Page 15 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 15

“A h! It’s Mercury! I rode him before!” Tristan exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement as he stared up at the magnificent chestnut gelding.

Emma clutched her son’s shoulder protectively, eyeing the beast with misgiving.

They had arrived at Westmere Hall precisely at the appointed hour, greeted by a surprisingly formal duke, who had led them directly to the stables. Now, standing amid the sweet scent of hay and leather, Emma found herself doubting her decision to accept the Duke’s offer.

“Mercury is well-mannered and patient,” he replied, running a practiced hand along the horse’s shiny coat.

Emma had a sneaking suspicion that he was giving this explanation simply for her benefit.

“A suitable mount for a beginner who’s ready to progress,” he finished, his tone rough.

“He’s not a beginner,” Emma interjected. “Tristan has been riding since he was five.”

The Duke’s penetrating gaze flicked to her. “Yes. Incorrectly,” he said. “As we’ve established before.”

Of course, the blunt assessment stung, but Emma could not quite deny that her son’s technique had never been particularly refined. Their financial constraints had made consistent, quality instruction impossible.

“Mama, may I?” Tristan pleaded, already reaching for the horse.

She hesitated, but the look in his eyes told her that if she stopped things now, it would no doubt break him.

So, she nodded reluctantly. “All right. Just be careful.”

The Duke guided Tristan through a proper introduction to Mercury, showing him how to approach from the side, where to place his hands, and how to establish trust.

Emma stood to the side, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching every movement with hawk-like intensity.

“Now, for mounting,” the Duke instructed, positioning Tristan beside the horse. “Left foot in the stirrup, grip the mane with your left hand, the saddle with your right, then swing up.”

Tristan attempted the maneuver but faltered, unable to generate enough momentum with his small frame. Before Emma could step forward, the Duke had lifted the boy effortlessly, placing him gently in the saddle.

“Back straight,” he instructed. “Deep in the seat. Heels down.”

Emma watched as her son adjusted his posture, looking suddenly older, more assured atop the large animal. A flicker of pride mingled with her anxiety.

“Now, a walk around the paddock,” the Duke said, handing Tristan the reins. “Remember what I told you. You direct the horse, not the other way around.”

“Wait.” Emma stepped forward. “Shouldn’t he have a lead rein? That horse is far too large for him to control.”

The Duke regarded her steadily. “He’ll never learn proper control with a lead. Mercury will respond to correct signals, even from a child.”

“But if he bolts?—”

“He won’t.”

“You cannot possibly know that.”

Oh, this is positively nerve-wracking!

The Duke’s eyebrow arched slightly. “I can and do. These are my horses, trained to my specifications.” He paused, studying her. “Perhaps you should try it yourself. It would help you understand what your son is learning.”

“I hardly think that is necessary,” Emma replied stiffly.

“Mama, please!” Tristan called down. “It’s fun! And His Grace says ladies can be excellent riders too.”

“Of course, we can be. You should know better, Tristan,” she fired back. “I don’t need a man to confirm that for me.”

As she said that part, Emma found herself glaring at the Duke, who simply gestured toward a dappled gray mare being led out of the stables by a groom. But she caught the amusement swimming in the ocean of his blue eyes.

“Selene is particularly well-suited for ladies. Sensitive but not skittish,” he said.

Emma narrowed her eyes at the unspoken challenge. “I am perfectly capable of riding,” she said, even though she’d never been particularly comfortable on horseback.

There is no need for him to know that.

“Prove it,” the Duke challenged quietly.

So, he truly was challenging her.

Ha!

Irritation flared within her. Determination to shatter his presumptions burned in the pit of her belly.

“Very well,” she returned, her gaze never once leaving his.

The groom brought Selene forward, and Victor dismissed him with a nod.

As Emma prepared to mount, the Duke stepped closer. “Allow me.”

Before she could protest, his big hands were on her waist, lifting her effortlessly into the saddle. The brief contact nearly knocked the breath out of her and sent a jolt of awareness through her. From the momentary tightening of his fingers, she sensed he’d felt it too.

“Thank you,” she managed, clearing her throat and adjusting her riding habit with what dignity she could muster.

“Heels down,” he instructed, his voice rougher than before. “Back straight. Hands lower—yes, like that.”

Tristan beamed at her from atop his gelding. “Look, Mama! We match!”

Despite herself, Emma smiled. “So we do.”

For the next hour, the Duke led them through basic exercises, correcting their form with firm but patient instruction. Emma found herself relaxing incrementally as Selene responded to her commands, moving with fluid grace beneath her.

The Duke was a demanding teacher, but his methods were clear, his expectations consistent.

“Better,” he remarked as Emma successfully guided Selene through a figure eight. “You have a natural balance, but you’ve been taught to ride like a decoration, not a rider.”

“Is that a compliment or criticism, Your Grace?” Emma asked, feeling unexpectedly playful.

