Page 10 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 10

“W hy do we have to be nice to him?” Tristan asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

“It’s complicated, sweetheart,” Emma replied, unsure how to break down the complexities of Sidney’s unwanted attention to a child, even one as perceptive as Tristan.

“The Duke doesn’t look at you like that,” Tristan mused, his brow furrowed in thought.

Before Emma could wrap her head around what her son could possibly mean, a deep voice spoke from behind her, making her whirl around.

“Lady Cuthbert.”

The Duke of Westmere stood a few steps away, his tall figure framed by the late morning sun.

Without even thinking about it, Emma instinctively pulled Tristan closer to her, a protective urge she couldn’t fully explain, especially because Tristan had already told her of the man’s kindness during the hunt.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, her voice surprisingly steady despite the quickening of her heartbeat. “I believe I owe you my thanks for bringing my wayward son back to Lord Griggs’ care.”

Victor’s gaze flicked to Tristan for a moment before settling back on Emma. “Your son showed both initiative and natural instinct,” he said plainly. “With the right guidance, those traits could serve him well. But right now, his enthusiasm is outpacing his judgment—a risky mix in a forest full of armed men.”

Emma blinked, taken aback by his straightforward evaluation, which lacked the condescension she had come to expect from men sharing their thoughts on her parenting.

“He has potential,” Victor said, his straightforward tone softened by a glimmer in his eyes that she found hard to read.

“I—” Emma started, unsure if she should take his words as a critique or something deeper.

But the Duke had already nodded slightly, acknowledging her before he turned and walked toward the manor, his long strides taking him away before she could gather her thoughts.

* * *

“What do you mean, he’s not receiving visitors?” Emma demanded, her gloved hands tightly clasped in front of her as she faced the unyielding butler blocking her way into Westmere Hall. “I’m not here for a social call. I need to speak with the Duke right away.”

There was a surprising firmness to her voice as she addressed the elderly butler who had answered the grand oak door.

She hadn’t slept much the night before, her mind racing with the implications of the Duke’s comments about Tristan’s potential. The more she thought about their brief conversation, the more she felt that a clear boundary needed to be set—for Tristan’s sake and maybe for her peace of mind too.

The butler looked at her with a polite skepticism that only years of service in noble households could cultivate. “His Grace is not receiving visitors at the moment, Lady Cuthbert.”

Emma straightened up, though she still felt small next to the tall, stern servant. “I didn’t ask if he was receiving visitors. I asked if he was at home.”

A flicker of surprise crossed the butler’s weathered face. Clearly, he wasn’t used to such direct challenges to his authority.

“His Grace is indeed on the premises, My Lady,” he admitted after a brief pause. “However, I’ve been instructed not to disturb him during his morning constitutional.”

“I’ll disturb him myself, then,” Emma declared, seizing his momentary confusion to step past him into the marble-floored entrance hall. “Where can I find him?”

The butler blinked, clearly torn between his duty to protect his master’s privacy and his ingrained respect for a genteel lady.

“His Grace is taking the air in the gardens, My Lady,” he finally said, his tone hinting that he was already crafting a mental apology for his employer. “I must advise?—”

“Thank you,” Emma interrupted, already making her way toward what she figured was the back of the house. “I can find my way.”

She brushed past the butler, ignoring his warnings as she navigated the grand residence, her resolve pushing her forward despite the occasional flicker of doubt about whether her impulsive visit was appropriate—or even wise. She was aware that she was being a bit of a burden, but she also knew she wouldn’t find peace until she confronted the Duke.

Her son’s constant chatter about him since they got back from Lord Griggs’ estate only made her more determined. She couldn’t let her son’s obsession with the Duke of Westmere—a man known for his violent and unpredictable nature—grow any stronger.

To her surprise, the house was nothing like the dark, foreboding place she had imagined after looking at it from the outside. Instead, the rooms she caught glimpses of were spacious and filled with warm morning light, the decor tasteful, without being flashy.

At the end of a long hallway, a set of French doors stood ajar, letting in a soft breeze that carried the sweet scent of roses and freshly mowed grass. Emma headed toward this clear exit to the gardens, quickening her pace as she neared her goal.

The corridor led out to a lovely stone terrace, and just beyond it sprawled the southern gardens of Westmere Hall.

She stopped for a moment, taken aback by the stunning beauty that greeted her.

Unlike the perfectly trimmed gardens typical of aristocratic estates, the Duke’s gardens had a more untamed charm—nature seemed to be in charge here. Vibrant flowers flourished alongside fragrant herbs and even a few vegetables, while towering ancient trees cast playful shadows over the winding paths.

What beauty . Such a shame that all of this is wasted on the Duke. I doubt he even cares for it.

In the distance, she spotted the shimmer of water—a small lake whose surface danced gently in the morning wind. With determination burning in her chest, she made her way toward it.

As she reached the lake’s edge, she took a moment to soak in the view—the way the sunlight sparkled on the water, the graceful willow branches dipping toward the surface, and the cheerful calls of birds from a tiny island in the middle of the lake. It was, she had to admit, a scene of remarkable peace.

But that tranquility was abruptly shattered when something disturbed the water’s surface, breaking the calm like a stone through glass.

Emma stood in stunned silence as a figure emerged from the depths, water cascading off broad shoulders as the man waded toward the shore.

The Duke of Westmere surfaced from his morning swim with the effortless grace of a predator in his element—like a mythical water god, completely and utterly… unclothed.

