Page 98 of The Spinster and Her Rakish Duke
The final blow sent Lord Comerford sprawling to the carpet, blood staining his immaculate cravat. He stared up at Ewan with genuine fear now, all pretense abandoned.
“You’re mad,” he whispered. “As mad as your brother was.”
“No,” Ewan replied, straightening his coat with methodical calm. “I am merely a man who has finally recognized what matters most in this world. My family—my wife and my nephew—are not to be threatened, not to be disrespected, not to be approached by the likes of you. Am I perfectly clear?”
The Earl nodded jerkily, one hand pressed to his bleeding lip. “Crystal,” he managed.
“Excellent.” Ewan moved toward the door, pausing only to glance back at the fallen nobleman. “I would suggest a lengthy sojourn to your country estate, Lord Comerford. The air might prove beneficial to your… health.”
He departed as he had arrived, with measured steps and perfect composure, leaving the Earl to contemplate the shattered remnants of his pride amid the broken porcelain on his morning room floor.
Outside, the spring air filled Ewan’s lungs with sweet clarity. For the first time in days—perhaps years, really—his purpose stood sharp and defined before him. The anger that had driven him to Lord Comerford’s door now settled into something calmer, more resolute: determination.
He had protected Percy, avenged the insult to Samantha’s dignity. But those actions, necessary as they were, addressed only the external threats to his happiness. The greater danger—his own fear, his own stubborn refusal to embrace the future Samantha offered—remained to be confronted.
As his carriage carried him back toward Lord Norfeld’s townhouse, Ewan considered the path forward with clear-eyed honesty. He had spent his life in terror of becoming his father, of passing that darkness to the next generation. Yet in that fear, he had nearly destroyed the very thing his father had never possessed: the capacity for true love.
Samantha deserved better than his cowardice. Percy deserved better than a guardian who preached courage while retreating from his own heart. And he—perhaps most surprisingly of all—deserved better than the barren existence he had accepted as his lot.
By the time the carriage slowed before Lord Norfeld’s residence, Ewan had come to a decision that felt like emerging from a long, dark tunnel into sunlight. Whatever the future held, he would face it with Samantha at his side.
If she would still have him.
He would beg on his knees, if that was what it took.
CHAPTER 31
“You’re awake,” Ewan said softly, relief flooding his voice as he entered Percy’s sickroom to find his nephew propped against the pillows, a wan smile brightening his pallid features.
“So it would seem,” Percy replied, his usual dramatic flair diminished but not entirely absent. “Though I confess, I feel as though I’ve been trampled by a particularly enthusiastic herd of cattle.”
Ewan moved to the bedside, noting with satisfaction that while Percy remained alarmingly pale, the unnatural flush of fever had receded. His eyes were clear, lucid, no longer glazed with the terrifying heat that had consumed him through the night.
“Dr. Middleton says you’ll make a full recovery,” Ewan told him, settling into the chair beside the bed. “Though you’ll need to rest for several days. No poetry recitations or theatrical displays until you’ve regained your strength.”
Percy’s smile widened slightly. “You deprive me of my very essence, Uncle. How shall I survive without expressing my artistic soul?”
“With remarkable fortitude, I’m certain.” Ewan reached out, hesitated, then took his nephew’s hand in a brief, firm clasp. “You gave us quite a fright, Percy.”
Something in his tone caused Percy’s expression to sober. “I’m sorry, Uncle. I never meant to?—”
“No,” Ewan interrupted, surprising them both with the vehemence in his voice. “You have nothing to apologize for. The fault was not yours.”
Percy studied him with unexpected perspicacity. “Lord Comerford said terrible things. About our family. About you.”
“And you defended me,” Ewan acknowledged, a peculiar tightness constricting his throat. “At considerable risk to yourself. It was… remarkably brave.”
“Not brave,” Percy protested weakly. “I simply couldn’t bear to hear him speak of you that way. When he compared you to your father…” He trailed off, clearly uncertain whether he had ventured into forbidden territory.
Ewan squeezed his hand once more before releasing it. “My father was not a good man, Percy. Neither was my brother. Buttheir failures need not define our future. I see that now, perhaps more clearly than I ever have.”
Percy’s expression brightened with fragile hope. “Does this mean…?”
“It means many things,” Ewan replied, rising from his chair. “But for now, it means you must rest. We shall discuss philosophy when you’re stronger.”
He was nearly to the door when Percy’s voice stopped him.
“Uncle? Is Aunt Samantha… is she returning home with us?”