A shadow of amusement crossed his face. “An observation.”

“Mama’s doing splendidly, isn’t she?” Tristan called, executing his own maneuver with growing confidence. “Almost as good as me!”

The Duke chuckled at that, the sound rusty as if seldom used. “Your modesty is admirable, young man.”

Emma watched them, something warm and unexpected blooming in her chest. Tristan’s face was alight with pleasure, his usual restless energy channeled into focused attention. And the Duke—the supposedly fearsome Duke of Westmere—was showing patience and gentleness with her son that belied his fearsome reputation.

What was she supposed to believe now?

* * *

When at last the lesson concluded, Tristan dismounted with the Duke’s assistance, vibrating with excitement.

“That was brilliant! When can we come again? Can we practice archery next time? Or play chess? Do you have a chess set made of ivory? I’ve read about those!”

“Tristan,” Emma warned, “mind your manners.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.” He turned to the Duke with an exaggerated bow. “Thank you very much for the lesson, Your Grace. It was very valuable.”

The Duke’s lips twitched. “You’re welcome. Go see if Mrs. Winters has refreshments ready in the kitchen. Argus will show you the way.”

The English Setter perked up at his name.

Tristan needed no further encouragement—he raced off, the dog bounding at his heels.

Silence fell between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Emma adjusted her gloves, suddenly feeling awkward under the Duke’s steady gaze.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said finally. “He enjoyed himself immensely.”

“He has natural talent. With proper instruction, he could become exceptional.”

Emma nodded stiffly. “I am happy to hear that. Good day, Your Grace.”

As she turned to follow her son, the Duke spoke, “I’ll send word about our next session. Perhaps Thursday?”

“Thursday,” she agreed, feeling his eyes on her as she walked away, her composure intact but her emotions in turmoil.

* * *

“And then he had the audacity to suggest I try riding myself!” Emma exclaimed, pacing the length of the Oakley sitting room.

The Athena Society meeting had concluded an hour ago, the other ladies departing with knowing smiles and thinly veiled curiosity about her frequent mentions of the Duke of Westmere.

Only Annabelle remained, reclined on a chaise, watching Emma’s agitation with poorly concealed delight.

“How terribly presumptuous of him. And did you? Ride, I mean?”

Emma scoffed. “I mean, of course, I did! I had little choice. Tristan was looking at me with those expectant eyes of his.”

“Mmm. Of course. It was for Tristan’s benefit entirely.” Annabelle’s tone dripped with skepticism. “Tell me this, though…” She leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “The Duke—did he lift you onto your mount?”

Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks. “That’s hardly relevant.”

Annabelle looked like a cat who’d gotten the cream. “Oh, but it is! Strong hands on your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing?—”

“Annabelle!”

“Oh, what? I’m merely exploring the narrative tension.” She grinned wickedly. “Speaking of tension, when are you going to acknowledge the attraction you feel for him? I can imagine how much you would want to… touch him and?—”

Emma must have been instantly possessed by a demon of some sort because she blurted, “We kissed.”

She immediately covered her face with her hands, realizing what she’d just admitted.

Annabelle gasped, sounding completely scandalized. “Emma Bickford!” she screeched, her excitement palpable. “You kissed the Beast of Westmere and didn’t tell me immediately? I’m wounded!”

“I-I mean, it… It wasn’t a proper kiss,” Emma said.

It wasn’t a lie. It was a more than proper kiss in form.

She peeked at her friend from between her fingers. “It was a moment of… confusion. And he called it a mistake, too.”

“Did he, indeed?” Annabelle leaned forward eagerly. “Yet he’s offering free lessons to your son and lifting you onto horses with his supposedly fearsome hands. How very… mistaken of him.”

“It’s not like that,” Emma protested again, but even she wasn’t quite sure what it was like either.

“Then what is it like? Because from where I sit, it appears our mysterious duke has developed a particular interest in the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert.”

Emma shook her head, immediately shutting down the idea. “He’s merely being kind to Tristan.”

“Emma, dear, men like the Duke don’t offer riding lessons out of charity. There is a story here. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

And, truth be told, she was. Despite herself, despite all her caution, Emma found herself wondering about the man beneath that formidable and steely exterior.

What had shaped him? What had wounded him? And why did her heart race whenever he was in the same vicinity as her?

“It doesn’t matter,” she said firmly, willing herself to ignore the nagging feelings in her gut. “This arrangement is for Tristan’s benefit.”

“Hmm, keep telling yourself that,” Annabelle replied with a knowing smile. “But when you finally admit you’re intrigued by the beast, I expect every detail. Especially if there’s another ‘improper’ kiss involved.”

Emma threw a cushion at her friend, and the other woman burst into delighted laughter. That laughter, as though it were a harbinger, seemed to foretell her worst fear—that her carefully constructed defenses were crumbling, one blasted lesson at a time.