’s always been about control,” she spat. “From the moment we married. You’ve kept your distance, your walls up. You don’t speak unless it’s duty. And yet the moment another man so much as touches me, suddenly, I’m yours?”
“Youaremine.” His voice was quiet but firm.
“I am not property.” She hissed at him and, by God, she looked so beautiful, he could barely contain himself.
Already, he wanted to crush her to him and kiss her senseless.
“I never said you were.” he replied, counting down the minutes until his control would snap.
“Then what am I to you, Ewan? A duchess? An obligation? A warm body to take when the mood strikes?” Her breath hitched. “Because I can’t—I won’t—be only that.”
He stared at her, stunned into silence. It was his fault that she thought this way. That this beautiful, proud, and headstrong woman would ever think that she was somehow nothing special because of his own foolishness. It was his fault, and he had to rectify the mistake immediately.
Driven by that urgency, he stepped forward and cupped her face in his hands.
“You’re not,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head with a vehemence that obviously shocked her. “You’re not just any of those things.”
She blinked, confused, angry, hurting. It was obvious that his words weren’t the ones she’d expected to hear. “Then what?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted, his heart pounding in his chest, a staccato melody against the ridges of his ribcage. “But damn me,I do care. More than I ever wanted to. Definitely even more than you think I do.”
Her lips—those weapons of great temptation—parted, and Ewan stifled the urge to let out a groan even as his member twitched within the confines of his trousers.
“You—” She struggled to get the words out, but none came.
He could see the struggle in her eyes… the struggle to believe him.
But it was all right, because he intended to make her believe him.
“I care when you look at me like you’d rather be anywhere else. I care when you walk past me in the corridor and won’t meet my eyes. I care when you tremble in another man’s arms and won’t let me hold you instead.”
Her expression wavered, cracked.
“I care,” he repeated, voice thick, “and I haven’t the faintest idea what to do with it.”
Samantha exhaled a shuddering breath, her defiance softening, melting.
