Page 13 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 13

“E nough, Argus. We’ve had quite enough leisure for one morning.”

Victor wiped perspiration from his brow with a linen handkerchief as he caught his breath.

The late summer heat pressed down even in the relative chill of early morning, making his daily exercises more taxing than usual. His dog was still looking up at him expectantly, clearly disagreeing with his assessment.

“Don’t give me that look,” Victor said, although a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You know even dukes must maintain discipline.”

He had doubled his physical regimen this past week—anything to exhaust his body enough that his mind might grant him respite from thoughts of her .

The Dowager Countess of Cuthbert. The widow who had somehow breached the carefully constructed walls around his heart.

How many times had he relived that moment by the lake? Her infuriating defiance, her bravery, her spirit, the way the sunlight caught in her hair, creating soft highlights of amber and gold. The way her lips had parted in surprise when he’d moved closer. The way he’d nearly let the kiss evolve into?—

A rustling from the shrubbery bordering the eastern garden path interrupted his thoughts. Argus’s ears perked up immediately.

“What is it, boy?” Victor straightened, instantly alert.

The dog barked sharply and bolted toward the sound, disappearing into the dense foliage.

“Argus! Get back here at once!” Victor commanded.

But for perhaps the second or third time since he’d trained the animal, Argus ignored him completely.

And he knew exactly who it was that could inspire disobedience in his dog.

Cursing under his breath, he strode after his wayward companion.

The hedge maze was extensive—a favorite project of his late father’s—and Argus could cover far more ground than he could hope to match. He followed the sounds of excited barking, turning left, then right, until he emerged into a small clearing at the center of the maze.

There, to his utter astonishment, was Tristan, giggling as Argus danced around him, his tail wagging furiously.

“Unbelievable,” Victor grumbled.

The boy beamed when he caught sight of him. “Good day, Your Grace!”

But Victor was not in the mood for all that joy.

“Young man,” he said sharply, his tone making the boy jump, “what precisely do you think you’re doing on my property?”

Tristan’s expression shifted from delight to momentary alarm, then settled into a look of earnest pleading. “Please don’t send me away, Your Grace! I only wanted to see Argus again. He’s the finest dog I’ve ever seen!”

Victor crossed his arms, frowning at the boy. “How did you get here? Does the Dowager Countess know you’ve trespassed onto my estate… again?”

A flicker of guilt crossed Tristan’s features. “I rode Caesar. And I told Mrs. Higgins I was going to explore the woods. Which isn’t precisely a lie,” he added hastily, “as your gardens do have many trees. I left my horse near the boundary.”

The little imp.

“That’s sophistry, boy,” Victor replied sternly, though he felt a twinge of admiration for the boy’s quick thinking.

“What’s sophistry?” Tristan asked, momentarily distracted.

“It’s when one uses clever but misleading arguments. And it’s a poor habit for a gentleman to cultivate.”

Tristan nodded solemnly. “I won’t do it again, Your Grace! But please, may I stay? Just for a little while? I promise to be good as gold, and Argus seems to like me.”

Indeed, his blasted, traitorous dog was now sitting contentedly at the boy’s feet, accepting ear scratches with uncharacteristic docility.

“That’s not possible,” Victor said firmly, ignoring the pang in his chest at the boy’s crestfallen expression. “Your mother will be worried, and I have matters to attend to.”

“She’s visiting Miss Annabelle Lytton today,” Tristan countered swiftly. “She won’t be back for hours. And I can help you with your matters! I’m very good at helping. Mr. Fletcher says I’m the most helpful pupil he’s ever had! He also said I have a remarkable gift for inciting scholastic pandemonium. That must be rare!”

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache brewing. The last thing he needed was Lady Cuthbert’s child underfoot, a constant reminder of the woman he was trying desperately to forget. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn the boy away.

“Twenty minutes,” he heard himself say. “Not a minute more. And then you will return home directly.”

Tristan’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace! You won’t even notice I’m here! Unless you want to notice me, of course, in which case I shall be very noticeable indeed!”

Victor’s lips twitched, rare amusement slithering in his belly. “Indeed.”

Resolving to maintain his distance—both physically and emotionally—Victor returned to his exercise routine, performing a series of movements adapted from his naval training. He had hoped the boy would be content to play with Argus, but it seemed young Tristan had other ideas.

“Is that fencing, Your Grace?” the boy asked after barely two minutes of blessed silence.

“No,” Victor replied tersely, continuing his movements without breaking the rhythm.

