Page 16 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 16

“W ill we really get to use real arrows, Your Grace?” Tristan asked, his voice pitched high with excitement as they followed Victor across the manicured grounds behind his manor.

Emma followed closely behind him, having already been scolded by him about trying to hold his hand. Apparently, it was an endeavor “most embarrassing.”

Her boy was becoming a man, indeed.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn, highlighting his eager skips and hops as he struggled to keep pace with the Duke’s long strides. A smile tugged at her lips as she watched him.

Well, he would not be a man for a long while yet.

“They are indeed real arrows, boy, though designed for practice rather than hunting,” Victor replied, turning his head to humor her boy, his usually stern demeanor softened slightly by what she could swear was amusement.

The corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, a gesture she found she couldn’t quite ignore.

Not as much as she would have loved to, at least.

Emma quickened her pace, her skirts rustling against the trimmed grass as she caught up.

“Arrows? I thought we agreed on chess today.” Her voice carried a note of alarm she couldn’t quite suppress, her maternal instincts flaring immediately.

Victor turned, raising an eyebrow, his gaze direct and unwavering. “I don’t recall making such an agreement, Lady Cuthbert.”

The formality of his address contrasted with the subtle challenge in his eyes.

As they rounded a carefully sculpted hedgerow, the archery range came into view—targets set at various distances, a small pavilion housing equipment, and worst of all, actual weapons.

Emma stopped abruptly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly, drawing herself up to her full height. “Tristan will not be handling weapons.”

Tristan’s face fell instantly, his excitement draining away like water through cupped hands. “But Mama! You promised I could learn new things!”

“I promised you could learn appropriate things,” Emma corrected, placing a protective hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his small frame. “Archery is dangerous.”

Victor regarded her calmly, his expression measured. “With respect, My Lady, every nobleman’s son learns archery. The practice arrows have blunt tips and pose little danger under proper supervision.” His tone was neither confrontational nor placating, simply matter-of-fact.

“Please, Mama,” Tristan implored, looking up at her with pleading eyes that so resembled her own. “Just one try? I’ll be ever so careful!”

Emma felt her resolve wavering under her son’s earnest gaze. She glanced at Victor, whose expression remained impassive yet somehow expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be.

“Very well,” she conceded, exhaling softly. “One lesson. But I’ll be watching every moment.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Tristan nearly bounded toward the pavilion, his earlier decorum forgotten in a burst of childish enthusiasm.

Emma moved to a nearby bench, smoothing her skirts with hands that weren’t quite steady. Watching her son handle weapons—even practice ones—sent a flutter of anxiety through her chest. The late Lord Cuthbert had been fond of hunting, often returning home with trophies and tales of reckless pursuits that had left his companions injured and her sleepless with worry.

Victor guided Tristan to the closest target. “First, your stance is most important,” he explained, demonstrating by placing his own feet shoulder-width apart. “Like this.”

His movements were fluid and practiced, revealing years of discipline.

Tristan mimicked the position, his small frame tense with concentration, his tongue caught between his teeth in determination.

Emma felt her heart melt. “You look so adorable, Tristan!” She cupped her hands over her mouth as she yelled to him, and he immediately bristled.

When he turned around, his cheeks were an adorable bright shade of red.

“Mama!” He stomped his foot, embarrassment threading into the words as his eyes flicked to the Duke, who was watching them silently. “I am not adorable! I am a man, you see!”

Emma’s eyebrows flew high on her forehead. “Oh.”

Ah, she saw how it was. Now that he’d found a mentor in the Duke of Westmere, her boy no longer appreciated being babied in front of the older man.

“Then… you look so manly!” she yelled back, and he groaned.

“Do not say anything!” he harrumphed and turned back to focus on his target, his cheeks still bright red.

“Relax your shoulders,” Victor instructed, adjusting the boy’s posture with surprisingly gentle hands. “Now, hold the bow like this.”

