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He clenched his jaw, willing his awareness of this woman to be gone at once. There was nothing more despicable than reacting so wantonly to another man’s widow, and even though Victor considered himself to be quite the despicable bastard, he did not think he was that despicable.

It is nothing. Probably just because she is the first woman I have seen in a long while.

Yes, that had to be the reason, no matter how slimy it made him feel to think it.

Her voice dragged him back out of his head, and he was grateful for the distraction.

“My son is a very curious boy,” she started to say, but he could not help but focus on the way her mouth shaped the words oh so delicately.

It was ironic that he was grateful to be distracted by the very distraction itself.

“Yes, and I’ve been coming here for a week now!” Tristan chimed in eagerly, as though he could not bear to be left out of the conversation, oblivious to the tension in the air. “I found the dog near the boundary weeks ago.”

Victor wondered whether the boy was just eager to show off his conversational skills—because those words were ones he shouldn’t have uttered, even on pain of death. Even he knew that much.

Maybe the boy had that realization as soon as he looked into Victor’s eyes, but it was far too late to take the words back now.

Lady Cuthbert’s expression had already shifted into one of horrified realization.

He watched the silent look that passed between mother and son with detached interest. The boy would be in for a thorough scolding when they returned home—that much was evident.

“A week, you say?” Victor scoffed, his voice a rumble in his chest. He was quickly nearing the end of his patience for conversation. But now, he faced the boy directly again. “And your mother had no idea where you were during these… outings of yours?”

He said the last bit with his eyes locked onto hers.

He saw the way she stiffened at the implication of his words.

Don’t. Don’t think about it, he told himself, wrenching his wandering thoughts from that familiar dark path that led to nowhere good.

“No, I did not tell her,” the boy confessed, his enthusiastic tone dropping as shame set in.

Yes, Victor thought, he ought to be ashamed of himself.

“Mama… Mama wouldn’t have let me.”

“Of course not!” she snapped, before quickly regaining her composure.

Victor watched her assemble that composure like armor, piece by piece.

“Your Grace, I sincerely apologize for my son’s behavior. I assure you that it will not happen again.”

Victor was not sure if she could feel his gaze pressing down on her, heavy and scrutinizing, but it seemed she was all too aware of how disheveled she looked.

Her hair was coming undone, as well as the sleeve of her dress—however short.

Still, she held her ground, refusing to look away or show vulnerability in front of him, even though her hands trembled at her sides.

She was small—compared to his sheer bulk, of course—with her head barely reaching his shoulders, but she did not balk at his looming presence. No, she stared him down with the grit of a soldier ready to battle.

He supposed he could at least respect that grit of hers. She cared for her son, indeed.

“I commend your bravery, Lady Cuthbert. You’ve had quite the adventure this evening,” he remarked, his voice dropping even further, becoming even stiffer.

He wanted nothing more than to return to the quiet of his cottage now.

“But you ought to watch your child more closely,” he could not help but advise, even though he knew he was probably overstepping his bounds. “He might wander off somewhere from whence he would not return.”

Ah, he thought, that sounds like a threat.

And it was clear that the lady thought so as well because her fair features scrunched up into a protective fury.

“My son,” she shot back, “is the most important thing in my life. I would brave far more dangerous places than your garden to keep him safe.”

The implications of her words hung between them like a pointed knife waiting to drop—except that it already had: she saw him as a threat to navigate around, a dangerous beast to survive.

The implied insult should have angered him, but he found himself oddly amused.

“Then it would be far better to keep him far away from danger in the first place. Leave,” he said sharply, more of a command than a suggestion. “Take your son and go.”

The lady did not need to be told twice. She grabbed her boy’s hand with urgency and turned sharply around, motioning toward the gate with dignity.

But just as they were about to move forward, Argus—that blasted dog—trotted back over to them, nuzzling the boy’s leg in a way that sparked a sense of irrational betrayal in Victor.

Goddamn beast. I should feed him to the foxes.

The boy immediately smiled, his small hand gently stroking the dog’s head with open affection.

“Goodbye, good boy,” he whispered, his tone wistful as they left. “I don’t think I’ll be able to bring you any more chicken.”

“Argus,” Victor ordered, his voice slicing through the moment like a knife. “Come here.”

Argus glanced up at him with sad eyes but did not disobey his command, and made his way back to Victor’s side.

“No more accepting food from strangers and leading them here.”