Emma knew she should turn away immediately. Propriety, decency, and her very purpose in coming here all demanded she retreat and await a more appropriate moment to deliver her warnings.

Yet she found herself frozen in place, her mouth falling open in a most unladylike display of shock.

The morning light played across the planes and angles of his body, illuminating a physique unlike any she had ever seen or imagined.

Her late husband, like most gentlemen of his class, had possessed the soft contours of a man whose physical exertions were limited to the occasional riding and lifting of wine glasses. However, she had, of course, seen classical statuary during her limited time in London, so she could say she was no stranger to excellent examples of the male anatomy.

But nothing in her sheltered existence had prepared her for the living reality before her—of a man who appeared to have been carved from marble by a sculptor with an appreciation for classical ideals—the way the powerful breadth of his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the defined musculature of his chest and abdomen, the?—

She wrenched her gaze upward with a gasp, her cheeks burning with mortification.

Even then, she could not help but notice the network of scars that marred his torso—evidence of wounds that would have killed a lesser man. Yet, somehow, these imperfections did not diminish the overwhelming impression of physical power. If anything, they enhanced it, speaking to a capacity for survival that was as intimidating as it was impressive.

“Trespassing again, My Lady?” The Duke’s deep voice held a note of sardonic amusement as he reached the shore, making no move to cover himself. “It appears to run in the family.”

Emma whirled around, presenting her back to him with such haste that she nearly lost her balance.

“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice strangled by embarrassment. “I—that is, I came to discuss an important matter with you.”

“By all means,” he replied, his tone suggesting that he found her discomfort far less catastrophic than she did. “Discuss away.”

Emma drew in a deep, steadying breath, fixing her gaze determinedly on a distant oak tree. “Perhaps you might—that is, would you be so kind as to?—”

“Put on some clothes?” he said a little too easily, as if he was enjoying her discomfort.

She could hear the rustle of fabric being retrieved from the grass.

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she returned, striving for dignity despite the circumstances.

Several moments of fabric-shifting sounds followed, punctuated by what might have been a suppressed chuckle.

“You may turn around now, Lady Cuthbert. I am decent, by conventional standards,” the Duke drawled.

Emma turned cautiously, only to find that ‘decent’ was a relative term. The Duke had indeed donned clothing—linen trousers and a white shirt that, due to his still-damp skin, clung to his form with revealing transparency. The effect was, in some ways, more disconcerting than complete nudity had been. Now, she could see the lines of muscle beneath the fabric, like a classical statue partially draped for modesty—yet it had precisely the opposite effect.

“You were saying?” he prompted, his eyebrow rising slightly as her gaze involuntarily traced the visible outline of the clear-cut blocks of his abdomen before she gave herself a shake.

“Yes,” Emma said, forcing herself to meet his eyes rather than allow her gaze to wander to more dangerous territory. “I came to discuss my son.”

Victor leaned casually against the trunk of a nearby willow, crossing his arms over his chest in a manner that did nothing to reduce the alarming impact of his presence.

“It seems you discuss your son with me more than you do with his own family, Lady Cuthbert,” he said, his tone dry.

Emma’s cheeks flamed, and although she couldn’t be quite certain, she thought she saw those icy blue eyes flare with heat.

“I—” she started, but the Duke was by no means done.

“Young Tristan seems to have developed a fascination with my dog and my shooting abilities. In that order. A boy of discerning taste, though perhaps lacking in judgment regarding appropriate boundaries,” he finished.

Her temper flared.

“That,” Emma said, latching onto this opening, “is precisely my concern. Tristan has been most… impressed by your intervention yesterday. He spoke of little else throughout the journey home.”

“I take it you did not come here to congratulate me for that, did you?” Victor observed, his tone neutral, lazy, though his eyes were sharp with interest.

Emma lifted her chin, drawing upon the reserve of maternal courage that had propelled her to this confrontation in the first place. She obviously needed it in spades.

“You are correct. I would prefer that you keep your distance from my son, Your Grace,” she said.

The Beast of Westmere cocked an eyebrow. “I assure you, Lady Cuthbert, I am making every effort to do so,” he replied dryly. “Your son, however, appears to have different ideas on the matter.”

“Then I suggest you try harder ,” Emma urged, the edge in her voice betraying her discomfort. “Yesterday’s incident during the hunt?—”

“Would you rather I left him to wander in unfamiliar woodland?” Victor interrupted, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice. “There were sixteen armed men of varying degrees of sobriety and competence stalking game in those trees. Perhaps you consider that a safer environment than my company?”

Emma felt her cheeks flush with a mixture of frustration and the uncomfortable realization that his point was not entirely without merit.

“Of course, I appreciate that you returned him safely,” she conceded. “But there is no need to encourage his… interest in your company. I would prefer Tristan not grow accustomed to spending time with—” She broke off, suddenly aware of the potential insult contained in what she had been about to say.

“With what? Someone like me?” Victor finished for her, his voice dropping to a lower register that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

His expression darkened as he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them with deliberate intent.

“And what, pray tell, do you know of me, My Lady? Of what I am?”

The question hung in the air between them, charged with an intensity that made Emma acutely aware of her heart’s rapid beating against her ribs. And she knew precisely what he was referring to—the whispers that followed him, the speculation about his scarred visage, the rumors of violence and instability that had earned him the moniker ‘the Beast of Westmere.’

Yet, standing before him now, close enough to see the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, Emma found she could not voice those accusations.

“I know enough,” she replied finally, her voice steadier than she felt. “And my decision stands. You will stay away from my son. I’ll make sure of it.”