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Blast it.

“Perhaps your training methods would be more successful than mine,” Victor added, willing himself to steer clear of any thoughts about the boy’s infuriatingly distracting mother.

“Your mother…” He cursed his mouth inwardly for not listening to his mind and keeping thoughts ofherat bay. “She must be worried about you going out on today’s hunt.”

“Mama worries about everything,” the boy admitted a little too cheerfully. “But I promised her I’d be careful! I need to learn these things, since I’m the Earl.”

“What a sense of responsibility for one so young,” Victor said to himself, keeping his expression neutral though his eyes couldn’t help but lock onto the boy again. “And does your uncle feel the same way about your education?”

“Lord Sidney?” Tristan’s expression soured almost instantaneously. “He doesn’t care what I do. Well, unless it makes him look good in front of his friends. He says he’s just taking care of my title until I come of age.”

The boy’s blunt honesty—delivered with a clarity that children his age did not usually possess—made Victor’s jaw tighten for a moment.

“I see,” he replied, though those two simple words hinted that he understood much more than Tristan had said.

And he did. He just did not have the energy to delve into it.

“Did you go hunting with your father when you were my age?” Tristan asked, a hint of longing in his voice.

Victor’s grip on his horse’s reins faltered just a bit before he resumed his steady pace. A shadow flashed across his scarred features, but he was quick to rein it in.

“That’s a story for another time,” he said after a brief pause.

That did not deter the child, though.

“My father never took me hunting,” Tristan murmured, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Mother says he was always busy with important things. Well, I was also quite small when he died, but I think he just didn’t want to deal with me. I wish?—”

Victor suddenly raised his hand in a silencing gesture, stopping their progress with a sharp movement.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, his entire demeanor shifting to one of heightened alertness.

Tristan froze instantly, his eyes widening as he followed the Duke’s lead.

There, tucked away among a bunch of low bushes, was a pheasant, its shimmering feathers glinting in the dappled sunlight as it cautiously pecked at the ground.

With slow, careful movements, Victor lifted his rifle, the action so fluid it looked as though he was merely breathing. He could feel the boy’s eyes on him, no doubt in awe, as he raised a hand to cover his mouth, afraid that even the slightest sound might scare away their target.

Victor was completely focused, his scarred face etched with lines of intense concentration as he aimed down the barrel.

The shot shattered the quiet of the woodland like a clap of thunder, sending birds soaring from nearby trees in a flurry of panic.

The pheasant fell instantly, a clean drop with no struggle—the mark of a shot executed with perfect precision.

“That was incredible!” Tristan burst out, instantly forgetting all about being quiet as excitement bubbled up inside him. “Right through the head! I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that! Not even Lord Griggs—and everyone says he’s the best shot in the county!”

Victor lowered his rifle, grunting as he did. “The meat gets ruined if you hit the body,” he said matter-of-factly. “A headshot is practical.”

With swift, practiced movements, he gathered the fallen bird and tucked it into his game bag, then turned back toward the hunting party, which had drawn nearer during their conversation.

“Now, follow me, boy,” he instructed. “Lord Griggs will be wondering where you’ve wandered off to, and if he sees you with me, he’ll believe that I led you astray.”

“You’re not leading me astray,” Tristan replied earnestly, matching his pace. “That’s when you do bad things on purpose. You’re just helping me get back to where I’m supposed to be.”

Victor glanced down at the boy, and for a fleeting moment, a genuine smile flickered across his lips—brief and rusty from lack of use but definitely there.

“Your point is well made,” he conceded. “Though I have a feeling your mother might see things a bit differently.”

Tristan beamed up at him, seemingly unfazed by his fearsome reputation that made grown men steer clear of his path.