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“Yes, Mama, please try!” Tristan urged, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “It’s tremendous fun!”

Emma hesitated, torn between propriety and her son’s eager face. The memory of Lord Cuthbert’s cutting remarks about a woman’s proper place warred with her desire to share in her son’s joy.

“I suppose one attempt wouldn’t be completely scandalous.”

She approached cautiously, accepting the bow Victor offered with fingers that trembled slightly. In an effort to look braver than she felt, she cleared her throat and said, “I warn you, I will be dreadful at this.”

“Stand here,” Victor instructed, his voice low and resonant.

He moved behind her, and she felt her pulse quicken as his arms came around to position hers. His chest was warm against her back, his hands steady as they adjusted her grip on the bow.

“Keep both eyes open,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear and sending a cascade of shivers down her spine. “Draw the string back to your cheek.”

Emma was acutely aware of his proximity, the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to him. Her hands trembled slightly as she drew the bowstring, her senses overwhelmed by his nearness.

“Now,” he said softly, his breath fanning the nape of her neck, forcing her to suppress a shudder, “release.”

The arrow flew, missing the target but not by as much as she’d expected. Emma let out the breath she’d been holding, oddly disappointed at the sudden absence of his warmth as he stepped away.

“Not bad for a first attempt,” he commented, his tone neutral but not unkind.

“You’re being generous, Your Grace,” she replied, remembering how Lord Cuthbert had laughed uproariously at her first attempts at whist, his mockery cutting deep into her confidence.

“I am never generous with praise unless warranted,” Victor stated firmly. “Now, shall we try some basic fencing maneuvers, young man?”

Emma opened her mouth to object but closed it when she saw the anticipation on Tristan’s face.

“Nothing dangerous,” she cautioned instead, her protective instincts warring with her desire to keep that joy on her son’s face.

“Merely form and footwork,” Victor assured her, leading them toward wooden practice foils laid out with meticulous precision.

* * *

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a blur of instruction and laughter—mostly from Tristan, though Emma found herself smiling more freely than she had in years. Victor’s guidance was firm but never harsh, his corrections precise without being demeaning.

As the sun began its descent, casting golden light across the grounds, Tristan’s energy finally showed signs of waning, his movements becoming less sprightly.

“I believe that’s enough for today,” Victor announced, noticing the boy’s slow movements.

“But I’m just getting good at it!” Tristan protested, stifling a yawn that belied his words.

“Which means you’ll be even better next time,” Victor replied. “Excellence requires rest as well as practice.”

They walked together toward where Emma’s carriage waited, Tristan chattering excitedly about what he hoped to learn in their next session, his words tumbling over one another in his eagerness.

“And might we try riding again soon? Or perhaps fishing? I remember you have a lake, Your Grace! With actual fish!”

Victor’s gaze flicked to Emma’s, a knowing gleam in his eyes that set her heart pounding against her ribs.

“I have both a lake and fish, indeed,” he confirmed gravely, the subtle emphasis onlakeunmistakable to her ears alone. “Though catching them requires considerably more patience than what you’ve demonstrated today.”

Emma felt heat surge to her cheeks, remembering all too well her paintings of his lake that looked very much like his eyes—and more disturbingly, their kiss by those very waters, his arms strong around her, his lips unexpectedly gentle. She looked away quickly, mortified that he could so easily read her thoughts.

“I can be patient!” Tristan insisted indignantly, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between the adults.

As they reached the carriage, Emma found herself reluctant to leave, the afternoon having passed with surprising swiftness.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Victor while Tristan clambered inside, still chattering about fish and arrows and swords. “He’s had a wonderful afternoon.”