Page 17 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 17

“Y ou’re getting quite slow in your old age, Westmere,” Nathaniel taunted, circling Victor on the grassy expanse of the private garden of the Knightley estate.

It was mere hours after noon, probably a bit too late in the day for men of their statuses to be tussling in the grass like a pair of feuding apes, but Victor valued these sparring moments—even more so now, as it was moments like these that allowed him the avenue to expel all his pent-up energy through rigorous physical endeavors.

It was either this, or he exerted his body in a far less… noble way.

The only issue was that his body wanted one woman and one woman only.

The exact woman he shouldn’t want.

Sweat glistened on his brow as he feinted left and then right, looking for an opening.

“What’s it been now? Ten years since you last won?” Nathaniel taunted.

Victor narrowed his eyes, his stance solid as oak despite the afternoon heat. “Your memory fails you. It was last month, and you complained of a sprained wrist for a fortnight afterward.”

Nathaniel lunged forward suddenly, attempting to catch Victor off-guard. “Perhaps I was merely being kind to spare your?—”

His words were cut short as Victor sidestepped with surprising agility, catching his arm and using the momentum to flip him neatly onto his back.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs with an audible “oomph,” but he recovered quickly, rolling over and leaping back to his feet.

“Ah, but what of Lady Cuthbert? I hear she visits your estate regularly now. Is that why you’ve suddenly recovered your youthful vigor?”

That momentary distraction was precisely what Nathaniel had hoped for. Victor’s expression flickered—just a fraction of hesitation—but it was enough for Nathaniel to hook a foot behind his knee and attempt to topple him.

Victor, however, had anticipated the move. With practiced ease, he shifted his weight, seized Nathaniel by both shoulders, and in one fluid motion, pinned him firmly to the ground.

“Yield,” he commanded, his voice low but uncompromising.

Nathaniel sighed dramatically, going limp beneath Victor’s grip. “I yield, you unsporting brute. Though I maintain that bringing up a beautiful widow during combat should be considered a legitimate strategy.”

Victor released him and stood, offering a hand to his defeated opponent. “Your tactics remain as dishonorable as ever.”

“And yet somehow still ineffective against you,” Nathaniel conceded, accepting the assistance with a rueful grin. He brushed the grass from his clothes with exaggerated care. “Next time, I shall have to resort to discussing her eyes. I’ve heard they’re quite remarkably?—”

“Your Grace! My Lord!” a voice called urgently across the garden. The manor’s harried-looking housekeeper hurried toward them, her apron fluttering with each quick step. “Forgive the interruption, My Lord, but there’s a matter requiring your immediate attention regarding tomorrow’s ball!”

Nathaniel smoothed back his disheveled hair. “What catastrophe has befallen us now, Mrs. Hammond? Has the orchestra fallen ill with collective consumption? Have the flowers wilted in protest of our color scheme?”

“The French chef is threatening to leave, My Lord,” Mrs. Hammond replied, wringing her hands. “He insists that the wine selection is an insult to his menu and will not be associated with such—forgive me for repeating his words—‘barbaric English palates.’”

“Good heavens,” Nathaniel sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “Tell him I have ordered three cases of that Bordeaux he was rhapsodizing about last week. They’re in the east cellar, behind the port. And remind him that his contract stipulates a full season, not merely when culinary conditions please him.”

The housekeeper’s relief was palpable. “Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.” She bobbed a curtsy and hurried back toward the house.

Victor reached for his discarded coat, shaking his head. “This is precisely why I avoid these spectacles. Temperamental chefs, gossiping matrons, debutantes with matrimonial aspirations…”

“And yet attend you shall,” Nathaniel declared, clapping him on the shoulder. “Unless you wish me to relocate the entire affair to Westmere Hall? I am certain your staff would appreciate the challenge of accommodating two hundred guests with only a day’s notice.”

Victor’s expression darkened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I absolutely would,” Nathaniel replied cheerfully. “Besides, Lady Cuthbert has already accepted the invitation. Surely that is sufficient incentive for you to attend?”

Victor’s hand shot out, grabbing Nathaniel by his cravat, his eyes cold as ice. “Another word about Lady Cuthbert and you’ll find yourself back on the ground, eating dirt.”

Nathaniel laughed, entirely unfazed by the threat.

Many others would be cowering by now, but then again, Nathaniel had seen just as much horror as Victor had. Little threats like these would most definitely not ruffle the Marquess.

“Come now, there’s no shame in enjoying certain aspects of life again. Particularly when those aspects include a lovely woman with both intelligence and beauty.”

Victor released him with a sound of disgust. “You’ve been reading too many of those ridiculous novels your sisters hide in the library.”

“And you’ve been scowling at the world for far too long,” Nathaniel countered, straightening his cravat. “It wouldn’t kill you to dance once or twice tomorrow night. Preferably with the aforementioned widow rather than old Lady Hartwell, who still steps on toes despite her forty years of London Seasons.”

Victor turned away, brushing dirt from his sleeves with more attention than necessary. He would not admit—least of all to blasted Nathaniel—how often his thoughts had drifted to Lady Cuthbert as of late.

The precise shade of her brown hair in sunlight. The resolute set of her chin when she disagreed with him—which, if he was being honest, happened very often. The surprising softness of her lips against his that day by the lake.

Damn it.

“I’ll attend your infernal ball,” he conceded gruffly. “But I make no promises about dancing.”

“Ah, splendid!” Nathaniel declared, his victory clearly sweeter than any wrestling match could provide. “Eight o’clock sharp. And do wear something besides black for once. You look like an undertaker on perpetual business.”

