The irony was not lost on him. In his determination to avoid pain, he had inflicted it upon himself more thoroughly than any external force ever could.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Enter,” he called, expecting Hendricks with some household matter requiring his attention.
Instead, Percy stepped into the room, his usual exuberance subdued but determination evident in the set of his shoulders. “Uncle, I wish to speak with you about Aunt Samantha.”
Ewan sighed, too weary to maintain the coldness of recent days. “I thought I made my feelings on that subject clear.”
“Perfectly clear,” Percy agreed, advancing further into the room. “Which is why I feel compelled to disregard them entirely. Uncle, I’m going to call upon her today.”
“Percy—”
“No, Uncle. I have respected your wishes for nearly a week now, watching you grow more miserable by the hour. But I cannot stand by any longer while you destroy your happiness—and hers—through sheer stubbornness.”
The echo of Ralph’s words in his nephew’s speech might have amused Ewan under different circumstances. Now, they only heightened his sense of being besieged on all sides by well-meaning interference.
“This is not a matter for your concern,” he said firmly.
“Isn’t it?” Percy challenged, a flash of genuine anger lighting his usually good-natured features. “Am I not to be your heir? Have you not raised me as your own son these past years? What affects you affects me, Uncle. And what affects Aunt Samantha affects us both.”
Ewan stared at his nephew, momentarily struck speechless by this uncharacteristic display of vehemence.
“She makes you happy,” Percy continued, his voice softening. “Happier than I’ve ever seen you. Whatever has come between you cannot possibly be worth sacrificing that happiness.”
“Some matters are not so easily resolved,” Ewan replied but found his own words empty.
“Perhaps not,” Percy conceded. “But they certainly cannot be resolved while you remain here and she remains at Lord Norfeld’s townhouse, both of you too proud or too afraid to bridge the distance.”
The simple truth of this observation struck Ewan with unexpected force. What had these days of separationaccomplished, beyond deepening the misery for them both? What principle was served by this stubborn adherence to solitude when every fiber of his being longed for her presence?
“Very well,” he said finally. “You may call upon her. Convey my…” He hesitated, uncertain what message could possibly encapsulate the tumult of his feelings. “Convey my regard.”
Percy’s expression reflected clear disappointment at this tepid offering. “Your regard? Uncle, surely you can do better than that.”
Ewan turned back to the window, unable to meet his nephew’s earnest gaze. “It is all I can offer at present.”
Percy’s sigh spoke volumes, but he did not press further. “As you wish. Though I must warn you, I intend to plead your case far more eloquently than you seem inclined to do yourself.”
And even though he did not know what to feel about his nephew’s faith in him, Ewan could not help but hope that it was not in vain.
“Truly, Samantha, you must try some of this excellent lemon cake. Mrs. Winters has outdone herself,” Uncle William urged, pushing the plate toward her with well-meaning insistence. “You’ve scarcely eaten a morsel these past days.”
“Thank you, Uncle, but I find my appetite rather diminished of late,” Samantha replied, forcing a smile that did not reach her eyes. The mere thought of food turned her stomach, though she knew her uncle’s concern was justified. Her gowns had begun to hang loosely about her frame, a fact Jane had noted with alarm just that morning.
“A small piece, then,” he persisted, cutting a sliver so thin it was nearly transparent. “For my peace of mind, if nothing else.”
Unable to deny such gentle concern, Samantha accepted the offering, though each bite tasted like ash upon her tongue. Five days had passed since she had fled to her uncle’s townhouse—five interminable days of carefully composed smiles and rehearsed assurances that she was perfectly well, thank you. Five nights of staring at the darkened ceiling, remembering the warmth of Ewan’s arms and the quiet rumble of his voice in those precious moments before sleep claimed them.
“Perhaps you might accompany me to Lady Belford’s musicale this evening,” Jane suggested, her blue eyes alight with carefully modulated hope. “I hear Miss Thompson is to perform Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’”“
“I fear I would make poor company,” Samantha demurred, setting aside her barely touched cake. “But you must certainly attend. I believe Lord Tenwick mentioned his fondness for Beethoven when last he called.”
Jane’s cheeks colored prettily, though her expression remained concerned. “I cannot bear to leave you alone in such low spirits, Sam.”
“I am not alone,” Samantha pointed out, gesturing to encompass their uncle’s comfortable morning room. “I have Uncle William, an excellent book, and the comforts of home. What more could I require?”
The question hung in the air, its answer unspoken yet painfully evident to all three occupants of the room. What she required—what she longed for with an ache that seemed to permeate her very bones—was a husband who had banished her from his heart as thoroughly as she had once feared.
“A visitor, perhaps?” Uncle William suggested, peering through the window that overlooked the street below. “For unless I am much mistaken, Lord Stonehall’s curricle has just drawn up before our door.”
