Page 67 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“Ewan, that’s a wonderful idea!” Her enthusiasm was immediate and genuine, her hand tightening on his arm. “The nearest school is in the next parish, much too far for most families to send their children regularly.”
“I thought as much,” he agreed, pleased by her reaction. “We could engage a proper teacher, provide books and slates…”
“And perhaps a small library,” she added eagerly. “Oh, and we must ensure there’s a proper stove for winter. Children cannot learn if they’re shivering from cold.”
He chuckled at her immediate practical considerations. “Whatever you deem necessary, my tigress. The project is yours to direct as you see fit.”
She stopped walking again, turning to face him with an expression of such sincere gratitude that it momentarily robbed him of breath. “Thank you for this, Ewan. Truly.”
“I’ve done nothing yet,” he demurred, uncomfortable with her praise.
“You’ve shown you’re listening,” she corrected gently. “That you care about the same things I do. That’s not nothing.”
Before he could respond, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed a swift kiss to his lips, there in the garden where any servant might see them. The spontaneous gesture stunned him more than their most intimate moments in the privacy of their chambers.
“What was that for?” he asked when she pulled away.
“For being a better man than you believe yourself to be,” she replied simply, and something in Ewan’s chest peeled open, like the cracking of a shell to reveal the vulnerable thing beneath it.
He did not yet know what it was, but there was one thing he was very certain of, and it was this:
That his feisty duchess had managed to capture the thing within that shell and, for some reason he was yet to fathom, he did not detest knowing that it was within her grasp.
“You look absolutely ravishing today, my tigress,” Ewan murmured against her ear as they descended the grand staircase of Valemont Hall, his hand warm and steady at the small of her back.
Samantha felt a now-familiar heat rise to her cheeks at his words. Even after weeks of sharing his bed, his compliments still managed to disarm her completely. “You needn’t flatter me so persistently, Your Grace. We are already married, after all.”
“It is not flattery when it’s the truth,” he replied, his green eyes glinting with mischief that made her heart flutter treacherously against her ribs. “Besides, Percy returns today. I must stake my claim before he monopolizes your attention with his latest poetic endeavors.”
She laughed, the sound echoing through the grand foyer. “Jealous of your own nephew, my lord? How terribly unbecoming.”
“Merely practical,” he countered, drawing her closer as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve grown accustomed to having you all to myself these past days.”
The admission, simple as it was, warmed something deep within her. These small confessions of his need for her presence were precious, rare gifts from a man who had spent a lifetime guarding his vulnerabilities.
“A pity, then, that we must share each other with the world again,” she said, allowing herself to lean slightly into his embrace, savoring the solid strength of him.
“Indeed,” he agreed, his voice dropping to that low register that never failed to send a shiver down her spine. “Though I intend to ensure we have ample private time as well.” His fingers traced a teasing path up her arm, and she felt her breath catch.
“Incorrigible,” she murmured, though there was no reproach in her tone.
“Only with you, my?—”
“Uncle Ewan! Aunt Samantha!”
The enthusiastic cry shattered the intimate moment as Percy burst through the front doors, his arms laden with parcels and his face alight with boyish excitement. Behind him came Marquess Tenwick, wearing an expression of fond exasperation that Samantha was coming to recognize as his habitual response to Percy’s antics.
“Percy!” Samantha exclaimed, stepping forward to greet him. “We didn’t expect you until midday.”
“We made excellent time,” the young viscount explained, depositing his bundles unceremoniously on a nearby table. “I was simply too eager to return! London is splendid, of course, but I found myself positively yearning for the tranquility of Valemont. The air here is so much more conducive to poetic contemplation, don’t you think?”
Ewan exchanged a glance with Lord Tenwick, who rolled his eyes discreetly. “I trust Ralph kept you out of trouble?” he asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
“Barely,” Tenwick replied dryly, that one word laden with all the exasperation of too many days crammed into it. “He has entertained thetonyears ahead, if that is even possible.”
Samantha bit her lip to suppress a laugh as Ewan pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture she’d come to associate with his mounting exasperation.
“Percy,” he began in that carefully measured tone that suggested he was counting backwards from ten in his mind, “what have we discussed about public performances?”