“What is it, then? It looks terribly difficult.”

“Exercise.”

“What sort of exercise? Does it make you strong?”

“Yes.”

“Could you teach me? Mama says I’m too skinny.”

“No.”

“Why not? Is it a secret? Like military training? Papa was in the Cavalry, you know, though I don’t remember him.”

Victor sighed heavily. “It’s not appropriate for children.”

“I’m not a child!” Tristan protested, drawing himself up to his full height, which barely reached Victor’s elbow. “I’m eight years old, nearly nine! My instructor says I’m very big for my age.”

“Nonetheless.”

A blessed thirty seconds of silence followed before Tristan launched into his next barrage.

“Why is your dog named Argus? Is it because of the giant with a hundred eyes from the Greek myths? My aunt Joanna told me about him. His name was Argus, wasn’t it? Hermes killed him, and then Hera put all his eyes on the peacock’s tail! Does your dog have special eyes? They do look very clever.”

Victor, caught off guard by the boy’s surprisingly intelligent question, paused. “Yes, that’s correct. Argus Panoptes, the all-seeing guardian. He seemed an appropriate namesake.”

Tristan instantly brightened at having finally extracted a complete sentence from the Duke. Being so encouraged, he pressed on.

“Have you always lived at Westmere Hall? It’s very grand! Much grander than Cuthbert Hall, though I wouldn’t tell Mama that. She’s very proud of our home.”

Of course, she would be. Victor had glimpsed that pride within her from the onset.

“No,” Victor said, resuming his exercise with renewed determination. “I inherited relatively recently.”

“From your father? My father died when I was four. Do you miss your father? I miss mine. Though, as I said, I don’t really remember him.”

Victor faltered slightly, the question striking closer to home than he cared to admit. “At times.”

“Mama says it’s all right to be sad about people who are gone, but that we must also live for those who are still here. That’s why she started the Athena Society after Papa… ah, left . Do you have a society too?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should start one! I could help. I’m very good at organizing things! My collections are most carefully arranged!”

“What do you collect?” Victor found himself asking, immediately regretting the lapse.

Tristan’s face lit up. “Oh! Everything interesting. Feathers, unusual stones, interesting beetles—though Mama makes me keep those in the garden shed—and maps! I love maps most of all. Do you have maps of your naval travels? Were there sea monsters? Did you fight pirates?”

Victor couldn’t help but smile faintly at the boy’s enthusiasm. “I have some charts, yes. No sea monsters, I’m afraid, though there were… encounters with enemies.”

“Did you fight them with swords? Or cannons? Were you ever wounded? Do you have scars? Heroic ones, I mean.”

“Cannons primarily. And yes.” Victor touched his side unconsciously, where a French bullet had found its mark during a particularly brutal engagement.

“I knew it!” Tristan exclaimed excitedly. “You really are like the heroes in my books. Does the Marquess of Knightley have scars too?”

“Oh, Lord Knightley has his share,” Victor confirmed, thinking of his friend’s nightmares, the ones that still plagued them both.

The questions continued relentlessly as Victor completed his routine, ranging from inquiries about the estate’s gardens to detailed interrogations about naval vessels and the proper way to fence with cutlasses.

Surprisingly, Victor found himself responding more and more, his answers growing longer as Tristan’s genuine curiosity wore down his defenses.

When the promised twenty minutes elapsed, Victor checked his pocket watch. “Time’s up, boy.”

To his surprise, Tristan nodded without argument. “Thank you for letting me stay, Your Grace. And for answering my questions! Mama says I ask too many sometimes.”

“Your mother is a wise woman,” Victor replied, then immediately wished he hadn’t invoked the Dowager Countess.

Tristan bent to give Argus a final pat. “Goodbye, noble Argus. I shall visit again if His Grace permits it.”

The hopeful look he gave Victor was damnably hard to resist.

Victor inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps. With proper permission next time.”

“Yes, Sir! Thank you, Sir!” Tristan beamed, then turned to go. At the entrance to the clearing, he paused and looked back. “Your Grace? I think you would like Mama’s lakes.”

“Lakes?” Victor echoed, puzzled.

“The ones she paints. They’re all over her studio now!”

Before Victor could respond to that bewildering statement, the boy was gone, leaving him standing there by himself.

He rubbed his palm over his face. “Is this what I have to endure for the rest of my darned days?”

And, although it was a rhetorical question, he did not like the conclusion his mind gave him either.

