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Her face fell for a moment, but then she sauntered off in search of better opportunities, leaving him alone at the table while Nathaniel headed upstairs with his chosen partner.

At that moment, Victor made two decisions. The first, he stood up and left. And the second… he decided that one reckless kiss by the lake with the Dowager Countess couldn’t—wouldn’t—jeopardize the balance he had fought so hard to maintain.

He would make sure that it didn’t.

CHAPTER12

“You’ve painted another lake,” Tristan said, peering over his mother’s shoulder with open curiosity.

Emma started, her paintbrush slipping against the canvas. She hadn’t heard her son enter her studio.

Glancing down at her work, she was dismayed to find that, indeed, she had painted yet another lake—this one shrouded in the morning mist, the silhouette of a solitary figure standing at its edge.

“I suppose I have,” she said lightly.

She set down her paintbrush, flexing her cramped fingers. How long had she been here, lost in her thoughts—lost in thoughts ofhim?

“That’s the third one this week,” Tristan observed, circling the easel with a critical eye. He pointed toward the corner where several canvases were stacked against the wall. “And those sketches over there—they’re all lakes too.”

Emma followed his gaze to the pile of drawings she’d created over the past few days. Lakes, all of them. Some stormy, some peaceful, but all with the same haunting quality that reminded her of the Duke’s eyes.

“Mama, are you ill?” Tristan asked, his young face scrunched up with concern. “You’ve been acting very strange.”

She couldn’t very well tell her son that it was because she’d nearly let another man—the Beast of Westmere to boot—ravage her by a lake. How uncouth.

“I’m perfectly well,” Emma replied hastily. “Just… exploring a new subject, that’s all.”

“I’m bored,” Tristan announced, mercifully changing the subject. “Let’s go for a ride. The day is fine, and Mr. Fletcher said my horsemanship has improved tremendously! I want to show you.”

Emma smiled at the mention of Tristan’s riding instructor. At least a ride would give her something else to focus on.

“A ride sounds lovely,” she said, already removing her paint-stained apron. Fresh air might clear her head of these persistent thoughts. “But perhaps we should visit the village instead? I need to pick up a few supplies, and we could stop by the confectioner’s if you’d like.”

Tristan’s face lit up at the mention of sweets. “Yes! I’d much prefer that. May I ride Caesar?”

“You may, though I expect you to be careful. Let me change, and we’ll be off in fifteen minutes.”

As Tristan dashed from the studio, Emma cast one final glance at her painting. With a sigh, she covered it with a cloth. Perhaps when she returned, she would see it with fresh eyes—and perhaps those eyes wouldn’t be searching the canvas for glimpses of a man she had no business thinking about.

* * *

The ride to the village was pleasant, the late summer air warm but not stifling. Emma found herself relaxing as they followed the winding country road, bordered by hedgerows dotted with late wildflowers.

A pair of thrushes darted across their path, disappearing into an oak tree whose leaves were just beginning to hint at the coming autumn.

“Mr. Fletcher says I’m a natural horseman,” Tristan announced proudly, sitting tall in his saddle. “He says I have excellent hands—gentle but firm. That’s important, isn’t it, Mama?”

“Very important,” Emma agreed, watching her son with quiet pride. “A horse needs to trust its rider.”

“Like Caesar trusts me.” Tristan patted his mount’s neck affectionately.

The chestnut gelding nickered in response, earning a delighted grin from the boy.

Tristan chatted animatedly about his lessons, the books he was reading, and a frog he’d found in the garden that he was convinced was enchanted.

“It jumped right into my hands, Mama! No ordinary frog would do that,” he insisted, his eyes wide with wonder. “And it had these golden spots on its back—like tiny stars!”

“Perhaps it sensed you were a prince in disguise,” Emma teased, grateful for his chatter.