Emma watched, her apprehension slowly giving way to fascination at the Duke’s patience. The fearsome Beast of Westmere, rumored to have frightened servants into fainting with a mere glance, was now kneeling beside her son, carefully guiding his small hands into position with a focused attention she found unexpectedly… attractive.

Oh no. You are the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert, for goodness’ sake! Comport yourself as such.

Yes, it was better to focus her attention on the matters in front of her now—namely, her son and his stubborn insistence on handling a sharp weapon.

With her heart in her throat, Emma watched as Tristan’s first arrow flew wildly, missing the target entirely and landing in the grass with a soft thud that elicited a groan of disappointment from him.

“I’m terrible at this,” he declared, his shoulders slumping dramatically.

Emma leaned forward on the bench, concern etched on the lines of her body. She wanted very much to go to him and comfort him, but she had an inkling that such an action would simply irk her son, who was quite eager to prove just how manly he was.

Fortunately enough, the Duke took on the task of comforting the boy in the ‘manly’ way, albeit in a much gruffer manner than other men would.

“Nonsense,” Victor replied matter-of-factly, his tone blunt as a bludgeon. “No one hits their mark on the first try. Again.”

Three more attempts yielded similar results, but her boy’s determination didn’t waver, his little face set in lines of fierce concentration that made her heart swell with maternal pride. On the fifth try, his arrow caught the very edge of the target with a satisfying thunk.

“I did it!” he shouted, jumping up and down, his dark curls bouncing with each leap.

Victor placed a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder—a gesture so small yet so startling in its significance that Emma felt her breath catch.

“Well done,” he said simply, but the approval in his deep voice was unmistakable.

Tristan beamed with such pure joy that Emma felt tears prick her eyes. How long had it been since she’d seen her son so utterly delighted? Lord Cuthbert had rarely offered praise, considering it a weakness to acknowledge achievement rather than demand more.

After a few more successful shots, each one bringing Tristan’s arrow closer to the center, Victor turned toward Emma. “Perhaps the Dowager Countess would like to try?”

His invitation carried a subtle note of challenge, just like the previous lesson—one that set her nerves alight.

Why did he keep pushing and pushing her? And why did she want oh-so-much to push back just as hard? If not more.

No . Remember propriety.

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” Emma said as demurely as she could, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress. “I believe you know that archery isn’t considered an appropriate pastime for ladies.”

Victor’s mouth curved slightly, a ghost of a smile that transformed his severe features. “And who decided that particular nonsense?”

It did sound rather odd coming from her, didn’t it? For a woman who’d created a society in defiance of patriarchal expectations, she was leaning into one such expectation now, was she not? And what did it say about the Duke that he was willing to throw high society and all its rules out the window?

“Yes, Mama, please try!” Tristan urged, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “It’s tremendous fun!”

Emma hesitated, torn between propriety and her son’s eager face. The memory of Lord Cuthbert’s cutting remarks about a woman’s proper place warred with her desire to share in her son’s joy.

“I suppose one attempt wouldn’t be completely scandalous.”

She approached cautiously, accepting the bow Victor offered with fingers that trembled slightly. In an effort to look braver than she felt, she cleared her throat and said, “I warn you, I will be dreadful at this.”

“Stand here,” Victor instructed, his voice low and resonant.

He moved behind her, and she felt her pulse quicken as his arms came around to position hers. His chest was warm against her back, his hands steady as they adjusted her grip on the bow.

“Keep both eyes open,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear and sending a cascade of shivers down her spine. “Draw the string back to your cheek.”

Emma was acutely aware of his proximity, the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that clung to him. Her hands trembled slightly as she drew the bowstring, her senses overwhelmed by his nearness.

“Now,” he said softly, his breath fanning the nape of her neck, forcing her to suppress a shudder, “release.”

The arrow flew, missing the target but not by as much as she’d expected. Emma let out the breath she’d been holding, oddly disappointed at the sudden absence of his warmth as he stepped away.

“Not bad for a first attempt,” he commented, his tone neutral but not unkind.

“You’re being generous, Your Grace,” she replied, remembering how Lord Cuthbert had laughed uproariously at her first attempts at whist, his mockery cutting deep into her confidence.

