Page 63 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
Years.
The word hung between them, full of promise and possibility, suggesting a future stretching before them like an unexplored country waiting to be discovered together.
They lay in a warm, heavy silence, the only sound the slowing cadence of their breaths and the faint tick of the mantel clock across the room. Samantha rested her cheek against the solid breadth of his chest, her skin still tingling everywhere he had touched her.
Her palm moved in slow, idle circles over the hard muscle there, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath. It struck her—how strong he was, how tightly coiled with control most of the time, and yet how that same heart seemed to race whenever she was near.
She closed her eyes, letting the rise and fall of his breathing lull her, but her mind refused to be still.
Now, in this rare, quiet moment, with their bodies tangled and the world shut out, she didn’t want the space between them to close again come morning.
“Ewan,” she began hesitantly, tracing the line of his collarbone with tentative fingers, “may I ask you something?”
“Anything,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.
Well, that was rather reassuring, to say the least.
“Why are you so adamant about not having children? I understand your concerns about Percy inheriting, but…” She trailed off, uncertain how to continue without seeming to press him on a clearly sensitive topic, aware that she was venturing onto precarious ground that might shatter their newfound intimacy.
The silence stretched so long that she feared she had indeed overstepped, that the walls he had momentarily lowered would rise again, higher and more impenetrable than before. But then he sighed, his arms tightening around her as if seeking strength from her presence.
“My father,” he began, his voice low and measured, as if each word were being carefully extracted from some deeply buried vault of painful memories, “was a cruel man. Not merely stern,as many nobles are with their children, but genuinely cruel. He took pleasure in punishment, in breaking spirits, in causing pain. My mother was little better—cold, distant, more concerned with appearances than affection.”
Samantha remained silent, offering comfort through her presence, understanding instinctively that interruption would stem the flow of confidences he had never shared.
“Benedict, my brother, inherited not only their title but their worst qualities. He was brutal to servants, to animals, to anyone weaker than himself. And to me.” The last words were spoken so quietly she might have missed them had she not been lying so close, feeling the tension in his body that belied the controlled delivery of his confession.
“Oh, Ewan,” she whispered, pressing closer to him, as if her warmth might somehow soothe the wounds that lingered beneath his skin, invisible but no less real for their lack of physical manifestation.
“I spent most of my childhood at Matthew’s estate… Percy’s father. It was the only place I knew any kindness.” His voice was distant now, lost in painful memories that had shaped the man he had become. “When Benedict died, I felt… relief. And then guilt for feeling relieved. And then terror, because I was now the heir, and what if I became like them? What if cruelty runs in our blood?”
She raised herself on one elbow to look into his face, to study the vulnerability that he had never before allowed her to witness.“That is why you made Percy your heir. Not just because he’s Matthew’s son, but because you… you fear what yourownchildren might become.”
“Yes,” he admitted, his eyes searching hers for signs of judgment or revulsion and finding only compassion. “I swore I would never risk passing on whatever darkness flows through the Wildingham line. I would rather see it end with me.”
Samantha touched his face gently, tracing the strong line of his jaw with tender fingers. “Ewan, what makes a person cruel or kind is not their blood, but their choices. You chose kindness, despite everything.”
“Did I?” His smile was bitter, a twisted reflection of self-loathing she had never glimpsed beneath his confident exterior. “I’ve spent years avoiding attachment, using women for pleasure and discarding them, pushing away anyone who might get too close.”
“And yet, you raised Percy. You married me to protect my reputation. You defended me against Adam. These are not the actions of a cruel man.” Her voice was soft but firm, carrying a conviction born of her growing understanding of the complex man before her.
She leaned down to press her lips to his in a tender kiss, pouring all her newfound understanding into the gesture, an offering of acceptance that required no words.
“You are not your father, Ewan. Nor your brother. You are simply yourself—a man who has known darkness but still seeks the light.”
He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair as if seeking shelter in her presence. “How do I deserve you?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion that a lifetime of aristocratic restraint had taught him to suppress.
“Perhaps you do not,” she teased with a small smile, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on his skin. “But you have me nonetheless.”
As the fire burned low and the night deepened around them, they remained entwined, the barriers between them, once so insurmountable, now finally beginning to crumble. Samantha found herself hoping that this moment would last forever.
Ewan woke to the unfamiliar weight of another body pressed against his side, copper hair spilling across his chest like liquid fire caught in the morning light. For a moment, disorientation gripped him—he was unaccustomed to women lingering in his bed past the act itself—but then memory returned in a warm rush.
Samantha. Hiswife. Hisduchess.His.
He studied her sleeping face, marveling at the softness that sleep brought to her features. The sharp wit and fierce intelligence that so often animated her countenance had yielded to peaceful vulnerability, her lips slightly parted, her lashes casting delicate shadows on her freckled cheeks.
Something tightened in his chest at the sight—a peculiar ache that was not entirely unpleasant. It reminded him of Matthew’s house, where he’d felt safe, protected, and most importantly, wanted. This feeling had been lost to him for so long that its return felt almost foreign, yet achingly familiar.
