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“Do you miss them very much?” Tristan asked, gesturing toward the gravestone. “Is that why you went away to war?”

Again, that disarming directness.

“I suppose I did,” Victor replied solemnly. “The house seemed… too empty. And there was a demand for men to serve.”

Tristan nodded sagely, as though Victor had confirmed some private theory. “When my father died, I wasn’t sad.” He kicked at a tuft of grass, not meeting Victor’s eyes. “Is that wicked of me?”

Victor hesitated. The late Earl’s reputation had preceded him—a man of dissolute habits and violent disposition. A man who had treated his wife with callous indifference at best and cruelty at worst, before his death.

The knowledge that Emma had endured such a marriage, that this bright-eyed child had witnessed his mother’s suffering, kindled a familiar rage within Victor’s chest.

“No,” he said firmly. “It is not wicked to withhold grief from those who have not earned it.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by Ares’s occasional snort as he grazed on the lush grass at the perimeter of the burial ground.

“You know,” Tristan said abruptly, his expression brightening, “it’s very sad what happened to your family. But at least you have me and Mama now.”

The words, delivered with such innocent certainty, struck Victor with the force of a physical blow. The boy’s transparent hope—his unguarded affection—laid bare the precarious nature of the path Victor had allowed himself to tread.

He had inserted himself into the lives of this woman and her son, had permitted himself to imagine a future that included them. A domesticity he had once scorned now beckoned with cruel allure.

“I suppose I do,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “But we must return you to Cuthbert Hall. Your mother will be concerned.”

The boy nodded. “I’m sorry for taking Caesar without permission, Your Grace,” he said stiffly.

“I am not the one you should be apologizing to,” Victor replied, leading the way back to where the horse waited.

Tristan nodded in defeat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said in a small voice. “I will apologize to Mama as soon as I return home.”

Victor nodded once. “I trust you understand the potential dangers of this enterprise and will not do it again.”

“I won’t, Your Grace.”

CHAPTER25

“Iconfess myself astonished to find Your Grace in attendance,” came a voice at Victor’s elbow.

The Swinton ballroom glittered with an ostentatious display of wealth, its chandeliers casting prismatic light on the assembledcrème de la crème.

The Duchess of Swinton’s annual charity ball was renowned as much for its exclusivity as for the ostensible charitable purpose that justified the gathering. Attendance was non-negotiable for those wishing to maintain their social standing—a fact that Victor acknowledged with grim resignation as he accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman.

He turned to find Miss Annabelle Lytton regarding him with shrewd eyes.

“I had begun to wonder if you had retired permanently to that mausoleum you call a residence,” she told him.

“Miss Lytton,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “The Duchess was most insistent.”

“As well she might be, given that your contribution to the orphanage fund last year exceeded that of all other donors combined.” She sipped her champagne, her gaze never leaving his face. “Though I suspect your generosity had less to do with concern for orphaned children and more to do with a desire to silence any further entreaties for your participation.”

Despite himself, Victor felt his mouth twitch into a smile. Miss Lytton’s directness was refreshing in contrast to the ton’s typical elegant evasion.

“You impugn my charitable nature, Miss Lytton.”

“No,” she corrected, “I merely recognize a strategic deployment of resources when I see one. A quality you share with my dear friend as it happens.” Her gaze shifted meaningfully toward Emma.

Emma.

Here she was, across the crowded room, a vision in deep sapphire silk that accentuated her creamy skin.