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Emma drew in a deep, steadying breath, fixing her gaze determinedly on a distant oak tree. “Perhaps you might—that is, would you be so kind as to?—”

“Put on some clothes?” he said a little too easily, as if he was enjoying her discomfort.

She could hear the rustle of fabric being retrieved from the grass.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she returned, striving for dignity despite the circumstances.

Several moments of fabric-shifting sounds followed, punctuated by what might have been a suppressed chuckle.

“You may turn around now, Lady Cuthbert. I am decent, by conventional standards,” the Duke drawled.

Emma turned cautiously, only to find that ‘decent’ was a relative term. The Duke had indeed donned clothing—linen trousers and a white shirt that, due to his still-damp skin, clung to his form with revealing transparency. The effect was, in some ways, more disconcerting than complete nudity had been. Now, she could see the lines of muscle beneath the fabric, like a classical statue partially draped for modesty—yet it had precisely the opposite effect.

“You were saying?” he prompted, his eyebrow rising slightly as her gaze involuntarily traced the visible outline of the clear-cut blocks of his abdomen before she gave herself a shake.

“Yes,” Emma said, forcing herself to meet his eyes rather than allow her gaze to wander to more dangerous territory. “I came to discuss my son.”

Victor leaned casually against the trunk of a nearby willow, crossing his arms over his chest in a manner that did nothing to reduce the alarming impact of his presence.

“It seems you discuss your son with me more than you do with his own family, Lady Cuthbert,” he said, his tone dry.

Emma’s cheeks flamed, and although she couldn’t be quite certain, she thought she saw those icy blue eyes flare with heat.

“I—” she started, but the Duke was by no means done.

“Young Tristan seems to have developed a fascination with my dog and my shooting abilities. In that order. A boy of discerning taste, though perhaps lacking in judgment regarding appropriate boundaries,” he finished.

Her temper flared.

“That,” Emma said, latching onto this opening, “is precisely my concern. Tristan has been most… impressed by your intervention yesterday. He spoke of little else throughout the journey home.”

“I take it you did not come here to congratulate me for that, did you?” Victor observed, his tone neutral, lazy, though his eyes were sharp with interest.

Emma lifted her chin, drawing upon the reserve of maternal courage that had propelled her to this confrontation in the first place. She obviously needed it in spades.

“You are correct. I would prefer that you keep your distance from my son, Your Grace,” she said.

The Beast of Westmere cocked an eyebrow. “I assure you, Lady Cuthbert, I am making every effort to do so,” he replied dryly. “Your son, however, appears to have different ideas on the matter.”

“Then I suggest you tryharder,” Emma urged, the edge in her voice betraying her discomfort. “Yesterday’s incident during the hunt?—”

“Would you rather I left him to wander in unfamiliar woodland?” Victor interrupted, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice. “There were sixteen armed men of varying degrees of sobriety and competence stalking game in those trees. Perhaps you considerthata safer environment than my company?”

Emma felt her cheeks flush with a mixture of frustration and the uncomfortable realization that his point was not entirely without merit.

“Of course, I appreciate that you returned him safely,” she conceded. “But there is no need to encourage his… interest in your company. I would prefer Tristan not grow accustomed to spending time with—” She broke off, suddenly aware of the potential insult contained in what she had been about to say.

“With what? Someone like me?” Victor finished for her, his voice dropping to a lower register that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

His expression darkened as he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them with deliberate intent.

“And what, pray tell, do you know of me, My Lady? Of what I am?”

The question hung in the air between them, charged with an intensity that made Emma acutely aware of her heart’s rapid beating against her ribs. And she knew precisely what he was referring to—the whispers that followed him, the speculation about his scarred visage, the rumors of violence and instability that had earned him the moniker ‘the Beast of Westmere.’

Yet, standing before him now, close enough to see the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, Emma found she could not voice those accusations.

“I know enough,” she replied finally, her voice steadier than she felt. “And my decision stands. You will stay away from my son. I’ll make sure of it.”