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“Allow me,” Victor replied, removing his fine leather gloves and offering them to her with a gallantry that bordered on courtship.

Was he… Could he possibly be flirting with her right now?

“I couldn’t possibly,” Emma protested, her breath catching in her throat. “What of your comfort?”

“I assure you, I am warm enough,” he insisted, his eyes conveying more beyond the simple words.

Emma’s entire face reddened, and she lowered her eyes immediately.

“Are you sure you are all right, My Lady?” The Duke sounded amused, but she could not look up at him.

“Yes, I… I’m all right, Your Grace, thank you.”

She accepted the gloves, the leather still bearing the warmth of his hands as she slipped them on.

They were comically large on her slender fingers, but she found that her heart very much liked it, oddly moved by the intimate loan of a personal article.

“He’s remarkably like you,” Victor observed quietly as they watched Tristan enthusiastically describing the mechanics of the puppet show to her lady’s maid. “The same determined set to his jaw when he’s absorbed in a task.”

“Well, he does look like me,” Emma replied, surprised by the observation.

Victor’s gaze lingered on her face. “And his spirit is unmistakably yours.”

“You speak as though you know me well, Your Grace,” Emma said, attempting to inject a note of lighthearted chiding into her voice.

Maybe she could dissolve this tension between them…

“Not nearly as well as I would like,” he replied, his candor stealing her breath. “I had once believed myself to be a patient man, Lady Cuthbert, but now I cannot fool myself when it comes to you.”

The implications of his statement hung between them, fraught with a possibility that both thrilled and terrified her.

Before she could respond, Tristan had bounded back to them, eagerly describing the fire-eater’s performance and effectively dispelling the moment.

Emma didn’t know whether to be grateful or apprehensive.

As dusk approached, she reluctantly announced they should leave.

“The carriages will be waiting at the eastern edge of the village green,” she reminded Victor. “We shouldn’t keep your driver waiting in the gathering darkness.”

“I shall escort you,” Victor insisted, offering his arm.

Emma hesitated before accepting, acutely aware of her maid and Tristan following several paces behind, the boy chattering excitedly about his victories at the various game booths.

“I must thank you for indulging Tristan today,” she said as they walked, the twilight casting long shadows across the village green. “He has few male influences in his life, and I fear I cannot provide the sort of guidance a growing boy requires in certain matters.”

“He is a credit to your parenting,” Victor replied. “And I have found his company unexpectedly refreshing. You need not worry about it.”

“And what of my company, Your Grace?” Emma asked, the gathering darkness lending her courage she would not have possessed in daylight. Indeed, her heart was pounding erratically in her chest. “Do you find it similarly refreshing?”

With Tristan and the maid now far away, Victor drew to a halt, turning to face her fully. “I find your company addictive, Lady Cuthbert.” His voice, usually gruff and curt, now had a heated edge to it that caused heat to pool in her lower belly. “A dangerous indulgence I find myself increasingly unwilling to let go.”

The naked honesty in his expression stole her breath. This was no practiced gallantry, no empty flattery designed to seduce. This was raw truth—perhaps more than she was ready to acknowledge.

“Your Grace,” she started, her voice trembling. “I don’t think we should?—”

They had nearly reached the carriages when her lady’s maid’s panicked voice cut through the evening air.

“My Lady! Master Tristan… he… he’s gone after a fox into the woods!”