Page 51

“Selene is particularly well-suited for ladies. Sensitive but not skittish,” he said.

Emma narrowed her eyes at the unspoken challenge. “I am perfectly capable of riding,” she said, even though she’d never been particularly comfortable on horseback.

There is no need for him to know that.

“Prove it,” the Duke challenged quietly.

So, he truly was challenging her.

Ha!

Irritation flared within her. Determination to shatter his presumptions burned in the pit of her belly.

“Very well,” she returned, her gaze never once leaving his.

The groom brought Selene forward, and Victor dismissed him with a nod.

As Emma prepared to mount, the Duke stepped closer. “Allow me.”

Before she could protest, his big hands were on her waist, lifting her effortlessly into the saddle. The brief contact nearly knocked the breath out of her and sent a jolt of awareness through her. From the momentary tightening of his fingers, she sensed he’d felt it too.

“Thank you,” she managed, clearing her throat and adjusting her riding habit with what dignity she could muster.

“Heels down,” he instructed, his voice rougher than before. “Back straight. Hands lower—yes, like that.”

Tristan beamed at her from atop his gelding. “Look, Mama! We match!”

Despite herself, Emma smiled. “So we do.”

For the next hour, the Duke led them through basic exercises, correcting their form with firm but patient instruction. Emma found herself relaxing incrementally as Selene responded to her commands, moving with fluid grace beneath her.

The Duke was a demanding teacher, but his methods were clear, his expectations consistent.

“Better,” he remarked as Emma successfully guided Selene through a figure eight. “You have a natural balance, but you’ve been taught to ride like a decoration, not a rider.”

“Is that a compliment or criticism, Your Grace?” Emma asked, feeling unexpectedly playful.

A shadow of amusement crossed his face. “An observation.”

“Mama’s doing splendidly, isn’t she?” Tristan called, executing his own maneuver with growing confidence. “Almost as good as me!”

The Duke chuckled at that, the sound rusty as if seldom used. “Your modesty is admirable, young man.”

Emma watched them, something warm and unexpected blooming in her chest. Tristan’s face was alight with pleasure, his usual restless energy channeled into focused attention. And the Duke—the supposedly fearsome Duke of Westmere—was showing patience and gentleness with her son that belied his fearsome reputation.

What was she supposed to believe now?

* * *

When at last the lesson concluded, Tristan dismounted with the Duke’s assistance, vibrating with excitement.

“That was brilliant! When can we come again? Can we practice archery next time? Or play chess? Do you have a chess set made of ivory? I’ve read about those!”

“Tristan,” Emma warned, “mind your manners.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He turned to the Duke with an exaggerated bow. “Thank you very much for the lesson, Your Grace. It was very valuable.”

The Duke’s lips twitched. “You’re welcome. Go see if Mrs. Winters has refreshments ready in the kitchen. Argus will show you the way.”