Page 69 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“Not only am I thinking it,” her terribly aroused husband said, “but I intend to show you, as well.”
By the time they reached the bedchamber, Samantha’s heart was hammering beneath her ribs, and not from the climb.
He kicked the door shut behind them and crossed the threshold in three long strides. She barely had time to protest—though heaven help her, she didn’t truly wish to—before he laid her down upon the mattress with a reverence that stole her breath.
His mouth found hers before she could speak, silencing any retort with a kiss that left her dazed and breathless. She felt the weight of him over her, the press of his body so achingly familiar now, and yet it never failed to unravel her.
Fingers traced the line of her jaw, her throat, the silk-covered swell of her breasts. The bodice of her gown gave way with practiced ease beneath his hands. Heat bloomed low in her belly as his lips followed the path his fingers blazed, until she arched beneath him, helpless against the tide.
She clutched at his shirt, her hands slipping beneath the linen to feel the heat of his skin, the taut ripple of muscle as he moved over her. Each touch was deliberate, every kiss a slow coaxing, until she was all sensation—every thought, every breath, every heartbeat tuned to him alone.
He murmured her name like a vow as he entered her, and her breath hitched at the exquisite joining. Their rhythm built slowly, an intimate dance of body and soul, until the world outside their room faded to nothing.
This time, the release stole through her in waves, her fingers fisting in the sheets as she cried out into the cradle of his shoulder. And as he followed, groaning her name like a broken prayer, she held him close, her heart so full it ached.
“Scoundrel,” she gasped after a short time passed. “What would you have done if your nephew had chanced upon us?”
Ewan pressed a kiss to her temple, his chuckle like honey dripping down the insides of her thighs.
“Oh, he will learn to live with it,” he said, laughter in his voice as he said it, “He is an adult now, is he not?”
Samantha gasped. “You are impossible!” She said, but she could hear it in her voice, that she wasn’t as affronted as she let on. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
“It will take a few more minutes for him to wash,” he murmured against the back of her hand. “What say you we squeeze in one more, hm?”
Her face bloomed with heat again, but she did not resist when he sealed her mouth with a kiss. If this was what married life was made of, then she supposed she liked it.
Oh, she liked it very much.
“I cannot believe you convinced me to attend this,” Ewan muttered as their carriage approached the Worthington estate, where a garden party was being held to celebrate the engagement of Lady Worthington’s niece. “Garden parties are tedious affairs at the best of times.”
“It will be good for Percy to practice his social graces in a less formal setting,” Samantha pointed out, adjusting her bonnet. “And Jane will be there. I haven’t seen her in nearly three weeks.”
At the mention of her sister, Ewan’s expression softened slightly. “How is she faring? Your uncle’s last letter suggested she’s been in high demand this season.”
“Indeed,” Samantha confirmed, a note of pride in her voice. “Jane has always possessed a natural charm that draws people to her. Unlike her elder sister,” she added with a self-deprecating smile, “who was always too blunt and bookish for most gentlemen’s tastes.”
“Their loss,” Ewan said firmly, taking her gloved hand in his. “Though I confess I’m selfishly grateful for their poor judgment. Had you been surrounded by suitors, you might never have become my duchess.”
The simple declaration warmed her from within, and she squeezed his hand in response. “A most fortunate twist of fate, indeed.”
The garden party was already in full swing when they arrived, the Worthington estate’s extensive grounds filled with the cream of society in their summer finery. Colorful parasols dotted the lawns like exotic blooms, while servants circulated with trays of champagne and delicate refreshments.
Percy, resplendent in a new waistcoat of peacock blue that somehow managed to be both elegant and slightly too eye-catching, immediately spotted a group of young ladies and made a beeline toward them, though not before Ewan caught his arm.
Already, they’d had to compromise on his outfit, he had no plans of letting his nephew run amok here.
“Remember,” he said quietly, “no dramatic recitations, no grand gestures, and for God’s sake, no impromptu poetry unless explicitly requested.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Percy agreed solemnly, though the twinkle in his eye suggested he was already calculating how broadly these restrictions might be interpreted.
“And Percy,” Samantha added, “perhaps limit yourself to two metaphors per conversation? Quality over quantity.”
This unexpected advice made both men look at her with surprise before Percy broke into a delighted grin. “Brilliant strategy, Aunt Samantha! Restraint as artistic choice rather than limitation. I shall consider each metaphor a precious jewel to be bestowed only when truly warranted.”
“That’s… not precisely what I meant,” she began, but Percy was already striding confidently toward the group of debutantes, his posture suggesting a man with a mission.
“You’ve only encouraged him, you realize,” Ewan said, watching his nephew’s retreating figure with resignation.
