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“Cruel,” Nathaniel said, though a playful glint danced in his eyes. “Most cruel, indeed. And here I thought our friendship had weathered the storms of war, only to be shattered by your unbearable arrogance at the chessboard.”

The mention of war cast a familiar shadow over Victor’s mind—the ghostly scent of gunpowder and blood, the haunting sounds of cannon fire, and the cries of men.

He pushed those memories aside with practiced ease, choosing instead to focus on the warmth of the fire, the taste of brandy, and the comforting presence of his oldest friend.

“You’re not fully here,” Nathaniel observed, his tone shifting from mock offense to genuine curiosity. “Your thoughts seem to be wandering tonight. Should I dare to hope that some lovely lady has finally breached the fortress you call your heart?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Victor shot back, perhaps a bit too quickly.

But his thoughts betrayed him, drifting back to the Dowager Countess—to the fierce dignity she displayed when facing him despite her evident nervousness, to those bright honey-brown eyes that met his gaze without flinching, and to the slight tremor in her gloved hands that she fought so hard to hide.

Nathaniel leaned in closer, clearly intrigued. “Good heavens, I’m right, am I not? The Beast of Westmere has finally found a beauty to tame him!”

“Your romantic notions are as exaggerated as they are misguided,” Victor drawled, hoping he’d affected the bored tone perfectly, even as he downed his drink in one gulp. “There is no woman.”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, suspicion brewing.

“And yet there’s something,” he pressed, leaning back in his chair like a man who was ready to wait forever for an answer. “Come on, Westmere. We’ve been friends since our days at Eton. I’ve seen you stand your ground against enemy fire without batting an eye. Whatever’s on that sharp mind of yours, you might as well let it out.”

Victor thought about keeping quiet, but he knew it was pointless. Nathaniel had the persistence of a terrier with a favorite toy when he was curious.

“Lady Cuthbert’s son has taken to wandering onto my property,” he finally admitted. “I’ve caught him in my gardens twice now, trying to befriend Argus.”

“Cuthbert’s widow?” Nathaniel’s eyebrows shot up, clearly intrigued. “The one who started that literary society for women? Quite a striking woman if I remember correctly. And you’re saying that her son has been visiting your grounds?”

“Uninvited,” Victor clarified.

“Of course, of course.” Nathaniel nodded eagerly, a hint of suspicion in his tone. “And what about the lady herself? Has she come to fetch her wayward child?”

Victor’s mind drifted to the image of the Dowager Countess standing in his garden at dusk, her chestnut-brown hair escaping its pins in the gentle evening breeze, her eyes blazing with protectiveness as she stood between her son and what she saw as a threat—him.

“Yes,” he said, the word falling like bricks.

“And…?” Nathaniel prompted, clearly wanting more than just a simple answer.

“And nothing. She took the boy and left. Just as you’d expect.”

Nathaniel’s disappointment was evident. “That’s it? No fiery exchange? No dramatic showdown? No…” He waved his glass around. “… moments of unexpected connection?”

Victor leveled his friend with a deadpan stare. He couldn’t believe he was listening to such foolery—it was his misfortune to be stuck with a man such as this.

He did not even think he ought to dignify the man’s words with a response. But then that only seemed to encourage Nathaniel.

“Maybe,” he suggested, his voice carefully casual, “you should think about inviting Lady Cuthbert over to Westmere Hall. Just her, of course, not her son.” He gave a playful wink that instantly reignited Victor’s annoyance.

The little bastard.

“What on earth for?” Victor shot back, his annoyance simmering.

“Well, to chat about the boy’s little escapades, obviously,” Nathaniel replied, feigning innocence. “Or maybe to find some common interests. I hear she’s quite the reader. Your library is impressive. There could be some shared interests to discover.”

Victor scoffed at the idea, but his traitorous mind was already painting a picture of the Dowager Countess browsing his bookshelves, those graceful fingers that trembled in his presence gliding over the spines of his first editions, her lips slightly parted in admiration of some rare book.

And just like that, the image shifted, uninvited, to those same fingers on his skin, those same lips parted in a much more enticing way?—

Christ!

What was withhim? Was he so starved of female attention that even his mind would turn against him like this?