Page 12 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)
CHAPTER 12
“Y ou’ve painted another lake,” Tristan said, peering over his mother’s shoulder with open curiosity.
Emma started, her paintbrush slipping against the canvas. She hadn’t heard her son enter her studio.
Glancing down at her work, she was dismayed to find that, indeed, she had painted yet another lake—this one shrouded in the morning mist, the silhouette of a solitary figure standing at its edge.
“I suppose I have,” she said lightly.
She set down her paintbrush, flexing her cramped fingers. How long had she been here, lost in her thoughts—lost in thoughts of him ?
“That’s the third one this week,” Tristan observed, circling the easel with a critical eye. He pointed toward the corner where several canvases were stacked against the wall. “And those sketches over there—they’re all lakes too.”
Emma followed his gaze to the pile of drawings she’d created over the past few days. Lakes, all of them. Some stormy, some peaceful, but all with the same haunting quality that reminded her of the Duke’s eyes.
“Mama, are you ill?” Tristan asked, his young face scrunched up with concern. “You’ve been acting very strange.”
She couldn’t very well tell her son that it was because she’d nearly let another man—the Beast of Westmere to boot—ravage her by a lake. How uncouth.
“I’m perfectly well,” Emma replied hastily. “Just… exploring a new subject, that’s all.”
“I’m bored,” Tristan announced, mercifully changing the subject. “Let’s go for a ride. The day is fine, and Mr. Fletcher said my horsemanship has improved tremendously! I want to show you.”
Emma smiled at the mention of Tristan’s riding instructor. At least a ride would give her something else to focus on.
“A ride sounds lovely,” she said, already removing her paint-stained apron. Fresh air might clear her head of these persistent thoughts. “But perhaps we should visit the village instead? I need to pick up a few supplies, and we could stop by the confectioner’s if you’d like.”
Tristan’s face lit up at the mention of sweets. “Yes! I’d much prefer that. May I ride Caesar?”
“You may, though I expect you to be careful. Let me change, and we’ll be off in fifteen minutes.”
As Tristan dashed from the studio, Emma cast one final glance at her painting. With a sigh, she covered it with a cloth. Perhaps when she returned, she would see it with fresh eyes—and perhaps those eyes wouldn’t be searching the canvas for glimpses of a man she had no business thinking about.
* * *
The ride to the village was pleasant, the late summer air warm but not stifling. Emma found herself relaxing as they followed the winding country road, bordered by hedgerows dotted with late wildflowers.
A pair of thrushes darted across their path, disappearing into an oak tree whose leaves were just beginning to hint at the coming autumn.
“Mr. Fletcher says I’m a natural horseman,” Tristan announced proudly, sitting tall in his saddle. “He says I have excellent hands—gentle but firm. That’s important, isn’t it, Mama?”
“Very important,” Emma agreed, watching her son with quiet pride. “A horse needs to trust its rider.”
“Like Caesar trusts me.” Tristan patted his mount’s neck affectionately.
The chestnut gelding nickered in response, earning a delighted grin from the boy.
Tristan chatted animatedly about his lessons, the books he was reading, and a frog he’d found in the garden that he was convinced was enchanted.
“It jumped right into my hands, Mama! No ordinary frog would do that,” he insisted, his eyes wide with wonder. “And it had these golden spots on its back—like tiny stars!”
“Perhaps it sensed you were a prince in disguise,” Emma teased, grateful for his chatter.
It left little room for her thoughts to wander down dangerous paths—paths that inevitably led to a pair of stormy blue eyes and a voice that seemed to reverberate in her very bones.
“Do you think I could be? A prince, I mean,” Tristan asked, his expression suddenly serious as he considered the possibility. “Perhaps Father was secretly royalty, and no one ever told us!”
Emma laughed despite herself, the sound carrying across the meadow they were passing. “You’re certainly regal enough to be one. And stubborn enough too. But I’m afraid your father was simply Lord Cuthbert—a respectable earl but no royal.”
“Well, I think having a manor is nearly as good as being royalty,” Tristan declared after a moment’s consideration. “And we have Mrs. Higgins, who makes the best apple tarts in all of England! I don’t suppose princes get apple tarts as good as hers.”
