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The other gentlemen in the retinue chuckled politely, but Victor noticed how their eyes darted toward him, debating whether it was safe to laugh in his presence. The ridiculousness of their caution might have been funny if it weren’t so painfully familiar.

“One can’t help but wonder,” said a slender gentleman whose name Victor vaguely remembered as either Wexford or Welford—not that it really mattered to him. “If the Duke finds our little provincial sport to be sufficient entertainment after the, um, more vigorous pursuits of his military career.”

The implication lingered in the air, a thinly disguised jab wrapped in polite conversation. Victor felt that familiar chill wash over him, the calculated detachment that had always served him well on battlefields, both real and social.

“I believe, Sir,” he replied, letting his voice drop to that deep, rumbling tone he knew would enhance the intimidating effect of his scarred face, “that man remains the most dangerous game, no matter the setting.” He leaned in just a bit, taking grim satisfaction in the way the gentleman instinctively pulled back. “Though I must admit, the hunt does stir certain…primalinstincts.”

The reaction was immediate and gratifying. Wexford or Welford—his name hardly mattered, since Victor honestly doubted they would ever speak again—turned a deep shade of crimson, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he struggled to find words.

There were none. None but those threaded with humiliation along their seams.

“I just remembered,” the gentleman finally stammered, “a matter I need to discuss with Lord Griggs before we leave. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

His hasty exit was mirrored by the gradual retreat of the others, their murmured excuses leading them back to the safety of more predictable company.

What a bunch of spineless curs they were.

Victor watched them go with the detached curiosity of a naturalist studying the defensive behaviors of a particularly skittish species.

“Very impressive,” Nathaniel remarked, once they were alone again. “Your growl has definitely improved since our last social gathering. Perhaps next time you could consider showing your teeth? I can only imagine how poor Welford would faint on the spot, sparing his family the hassle of dealing with his rather costly and utterly pointless existence.”

Victor brushed off the jab, his gaze already drawn to a flash of chestnut-brown hair on the terrace.

Once again, his eyes found and stayed on Lady Cuthbert, her stiff posture hinting at a discomfort she couldn’t quite hide. Unable to resist, he followed her line of sight and quickly spotted the source of her unease—Sidney Bickford, the regent to the young Earl of Cuthbert, who seemed to be inching closer to the widow with every passing moment.

Memories of their past encounters flooded his mind—her fierce protectiveness of her son, the way she had faced him head-on despite her clear apprehension, and the subtle tremor in her gloved hands that she had fought so hard to mask. Yet here she was, visibly shaken by the mere presence of her brother-in-law.

In that instant, a wave of anger surged within Victor, igniting a fire in his chest.

And he realized that he wanted to tear the man limb from limb.

Whether it was a feeling that stemmed from his inherent need to protect the vulnerable or from the darker emotion that felt a lot like possessiveness, he didn’t quite know.

“Hmm. Now, that is interesting,” Nathaniel observed, his voice laden with smug amusement, breaking through Victor’s haze.

CHAPTER8

“The formidable Duke of Westmere seems to be locked in a rather intense exchange of glances with Cuthbert’s widow. How utterly fascinating.”

How irritating.

Victor reluctantly tore his gaze away from the Dowager Countess, shooting his friend a glare that spoke volumes.

“Your observations are as unwelcome as they are off the mark,” he growled, adjusting his gloves with a bit more force than necessary.

“Of course, they are,” Nathaniel replied, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Just like it’s pure coincidence that you’ve decided to attend your first social gathering in months, just days after running into the lady in question. Twice, if I remember your reluctant confession correctly.”

Victor snarled then, making a nearby gentleman jump back in surprise, spilling his drink all over his pristine riding coat.

“Your spectacular way with words never ceases to amaze me, dear Westmere.” Nathaniel chuckled. “Tell me, do you practice that particular growl, or does it come naturally? It’s quite effective at parting a crowd.”

Before Victor could come up with a suitably sharp retort, Lord Griggs’ booming voice rang out, cutting through the morning air.

“Gentlemen! To your mounts if you please! We’ve not got all day, and the pheasants are waiting!”

Oh, wonderful. How exciting.

The group sprang into action, servants leading horses forward while the hunting dogs strained against their handlers, barking excitedly and quivering with anticipation.