“I must go,” he said quietly, though each word seemed to scrape his throat raw.
“Go?” she echoed, confusion evident in her tired eyes. “But Percy?—”
“Will recover, as the physician assured us.” He straightened his shoulders, gathering the remnants of his composure around him like armor. “There is something I must attend to.”
“Ewan—” she began, but he had already moved toward the door, unable to trust himself in her presence a moment longer.
“I shall return,” he promised, pausing at the threshold without looking back. “But there are matters that cannot wait.”
Without waiting for her response, he strode from the room, his steps carrying him away from the sanctuary they had briefly created in the midst of crisis, and away from the woman who had shown him, yet again, the depth of the love he had so foolishly rejected.
But he did not intend to walk away from her. Not ever. He had something to handle first.
“Your Grace,” the Earl of Comerford’s butler announced with obvious reluctance, opening the door to the morning room where his master sat. “The Duke of Valemont.”
Ewan stepped into the sunlit chamber, his composure a carefully constructed façade that belied the rage simmering beneath. He had left Samantha and Percy only an hour before, the memory of his nephew’s fevered suffering still fresh in his mind. That wound, that pain, had crystallized his purpose to a razor’s edge.
“Lord Comerford,” he acknowledged coldly, making no move to accept the Earl’s mockingly extended hand.
“Your Grace! What an unexpected pleasure.” The Earl gestured expansively toward a decanter. “Might I offer you some refreshment? Brandy, perhaps, despite the early hour?”
“I did not come for social pleasantries.” Ewan’s gaze fixed on the purpling bruise along Lord Comerford’s jawline where Percy’s fist had connected. “I came to ensure we understand one another perfectly.”
The Earl settled back in his chair, a smirk playing about his lips despite the wariness that flickered in his eyes. “Oh? And what understanding might that be, Valemont?”
Ewan moved further into the room, his steps measured and unhurried. The morning light caught the Earl’s features, illuminating every line of arrogance that Ewan longed to erase with his fists.
“You will never again approach my wife,” he said quietly. “You will never speak her name in public or private company. You will maintain a respectful distance from my nephew at all social gatherings. In fact, should you see either of them enter a room, you would be wise to find the nearest exit.”
Lord Comerford’s laugh held a brittle edge. “My dear Duke, surely you cannot expect to dictate my social interactions? Samantha and I share a history that?—”
“Her Grace,” Ewan corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “is the Duchess of Valemont. And your history with her is precisely why you will heed my words with particular attention.”
“Or what, precisely?” The Earl leaned forward, his posture attempting confidence. “Will you challenge me to a duel? How delightfully archaic.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Ewan replied, moving to examine a porcelain figurine on the mantelpiece with apparent interest. “I am a man of considerable influence, Lord Comerford. My connections extend through Parliament, the banking houses, even the admiralty. I wonder how your sugar plantations in the West Indies would fare should certain questions arise regardingtheir management? Or perhaps your timber concerns in Hampshire might attract unwelcome scrutiny from the Crown?”
The color drained from the Earl’s face. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would,” Ewan assured him, setting the figurine down with careful precision. “I would use every resource at my disposal to dismantle your holdings piece by piece. Your reputation would be in tatters, your credit destroyed, your social standing reduced to ashes. It would be thorough, methodical, and entirely legal.”
“Over a mere social indiscretion?” Lord Comerford scoffed, though his voice lacked conviction. “Come now, Valemont. We both know such threats are beneath a man of your station.”
“What I know,” Ewan replied, “is that you deliberately provoked my nephew, a boy barely nineteen, with calculated malice. That you have repeatedly approached my wife with improper familiarity despite her obvious distaste for your company. That you speak of my family with a disrespect I have tolerated far too long.”
“Your family?” The Earl laughed again, a desperate sound that revealed his growing unease. “Your precious bloodline? We both know what runs in those veins, Valemont. Your father was a monster in ducal clothing. Your brother worse still. And you?—”
Ewan moved with a swiftness that belied his aristocratic bearing. His fist connected with the Earl’s jaw with precision, the impact driving the other man backward into an ornate side table. The crash of falling porcelain punctuated his startled cry.
“That,” Ewan said calmly, “was for mentioning my father.”
Lord Comerford struggled to regain his footing, one hand raised in feeble defense. “You’ve lost your mind! I’ll have you?—”
The second blow caught him in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a painful wheeze. “That was for my nephew, Lord Stonehall.”
The Earl doubled over, gasping for breath, his earlier bravado entirely evaporated. Ewan grasped him by the lapels, hauling him upright with a strength honed by years of physical exertion rather than indolent luxury.
“And this,” he said softly, “is for Samantha Wildingham.My wife. And the next time you call her by her given name, I will break your neck.”