* * *

“The heroine’s decision to flee in the middle of the night was nothing short of lunacy,” Annabelle declared, snapping the book shut with dramatic flair. “Ha! How ludicrous. Any woman with sense would have secured funds first!”

Emma hid a smile behind her teacup as the Athena Society erupted into an animated debate. The drawing room at Cuthbert Hall hummed with the passionate discourse of nine women, their collective intelligence a formidable force that would have stunned most of the gentlemen who dismissed their little club as mere female frivolity.

“Perhaps romance clouded her judgment,” suggested Mrs. Pennington, the vicar’s widowed sister, her voice wistful. “Love has been known to make fools of the wisest among us.”

“Ha! Poppycock,” countered Lady Winterbourne adjusting her ear trumpet with a flourish. At seventy-three, she was the eldest in the Society and could not attend meetings as frequently.

“The author simply needed a convenient plot device. Men always assume women lose all reason at the first sign of attention from them. Poppycock, I say. I once had a gentleman caller who believed I couldn’t manage basic arithmetic after the simple act of complimenting my darned bonnet!”

The ladies erupted in laughter, and Mrs. Witherspoon nearly spilled her tea.

“Speaking of fluttering eyelashes.” Annabelle leaned forward conspiratorially. “Our dear Dowager Countess has been rather distracted today. One might wonder if a certain brooding duke has anything to do with it?”

Emma nearly choked on her tea. She set the cup down carefully and speared her friend with a warning look. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Annabelle.”

“Oh, come now,” Annabelle pressed, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’ve been staring at the same page for twenty minutes. And you put the sugar in the inkwell earlier, which has created quite a fascinating new writing medium.”

A chorus of curious murmurs and barely suppressed giggles rippled through the room.

Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“I merely had a restless night,” she protested weakly.

“Restless with thoughts of a certain gentleman with stormy eyes, perhaps?” Annabelle suggested, wiggling her eyebrows in an exaggerated fashion that made all the women turn their bright, interested gazes on her.

Oh dear. Oh dear .

Emma couldn’t possibly let this continue.

Joanna adjusted her spectacles, and Emma was immediately grateful to her aunt for always standing up for her at times like this.

“Really, Miss Lytton, you shouldn’t tease. Though I must say, Emma dear, you did spread your scone with jam and then attempt to spread the butter on top,” the older woman said, which did nothing to deter the mischievous Annabelle.

“It’s not teasing if it’s true,” Annabelle argued, triumph gleaming in her eyes. “And I have it on good authority that a certain duke will attend Lord Knightley’s ball…”

All eyes turned to Emma, who desperately sought a change of subject. “Shouldn’t we return to the book? I found the protagonist’s relationship with her sister particularly compelling.”

“Not nearly as compelling as your relationship with Westmere,” Annabelle said dryly, peering at her.

“There is no relationship, to begin with, Annabelle,” Emma sighed, lifting her loose fist to her chest in a bid to settle her suddenly pounding heart.

Annabelle let out an unladylike snort. “My eyes can see you blush at the mere mention of him!”

“I heard he saved young Tristan from drowning.” Mrs. Witherspoon’s whisper was loud enough to reach Cornwall.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Pennington countered, waving her handkerchief emphatically. “It was a runaway horse. And he caught the boy with one arm while fending off highwaymen with the other!”

“I assure you, it was neither,” Emma interjected. It seemed the gossip vines had already started churning out stories. “And I would appreciate?—”

“Perhaps we should invite gentlemen to our next meeting,” Lady Winterbourne suddenly suggested, her eyes twinkling with a youthful devilry that belied her age. “Lord Knightley expressed interest, did he not? And where he goes, the Duke might follow. I could use my rheumatism as an excuse to push you both into the same settee. Works like a charm!”

“Oh!” Annabelle looked rather taken with the idea. “What a terrific idea!”

“Absolutely not!” Emma gasped, absolute horror etched on her face. “The Athena Society is our sanctuary from masculine interference.”

“Even handsome interference?” Annabelle teased, pretending to swoon. “With eyes like stormy seas and shoulders broad enough to carry the weight of the empire?”

“Yes,” Emma said with a finality that made the ladies pout. “And that is the end of that.”

“Aww.” Annabelle pouted.

Emma rolled her eyes. “Not another word from you,” she said. “Now, let us focus on more important matters.”

Of course, her heart was still pounding in her chest, but she was grateful that she was able to draw the women’s attention away from her supposed ‘relationship’ with a certain duke.

Because she knew for a fact that there would never be any such relationship.

No matter how much remembering that kiss set her ablaze.