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Her aunt no doubt sensed her inner battle because she turned to face her, her eyes sharpening with sudden scrutiny.

“So why did you leave early?” she asked.

Emma opened her mouth to reply, but her aunt’s keen gaze stayed her tongue.

“And do not say you were coming after me. You look rather disheveled, my dear.”

Oh dear. Was it that obvious? She’d thought she’d done a good job of fixing her appearance.

“Did something occur?”

Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks and busied herself with rearranging the bedcovers. “Nothing of significance. I merely found the crush overwhelming for a moment after your departure and sought some air in the gardens.”

“Alone?” Joanna asked, with the piercing insight that had characterized their relationship since Emma was but a tween.

Emma hesitated, torn between her habitual discretion and the longing to confide in someone about the tumultuous feelings Victor had awakened. And who better to speak to about this other than her aunt? Joanna was a brilliant woman who would no doubt have some good advice for her.

“The Duke of Westmere was also taking the air,” she admitted finally, her voice barely audible.

“The Duke?” Joanna sat upright, her fatigue temporarily forgotten. “Emma, you must tell me everything immediately.”

“There is precious little to tell,” Emma prevaricated, though the lingering sensation of Victor’s mouth against her throat belied her words. “We—We got into a fight in the gardens, and…”

“And…?” Joanna was completely focused on her now, and Emma fought the urge to squirm under the attention.

She quickly recognized the futility of trying to hide anything, however. Her aunt was much like Annabelle in that regard.

“There was… an encounter of a somewhat improper nature,” she conceded, unable to meet her aunt’s gaze. “A momentary lapse in judgment that cannot—no, thatmustnot be repeated.”

“Improper?” Joanna echoed.

Oh, she was very interested, indeed. So much so that she’d even forgotten her own woes. “Emma, my dear, do you mean to say that the Duke of Westmere… made advances on you?”

“It was mutual folly,” Emma corrected, rising to pace the small confines of the bedchamber. “An impulse born of… I know not what. But it signifies nothing. The Duke does not seem like a man who forms attachments, and… and I have Tristan to consider. The entire episode is best forgotten.”

Yes. It was best to forget it ever happened in the first place. It was best not to dwell on the fact that the beastly Duke of Westmere had given her her first orgasm in years.

Joanna studied her niece’s flushed countenance. “You care for him,” she observed quietly. “Beyond mere physical attraction.”

Emma went still, her heart pounding with an intensity that terrified her, truly.

“That…” She cleared her throat. “That cannot be true, Joanna.” She tried to sound as stern as she possibly could. “I couldn’t possibly be that much of an idiot. Care for him? No. I merely appreciate him for… for all the attention he shows Tristan. He’s far too kind to the boy.”

“Hm…” Joanna considered. “And what about the attention he shows you?”

Emma’s cheeks flushed a deeper red. “I do not possibly know what you mean, Joanna,” she said stubbornly. “That grouchy beast paying me any attention? I suspect it’s nothing more than a fleeting amusement on his part.”

“Perhaps,” Joanna conceded, but her expression remained thoughtful. “Though I have noticed how he looks at you when he believes no one is watching. There is genuine regard there, Emma.”

But Emma shook her head. “We shall speak no more of it. Tonight is for your comfort, not my confused sentiments.”

Joanna relented, and Emma grabbed a coverlet from the nearby chaise longue and tucked it around her shoulders. “Will you stay?”

“Of course,” Emma agreed, grateful for the change of subject. “I’ll send word to Cuthbert Hall that I’ll return in the morning.”

“And what about Tristan?”

Emma’s heart squeezed at the mention of her son. “He will be fine. He should be asleep by now.”