“A very astute observation,” Emma agreed solemnly, though her eyes danced with amusement. “We are fortunate, indeed.”
They arrived at the village square, which was bustling with late-morning activity. Tristan dismounted with newfound grace, and they walked their horses to the hitching post by the fountain.
“Lady Cuthbert! Young Master Tristan!” called a familiar voice.
Emma turned to see Lady Oakley approaching with her maid, who was carrying a basket of fresh bread. The scent wafted toward them, making her stomach rumble appreciatively.
“Good morning, Lady Oakley,” she greeted with genuine warmth. “How is Annabelle today?”
“Abed with a summer cold, poor dear. But she’ll rally soon enough—youth has its advantages.” The older woman smiled kindly at Tristan. “And speaking of youth, I was just heading to Mr. Porter’s shop. He’s received a new shipment of honey candies from London. Perhaps Master Tristan would care to accompany an old woman and help her choose the best ones?”
Tristan’s eyes grew round. “May I, Mama? Please?”
Emma hesitated only briefly. Lady Oakley was a trusted friend of the family, and the confectioner’s was just across the square. “Very well, but mind your manners, and don’t impose upon Lady Oakley’s generosity.”
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” Tristan promised solemnly, before his face split into a grin. He offered his arm to Lady Oakley with exaggerated gallantry. “My Lady, shall we?”
Lady Oakley chuckled and accepted his escort. “What a charming young man you’re raising, Lady Cuthbert. We shan’t be long.”
As they departed, Emma found herself momentarily alone—a rare occurrence in her busy life as a mother.
She took a deep breath, savoring the relative quiet. The village square hummed with the gentle bustle of daily life: a farmer haggling good-naturedly with the butcher, two women comparing fabric swatches outside the draper’s shop, the blacksmith’s rhythmic hammering providing a steady backbeat to it all.
It was ordinary. Safe. Predictable. Everything her thoughts had not been these past days.
A flash of familiar blue caught her eye, and she spotted Joanna emerging from the bookshop across the street. Her arms were laden with packages, and she wore the satisfied expression of a woman who had found literary treasures.
With a wave, Emma crossed to meet her.
“Emma! What a lovely surprise,” Joanna greeted, adjusting her spectacles, which had slipped slightly down her nose—a habitual gesture Emma had known since childhood. “I’ve just found the most fascinating new volume on Greek mythology. Mr. Pembroke ordered it for me weeks ago, and it finally arrived from London yesterday. The illustrations alone are worth the cost—they’re done in the classical style but with such vibrant colors! You’d appreciate them, I think, with your artist’s eye.”
“Show me,” Emma said eagerly, following her aunt back into the shop, grateful not only for the distraction but also for the genuine interest that sparked within her.
Art had always been her sanctuary, the place where her mind found peace—at least until recently, when even her paintbrush seemed determined to betray her by creating endless variations of a certain lake.
The interior was cool and quiet, a respite from the summer warmth outside. Shelves of leather-bound books stretched from floor to ceiling, creating intimate alcoves where one could get lost in other worlds, other lives. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that streamed through the tall windows, and the familiar scent of paper, binding glue, and the faint hint of pipe tobacco from Mr. Pembroke’s occasional indulgence calmed Emma’s restless mind.
The shop was her favorite in the village. How many rainy afternoons had she spent curled up in the window seat, devouring tales of adventure, while Joanna discussed literary merits with Mr. Pembroke? The memory brought a smile to her face.
“There!” Joanna exclaimed softly, setting her parcels on a reading table by the window and untying the string from one.
She opened the large volume with reverent hands, turning to a particularly vivid illustration of Athena emerging from Zeus’s head, fully armored.
“Isn’t it magnificent? The artist has captured her expression perfectly—wisdom and strength in equal measure.”
Emma leaned closer, admiring the fine brushwork. “It’s extraordinary,” she agreed, her fingers hovering just above the page, not quite touching it. “The attention to detail in her armor—see how the light catches on the silver? And that determined set to her jaw… she knows her worth.”
Joanna smiled, pleased by Emma’s appreciation. Then, her expression shifted subtly as she studied her niece’s face.
“You seem a bit out of sorts today,” she observed, closing the book carefully. “Dark circles under your eyes. Is all well?”
