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Victor sighed and released the boy. “Let us go home now,” he suggested. “Your mother is waiting for?—”

“This stone,” Tristan said, his voice quiet, pointing to the headstone behind him, “it bears your name.”

Victor blinked, his breath stuttering in his chest.

Ah.

He’d hoped they could leave without having to address the obvious.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Tristan looked up at him with earnest eyes. “You had a son?”

And the words were like serrated blades tearing into his heart, past the steel contraption he’d erected around it. The child’s earnestness dredged up emotions that he’d long since buried.

“He would have been seven this year.”

Victor had not intended to speak the words aloud. They escaped unbidden as he stared down at the modest marble headstone, its surface gleaming with a cold purity in the afternoon light.

Caroline Aldridge, wife to Lord Victor Aldridge, and infant son John.

The boy beside him shifted, his small fingers tightening on the reins of his horse, the stallion now docile after the wild gallop that had brought them to this secluded corner of the Westmere estate.

“Your wife’s name was Caroline?” Tristan asked, his voice hushed.

Victor nodded, surprised to find that the usual constriction in his throat had eased somewhat. Perhaps it was the presence of the boy—this child, who had, without permission or precedent, carved a place for himself in Victor’s previously solitary existence.

“She was a good woman,” he said. “Gentle, but also determined. She played the pianoforte exquisitely.”

Tristan took a tentative step closer to the headstone, his brow furrowed in concentration as he processed this information. “And the baby… he was to be called John?”

“Yes. After my grandfather, the fifth Duke.” Victor found himself kneeling to bring himself to eye level with the boy.

A breeze rustled through the copper beech trees that sheltered the small family plot, their leaves casting dappled shadows across the immaculate grass. Victor had instructed his groundskeeper to maintain this section of the estate, though he himself had avoided visiting for years.

“Did you love her very much?” Tristan inquired, his eyes wide with the unabashed curiosity of childhood. “Like in the stories?”

The question caught Victor unawares. He had respected Caroline, certainly. Had admired her grace, her accomplishments, her exemplary breeding. But love? That all-consuming passion described in poetry and plays? He had imagined such sentiments would develop in time, as was often the case in arranged marriages.

“We were very young when we married,” he answered carefully. “It was what was expected of us both.”

Tristan considered this, his expression suggesting he found Victor’s response lacking. “Mama says that some people marry for duty and others marry for love. She says that the best marriages have both.”

Victor’s chest tightened.

Emma.

The thought of her invariably evoked a constellation of responses within him—desire, certainly, but also a profound tenderness that had taken root in the time he’d spent with her so far.

Their clandestine liaison had been born from his inability to stay away from her, and it had only grown deeper as their relationship progressed. He’d believed he could deal with it, but now…

Now, he did not know what he believed any longer.

“Your mother is a wise woman,” he said finally.

“She cries sometimes,” Tristan confided, his voice dropping further. “When she thinks I’m asleep. I think she’s lonely.”

Victor regarded the boy who stood so earnestly before him—this child who bore Emma’s determined chin and quick intelligence.