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The Duke exhaled sharply—not quite a sigh but a sound that suggested resignation.

“Take your son and go, Lady Cuthbert. The hour grows late, and neither of us wishes to explain to the local gossips why you frequent my gardens after nightfall.”

The implication of his words sent a fresh wave of indignation through Emma.

How… how dare he even imply such a thing?

Ha! As if I would ever have a tryst with a brute like you!

Oh, the words hung on the tip of her tongue, ready to shoot out of her mouth in the heat of her passion, but that was before she noticed the flicker of amusement slithering in the windows of his eyes.

He seemed to be enjoying this. Was he trying to get a rise out of her? For what purpose?

But she recognized the wisdom in a strategic retreat. With as much dignity as she could muster, even as her cheeks burned hot, she placed a firm hand on Tristan’s shoulder.

“Come, Tristan. We’ve imposed upon His Grace’s hospitality quite enough,” she said, barely reining in the urge to lash out at her son.

Tristan’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but he offered no further protest. The boy had caused enough trouble to last three lifetimes. At this point, she was quite certain he’d knocked five years off her life already.

She wasn’t sure she was going to survive this year at this rate.

As Emma guided him toward the garden gate, Tristan turned back to wave at the enormous dog, who watched their departure with evident disappointment.

“Goodbye, Argus,” he called softly. “Next time, I’ll teach you to roll over.”

Emma quickened their pace, not daring to look back to see the Duke’s reaction to her son’s presumption of a ‘next time’ that would never come—not if she had any say in the matter.

* * *

“Checkmate in three moves, I believe.”

Victor looked at the chessboard with a calmness that masked the intricate strategies at play. The ivory pieces glimmered in the warm firelight, casting long shadows over the polished mahogany surface.

He picked up his glass of brandy, letting the rich, smoky flavor linger on his palate before swallowing, relishing the familiar burn as it slid down his throat.

Across from him sat Nathaniel Godric, the Marquess of Knightley, his closest friend in his very solitary life—and a constant source of annoyance even now—who was studying the chessboard with exaggerated focus, his brow creased in mock despair.

Sometimes, Victor grew weary of the Marquess’s mischief.

This was one of those times.

The drawing room of Knightley Hall wrapped them in a simple yet comfortable atmosphere—leather-bound books lined the walnut shelves, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and spirits, and the crackling fire cast playful patterns of light and shadow on the wood-paneled walls.

“Damnation,” Nathaniel grumbled, raking a hand through his already tousled auburn hair. “I really thought I had you this time.”

Victor merely nodded, albeit absentmindedly, his thoughts drifting back to the earlier encounter in his garden.

Those wide, defiant eyes the color of honey, the protective stance of a mother shielding her child that never failed to trigger memories he would very much prefer to forget. The boy, who had somehow managed to win over Argus, a creature known for being picky about who he tolerated.

The Dowager Countess of Cuthbert and her son.

This was the second time in a mere two days. He would not acknowledge the fact that he’d thought of her many more times and for far too long in these two days. Nor would he acknowledge what thoughts of her did to his body.

No. He simply could not.

“You’re being unusually quiet tonight,” Nathaniel remarked, breaking into Victor’s thoughts as he poured himself another glass of brandy. “Usually, you at least let me bask in your triumph after you crush my defenses.”

Victor’s mouth curled into what could almost be called a smile. “Maybe I have grown tired of winning once again.”