Trust Joanna to notice what Emma had hoped to conceal. Her aunt had always been perceptive—unnervingly so, at times.
“Perfectly well,” Emma replied too quickly, arranging her skirts as she sat. “Why wouldn’t it be? Tristan is thriving with his tutor, I have gotten back into painting.” Never mind the real reason why . “And the Athena Society is scheduled to meet again soon.”
Joanna raised an eyebrow, clearly seeing through the deflection.
Unlike Annabelle, who would have demanded a full account of Emma’s thoughts and feelings right then and there, Joanna knew when to leave well enough alone. It was one of the many reasons Emma cherished her young aunt.
“You know,” Joanna said instead, opening her newly purchased book again and turning the pages with deliberate care, “if there’s ever anything on your mind—anything at all—I’m always here to listen. Old aunt or not.”
There was a gentle understanding in her voice that nearly shattered Emma’s composure. How much simpler things would be if she could just unburden herself and explain these confusing feelings that had taken hold since that day at the lake. But how could she articulate what she didn’t understand?
“Old aunt? I hardly believe that,” a rich male voice interrupted from behind them.
Both women turned to find a tall, handsome gentleman regarding them with twinkling eyes and an all-too-charming smile—the kind that proved he knew his good looks allowed him to get away with many a crime.
“Forgive my intrusion, ladies. The comment was too tempting to resist.” He bowed deeply. “Nathaniel Godric, the Marquess of Knightley, at your service. And thoroughly ashamed of my poor manners.”
Emma recognized the Duke of Westmere’s friend immediately. The man’s easy smile and the humor dancing in his eyes matched everything she’d been told.
“Lord Knightley,” she acknowledged with a small curtsy. “I believe you’re acquainted with the Duke of Westmere?”
“Indeed, one of my oldest friends. We served together in His Majesty’s Navy,” Knightley confirmed, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “You must be Lady Cuthbert, and”—he turned to Joanna, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips with a flourish that lingered just a moment longer than propriety dictated—“this vision before me must be Joanna Dennison. Victor mentioned you both, though he failed to do justice to your beauty, My Lady.”
The Duke had mentioned us?
A becoming blush colored Joanna’s cheeks. “You flatter unnecessarily, My Lord.”
“Not at all,” he said earnestly, gesturing to the book in her hands. “Ah, Bulfinch’s new mythology collection! A woman of excellent taste. Have you reached the tale of Apollo and Daphne yet? It’s particularly well rendered in this edition.”
“I’ve only just purchased it,” Joanna replied, clearly pleased by his interest. “Are you a scholar of mythology, Lord Knightley?”
“A dabbler at best, though Greek myths have always fascinated me. The gods, so powerful yet so deeply flawed—rather like us mortals, wouldn’t you say?”
Emma watched with growing delight as her aunt engaged in animated conversation with the Marquess. Joanna’s usual reserve melted away as they discussed literary merits and debated translations. It had been too long since Emma had seen her aunt so exuberant, so alive.
“I understand you ladies are members of the Athena Society,” Knightley said, after a particularly spirited exchange about Homer. “The Duke speaks highly of your discussions.”
At that, Emma’s head snapped up. “He does?”
She could not stop the words from tumbling past her lips, and the Marquess turned that charming smile on her.
“Oh yes, he does,” he replied with a theatrical enthusiasm that made suspicion brew in her belly.
She felt as though he were scheming a perfect con of some sort.
“I wonder…” he continued. “Would it be terribly presumptuous of me to request an invitation to one of your gatherings? I promise to be on my best behavior.”
Joanna’s eyes widened behind her spectacles. “My Lord, the Society is for ladies only. It wouldn’t be… That is to say, propriety would not allow…”
“Propriety is merely tradition that hasn’t yet been challenged,” Knightley replied with a roguish grin. “Besides, I’ve always found that the most stimulating conversations occur when propriety is gently set aside. Don’t you agree, My Lady?”
To Emma’s astonishment, Joanna giggled —a sound Emma hadn’t heard in years.
“You are incorrigible, Lord Knightley,” Joanna said, but there was no censure in her tone.
