Page 86 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
“When did you become so insightful about the male mind?” Samantha asked, momentarily distracted from her own troubles.
A faint blush colored Jane’s cheeks. “Perhaps I’ve had opportunity for observation lately.”
Despite her distress, Samantha felt a flicker of curiosity. “Lord Tenwick?”
“He is… not what I expected,” Jane admitted, her blush deepening. “Beneath his playful exterior, there’s a depth of feeling I never anticipated.”
Under different circumstances, Samantha would have pressed for details, but her own heart was too raw for such sisterly confidences. She sank back onto the bed, suddenly exhausted.
“What am I to do, Jane? I cannot abandon our marriage, but I cannot pretend I don’t want children. That I don’t long for a family of our own.”
Jane took her hand once more, her touch gentle but firm. “You must give him time, Sam. This isn’t a simple matter of preference—it’s deeply rooted in his most profound fears. If you truly love him, you must allow him the space to confront those fears at his own pace.”
“And if he never does?” Samantha whispered, giving voice to her deepest dread.
“Then you will face that choice when it comes,” Jane replied pragmatically. “But don’t borrow tomorrow’s sorrows when today’s are heavy enough.”
They sat in silence for a time, hands clasped in the familiar comfort of sisterhood that had sustained them through childhood losses and adult disappointments alike.
“Will you stay here tonight?” Jane asked finally. “I could have Simmons prepare your old room.”
Samantha nodded, too emotionally drained to contemplate returning to the townhouse she shared with Ewan. “Just for tonight. I need… space to think.”
“Of course.” Jane rose and moved to the bellpull, then hesitated. “Sam, I don’t presume to know His Grace’s mind, but I’ve seen how he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching. Whatever he said tonight, I cannot believe he meant it.”
“I hope you’re right,” Samantha replied, trying to summon a smile that felt like a grimace. “But hope is a fragile thing, Jane. And mine feels rather battered at present.”
Jane crossed back to place a kiss on her sister’s forehead, a gesture so reminiscent of their mother that fresh tears sprang to Samantha’s eyes. “Rest tonight. Things often appear clearer in the morning light.”
As Jane departed to arrange for her accommodations, Samantha moved to the window, gazing out at the London street below. Somewhere across the city, Ewan was perhaps staring into the darkness as well, as alone in his thoughts as she was in hers.
“Oh, Ewan,” she whispered to the empty air, “why must you believe yourself unworthy of the very happiness you’ve shown me is possible?”
But the night offered no answers, only the distant sounds of carriages and the ache of separation from the man who, despite everything, still held her heart in his keeping.
“Your Grace, the steward awaits your instructions regarding the south pasture,” Hendricks announced from the doorway of the study, his tone carefully neutral despite the growing concern etched in the lines around his eyes.
Ewan did not look up from the ledger before him, the columns of figures blurring into meaningless patterns after hours of scrutiny. “Send him away. I’ll address the matter tomorrow.”
“But Your Grace, Mr. Finchley mentioned it was rather urgent?—”
“Did I not make myself clear?” Ewan snapped, his voice cutting through the quiet of the room like steel against stone. “I shall attend to it tomorrow.”
The butler bowed stiffly. “As you please, Your Grace.”
As the door closed with deliberate softness, Ewan pushed away from his desk with such force that his chair scraped harshly against the polished floor. Three days had passed since Samantha had departed for her uncle’s townhouse—three interminable days that had stretched into a lifetime of sleepless nights and hollow days.
He moved to the window, staring unseeing at the manicured gardens below. In the east beds, Samantha’s roses had bloomedin a riot of crimson, their beauty a mocking reminder of her absence.
The knock that interrupted his brooding was less deferential than Hendricks’—a sharp, insistent rapping that could only belong to one person.
“Go away, Percy,” he called without turning.
The door opened regardless, his nephew’s lanky form appearing in the reflection of the window glass. “Uncle, you cannot continue like this. You’ve barely eaten since?—”
“I don’t recall asking for your assessment of my habits.” Ewan turned, fixing Percy with a glare that would have withered a less determined man. “Don’t you have some verse to compose? Some innocent debutante to terrorize with your metaphors?”
Percy flinched but stood his ground. “Actually, I was planning to attend Miss Waverly’s musical evening. She specifically mentioned hoping you and Aunt Samantha might?—”