“I am never generous with praise unless warranted,” Victor stated firmly. “Now, shall we try some basic fencing maneuvers, young man?”

Emma opened her mouth to object but closed it when she saw the anticipation on Tristan’s face.

“Nothing dangerous,” she cautioned instead, her protective instincts warring with her desire to keep that joy on her son’s face.

“Merely form and footwork,” Victor assured her, leading them toward wooden practice foils laid out with meticulous precision.

* * *

The remainder of the afternoon passed in a blur of instruction and laughter—mostly from Tristan, though Emma found herself smiling more freely than she had in years. Victor’s guidance was firm but never harsh, his corrections precise without being demeaning.

As the sun began its descent, casting golden light across the grounds, Tristan’s energy finally showed signs of waning, his movements becoming less sprightly.

“I believe that’s enough for today,” Victor announced, noticing the boy’s slow movements.

“But I’m just getting good at it!” Tristan protested, stifling a yawn that belied his words.

“Which means you’ll be even better next time,” Victor replied. “Excellence requires rest as well as practice.”

They walked together toward where Emma’s carriage waited, Tristan chattering excitedly about what he hoped to learn in their next session, his words tumbling over one another in his eagerness.

“And might we try riding again soon? Or perhaps fishing? I remember you have a lake, Your Grace! With actual fish!”

Victor’s gaze flicked to Emma’s, a knowing gleam in his eyes that set her heart pounding against her ribs.

“I have both a lake and fish, indeed,” he confirmed gravely, the subtle emphasis on lake unmistakable to her ears alone. “Though catching them requires considerably more patience than what you’ve demonstrated today.”

Emma felt heat surge to her cheeks, remembering all too well her paintings of his lake that looked very much like his eyes—and more disturbingly, their kiss by those very waters, his arms strong around her, his lips unexpectedly gentle. She looked away quickly, mortified that he could so easily read her thoughts.

“I can be patient!” Tristan insisted indignantly, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling between the adults.

As they reached the carriage, Emma found herself reluctant to leave, the afternoon having passed with surprising swiftness.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Victor while Tristan clambered inside, still chattering about fish and arrows and swords. “He’s had a wonderful afternoon.”

Victor’s eyes, usually so inscrutable, were warm as they met hers. “Thursday next, then?”

Emma nodded, surprised by how much she was already anticipating their return, how the prospect of seeing him again sent a flutter of anticipation through her that was entirely inappropriate for a proper widow.

“Thursday.”

* * *

“I challenge you to a match of Pall-Mall, Lady Oakley!” Tristan declared, standing with his wooden practice sword at his side like a miniature knight issuing a formal challenge. “Or are you too tired from your journey?”

Theodosia Lytton, the Dowager Viscountess Oakley, raised a single eyebrow and regarded Emma’s son with amused indignation. Despite her sixty-five years, she sat ramrod straight in Emma’s drawing room, her walking stick positioned precisely at her side.

“Too tired? Young man, I was playing Pall-Mall when your grandmother was in leading strings,” she replied, her voice crisp but her eyes twinkling. “I accept your challenge, though I warn you, I am notorious for my competitive spirit.”

“Grandmother,” Annabelle said with a laugh, “do try not to scandalize the servants again. Your last match with the Bishop of Canterbury is still discussed in certain circles.”

“Poppycock! That man was a dreadful cheat,” Lady Oakley sniffed, rising with surprising agility. “Now then, Master Tristan, shall we proceed to the lawn? I find I am quite eager to demonstrate proper technique to one so enthusiastic.”

Emma watched with fond amusement as Tristan offered his arm to the elderly Viscountess with exaggerated gallantry, a gesture that clearly delighted the older woman.

As they made their way toward the garden, Tristan’s excited voice drifted back.

“Is it true that you once bested three gentlemen at whist while also winning a debate on Aristotle’s Ethics ?”

Emma had long since stopped wondering just how her son knew of those advanced books. She was the one who let him read them, after all.

