Page 47

Tristan nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I suppose I should be returning home now.” His eyes, however, were mournful. “Thank you for the lesson, Your Grace. I’ve learned more today than in all my sessions with my riding instructor!”

After they dismounted and handed the horses to the stable hand, Tristan suddenly threw his arms around Victor’s waist in a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Victor froze, his arms suspended awkwardly at his sides, his heart thundering in his chest and ears. How long had it been since anyone had embraced him with such uncomplicated affection? The sensation was foreign, unsettling, yet somehow… necessary.

Oh, how was he to react to this? However, before he could decide whether to return the gesture, the child released him, rushing over to give Argus a farewell pat.

“Goodbye, Argus! Goodbye, Your Grace! I’ll try to practice my riding form every day! I’ll become as good as you! You’ll see!”

And then he was gone, racing down the path toward home, leaving Victor standing in the stable yard with the peculiar sensation that something in his carefully ordered world had irrevocably shifted.

Damn it.

* * *

“No, no, the light isn’t right at all,” Emma muttered to herself, dabbing at the canvas with growing frustration.

The lake in her painting remained stubbornly flat, lacking the glow she sought to capture.

The summer heat pressed against Cuthbert Hall like a physical presence, turning her studio into something approximating a baker’s oven by midday.

Emma had discarded her usual high-neck dress hours ago, replacing it with a simple muslin frock that left her arms bare beneath her paint-splattered apron. Her hair, hastily pinned up, had begun to escape its confines, tendrils curling at her temples and neck, where perspiration gathered.

She stepped back, tilting her head to assess her work. Still not right. The water needed to reflect something more, something elusive that hovered just beyond her grasp. Something like the shifting moods in a certain duke’s eyes…

A sharp knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called absently, her attention still focused on the canvas as she mixed a new shade of blue.

“The Duke of Westmere, My Lady,” Mr. Frederick announced with stiff formality.

Emma’s head snapped up, but before she could respond—before she could even process the words—a tall figure strode past her butler and into her private sanctuary.

The paintbrush slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor and spattering droplets of cerulean across the worn boards.

The Duke stood before her, larger than life and entirely out of place among her easels and half-finished canvases. His presence seemed to shrink the room, making her acutely aware of its cluttered intimacy and of the personal nature of the art displayed on every wall.

“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice higher than usual. “This is… unexpected.”

Mr. Frederick moved to retrieve the fallen brush, but Emma waved him away. “Leave us, please.”

The butler’s disapproving look made it clear that he considered this highly improper, but he bowed stiffly and withdrew, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.

Emma bent to clean up the paint spill, grateful for the moment to compose herself.

“To what do I owe this intrusion, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her tone carefully neutral.

The Duke did not reply. Instead, he moved slowly around her studio, his gaze traveling over each canvas, each sketch. His attention lingered on the series of lake scenes that dominated one wall. Something in his expression shifted, a barely perceptible softening around his eyes followed by a flash of heat as realization dawned on him.

“Little temptress,” he whispered so softly that Emma almost missed it.

“Pardon me?” she asked, bewildered by both his words and the sudden intensity in his gaze as it returned to her.

He didn’t elaborate, merely continued his inspection with a new awareness in his bearing—shoulders slightly more relaxed, head tilted in consideration as he studied each rendition of water and sky. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, a secret amusement playing across his features.

“Did you hear me, Your Grace?” Emma pressed, rising with the soiled brush clutched in her hand. “What are you doing here?”