“So I’ve been told. Frequently and by reliable sources,” Knightley agreed cheerfully. “But before I scandalize you further, I should mention my true purpose in accosting you, ladies. I am hosting a small gathering at Knightley Hall next Saturday evening. Nothing elaborate—music, dancing, good company. I would be honored if you both attend.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lord Knightley,” Emma said, before Joanna could demur.
“Excellent! Victor will be pleased. He’s been rather broody lately—more so than usual, which is saying something.” Knightley winked at her. “Perhaps seeing familiar faces will improve his temper.”
Emma’s heart stuttered at the thought of seeing Victor again.
She fought to keep her expression neutral. “The Duke has always been perfectly cordial in our encounters.”
“Has he, indeed?” Knightley looked genuinely surprised. “How fascinating. The Duke I know reserves cordiality for state functions and funerals.” He glanced between Emma and Joanna with new interest. “Now I’m doubly glad you’ll be attending.”
After a few more minutes of pleasant conversation, Knightley purchased his book and took his leave, kissing Joanna’s hand once more with a warmth that left her flustered.
When they were alone again, Joanna fanned herself with her handkerchief. “Well! He’s certainly… vivacious.”
“He’s charming,” Emma corrected with a smile. “And he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Men don’t notice women like me—especially not men like him.”
“He noticed you,” Emma insisted. “And I think you noticed him too.”
Joanna adjusted her spectacles, a sure sign she was flustered. “He said that the Duke will certainly be at this gathering.”
It was Emma’s turn to flush. “Yes, I suppose he will.”
Joanna studied her carefully. “Emma, is there something you wish to tell me about the Duke?”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Emma said, willing her cheeks to cool. “He’s been kind to Tristan, that’s all.”
“Mmm,” Joanna hummed skeptically. “And I suppose that’s why you’ve been distracted these past few days? Because of his kindness to Tristan?”
“I haven’t been distracted,” Emma protested weakly.
“You’ve put salt in your tea twice this week, dear.”
Before Emma could formulate a response, the shop bell jingled, and Tristan burst in, his mouth suspiciously sticky with what appeared to be honey candy.
“Mama! Lady Oakley bought me four different kinds, and Mr. Porter gave me an extra piece because I helped him arrange his display!” He noticed Joanna and rushed to embrace her. “Aunt Joanna! Will you come riding with us next time? My riding instructor says I’m getting much better.”
“I would be delighted, dear Tristan,” Joanna replied, smoothing his hair affectionately. “Though I’m not the horsewoman your mother is.”
As Tristan regaled them with tales of his adventure at the confectionery, describing in vivid detail the exact shade and consistency of each sweet, Emma’s thoughts drifted unbidden to the upcoming gathering at Knightley Hall.
She would see the Duke again. The prospect filled her with equal parts anticipation and dread.
How would he look at her? Would she see that same intensity in his gaze that had disarmed her at the lake? Would he acknowledge that the kiss happened at all?
What was happening to her? This… fixation was unseemly, inappropriate . She was a widow with a young son, not some debutante with her head full of romantic nonsense. She had responsibilities and expectations to meet. The gossips of the county already watched her closely, ready to pounce at any hint of impropriety. A woman in her position couldn’t afford to court scandal.
Yet she couldn’t deny the flutter in her chest at the thought of those piercing blue eyes.
“And then Mr. Porter let me taste a new chocolate from France,” Tristan continued excitedly, “and it was so smooth, Mama, like velvet on your tongue! He says the French have a special way of making it, though he wouldn’t tell me the secret. Do you think we could go to France someday and find out?”
Emma nodded absently, her mind still wandering the corridors of Knightley Hall, imagining a waltz with a certain duke…
“Mama? Are you listening?” Tristan tugged at her sleeve, his expression hovering between concern and mild indignation.
Emma blinked, forcing herself back to the present with a guilty start. “Of course, darling. Every word. French chocolate that tastes like velvet. It sounds divine.”
“And the part about the elephant?”
Emma stared at her son, mortified. “Elephant?”
Tristan burst into giggles. “There wasn’t any elephant! You weren’t listening at all!”
“You caught me,” Emma admitted, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Forgive me, my darling. My mind was wandering.”
“To your lakes again?” he asked innocently.
Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks as Joanna watched her with shrewd eyes.
“Something like that,” she murmured.