“Indeed, it is,” came the proud reply. “Though I must correct you—it was four gentlemen, and we were discussing Plato’s Republic .”

As their voices faded, Annabelle turned to Emma with a conspiratorial smile. “Now, with those two occupied, perhaps you’ll finally tell me about these fascinating lessons with the Duke of Westmere. I’ve been positively bursting with curiosity.”

Emma sighed, accepting the fresh cup of tea the maid had poured. “There’s little to tell. His Grace has been most accommodating in instructing Tristan in various gentlemanly pursuits.”

“And…?” Annabelle prompted, leaning forward eagerly.

“And Tristan is happier than I’ve seen him in years,” Emma admitted. “He talks of little else between our visits.”

“How lovely for Tristan,” Annabelle said, her tone deliberately casual. “But what about you, dear friend? Has the fearsome Duke offered any… private lessons?”

Emma nearly choked on her tea. “Annabelle! For heaven’s sake, nothing has changed. We both agreed that—that moment was a mistake.”

“A mistake,” Annabelle repeated, her expression skeptical. “And yet you continue to visit his estate, allowing him to stand very close behind you while teaching you archery…”

“How did you know about that?” Emma gasped.

“I didn’t,” Annabelle replied triumphantly. “But I do now! Oh, Emma, I’ve read far too many novels to believe nothing will develop between you two. The brooding Duke and the gentle widow—it’s positively literary!”

Emma set her cup down with more force than intended. “I am doing this for my son, nothing more.”

“So you feel absolutely nothing for the Duke?” Annabelle pressed, her eyes dancing with mischief. “He leaves you completely cold? His voice doesn’t make your heart beat faster? His hands don’t?—”

“He’s… moderately handsome,” Emma conceded, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “In a rather severe way.”

Annabelle gave an unladylike snort. “Moderately handsome? My dear, I have seen statues less perfectly formed than the Duke of Westmere.”

“You’re impossible,” Emma muttered but couldn’t quite suppress a smile.

“No, I am observant ,” Annabelle corrected. “And what I observe is that you blush like a schoolgirl whenever he is mentioned.”

Before Emma could formulate a suitably cutting reply, Mr. Frederick entered, bearing a silver salver with a sealed letter.

“Correspondence for you, My Lady,” the butler announced, offering the tray with practiced dignity.

Emma recognized the handwriting immediately, and her smile faded. She broke the seal and scanned the contents, a small furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

“Troubling news?” Annabelle inquired, watching her friend’s expression change.

Emma sighed, folding the letter carefully. “It’s from Sidney. He writes that he’s leaving for London on business but will return shortly after. He expresses his intention to visit and ‘ensure his nephew’s welfare.’”

“I truly despise that man,” Annabelle declared, helping herself to another lemon cake. “Something about the way he looks at you—it’s as if he’s weighing you at a meat market.”

“Tristan doesn’t care for him either,” Emma admitted quietly. “He always becomes withdrawn when Sidney visits. But with our lessons with the Duke continuing…” She shook her head. “I can’t have Sidney around. He would disapprove most vehemently.”

“Then don’t have him,” Annabelle said simply. “You are the mistress of your own home now, no matter what high society thinks.”

Emma tapped the letter against her palm thoughtfully. “I’ll tell him we’re doing extensive renovations. The dust and disruption would make a visit most uncomfortable.”

“Perfect.” Annabelle nodded approvingly. “A few strategically placed ladders and some canvas drop cloths when he arrives unexpectedly—which you know he will—and your story is complete.”

Through the open window, they could hear Lady Oakley’s triumphant crow. “Aha! Through the wicket in a single stroke! You see, young man? Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill!”

Tristan’s delighted laughter floated back, and Emma felt a surge of protectiveness. These moments of uncomplicated joy were too precious to risk. Sidney’s cold presence would only cast shadows where light was finally beginning to shine.

“I won’t let him spoil this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Annabelle. “Tristan deserves better.”

Annabelle reached across to squeeze her hand. “As do you, my dear. As do you.”