Victor scowled but said nothing, his mind already wandering to tomorrow evening.

Would she wear blue again? The color suited her complexion admirably. Or perhaps a color to complement her eyes? Not that he had noticed the exact shade of her eyes, of course. Certainly not how they flashed with indignation when he challenged her or softened when she watched her son.

“You’re thinking about her again—I can see it,” Nathaniel observed with a maddening accuracy that always threatened to drive Victor to rage. “Your face does this peculiar thing where it appears almost human.”

“I am contemplating how satisfying it would be to toss you into that ornamental pond,” Victor replied, though without real heat.

Nathaniel merely grinned, entirely too pleased with himself. “The blue drawing room at eight. Don’t be late.”

As they walked back toward the house, Victor found himself wondering if Emma was looking forward to the ball or if she felt the same reluctance he did about these social obligations.

Perhaps he might claim a dance, after all—only to spare her the attentions of less worthy partners, of course.

* * *

“I daresay you’ve outdone yourself, Emma,” Joanna remarked, fidgeting with the neckline of her uncharacteristically daring gown—a deep emerald silk that complemented her fair complexion marvelously. “I feel positively scandalous!”

Emma smiled, watching her aunt’s nervous adjustments in the carriage’s dim interior. “Nonsense. You look beautiful. And I see you’ve forgone your spectacles for the evening.”

Joanna’s hand rose unconsciously to her face. “I can manage without them,” she insisted, though her squinted eyes as she attempted to focus on the passing scenery suggested otherwise. “One cannot appear scholarly at a ball. It frightens potential dance partners.”

“I would think a man intimidated by intelligence is hardly worth dancing with,” Emma argued, smoothing the skirts of her own gown—a piece made of midnight blue silk with delicate silver embroidery that had cost far more than was sensible.

And she’d made sure to remind herself every few seconds that it did not truly matter who saw her in it.

Oh no, she did not care one whit.

Joanna smiled enigmatically. “We shan’t all be fortunate enough to captivate surly dukes, my dear.”

Emma was spared the trouble of having to formulate a response to that as their carriage pulled into the circular drive of Knightley Hall, its windows ablaze with light.

Footmen in immaculate livery assisted them down the steps and directed them toward the grand entrance, where music and laughter already spilled into the night.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Emma felt the weight of curious stares. Whispers followed their progress through the crowded reception hall, no doubt speculating on her relationship with the Duke of Westmere. The ton’s gossip mill had been working overtime since her first visit to his estate.

“Lady Cuthbert!” Lord Knightley’s cheerful voice cut through the murmurs as he approached, resplendent in a coat of midnight blue with silver buttons that glinted in the candlelight. “Miss Joanna.” His voice lowered on her aunt’s name, sounding positively scandalous. “You both look positively radiant this evening.”

Emma curtsied, noting with interest how his gaze lingered on Joanna. “Thank you for your kind invitation, Lord Knightley. Your home is magnificent.”

“Indeed, though its splendor pales in comparison to its current company,” he replied smoothly, before turning his full attention to Joanna. “Miss Joanna, you look absolutely enchanting this evening, though I find myself missing your spectacles. Have you misplaced them?”

Joanna’s cheeks flushed delicately. “I don’t always require them, My Lord. For occasions such as this, I prefer to go without.”

Lord Knightley tilted his head thoughtfully, studying her with surprising intensity. “A pity. They suit you remarkably well—much like your wit, they magnify your most admirable qualities, bringing clarity and focus to your already considerable charms.”

Emma watched in fascination as her usually composed aunt blushed to the roots of her hair. Joanna’s hand dipped into her pocket, retrieving the spectacles she had apparently carried with her, after all.

“How fortunate,” Joanna murmured, placing them on her nose with a self-conscious smile. “I’d nearly forgotten I had brought them.”

Lord Knightley’s answering smile was warm and genuine. “Much better. Now I can properly see the intelligence in your eyes when you inevitably find fault with my rather pedestrian knowledge of Greek philosophers later this evening.”

The moment stretched between them, charged with something Emma couldn’t quite name but recognized instinctively. She was positive that she would end up being a nuisance if she remained there. So, she cleared her throat delicately.

“I believe I shall seek refreshments,” she announced. “Joanna, would you care for a drink?”

“What? Oh no, thank you,” Joanna replied distractedly, still gazing up at Lord Knightley.

Emma slipped away, a smile tugging at her lips.

How delightful.

Perhaps she would tease her aunt a bit more later. After all, both Joanna and Annabelle had taken great pleasure in teasing her about the Duke these past few weeks.

As she navigated the crowd, her gaze swept across the ballroom, unconsciously searching for a particularly tall figure—the very Duke who haunted her dreams and waking hours.

She found him almost immediately, standing aloof in a corner, dressed—as always—in severe black, relieved only by a crisp white cravat.

Even from a distance, Victor’s imposing presence commanded attention, his face set in its customary stern lines.

Their eyes met briefly across the crowded room, and Emma felt a jolt of awareness race through her before she quickly looked away, focusing intently on reaching the refreshment table. She would pretend as though she was not acutely aware of his gaze drilling holes into the back of her head, pretend as though her cheeks and neck weren’t slowly flushing red from her responding emotions.

The orchestra struck a lively tune just as she reached for a glass of lemonade. Couples flooded the dance floor, moving through the intricate patterns with varying degrees of grace.

Emma spotted Joanna standing alone at the edge of the crowd, a frown marring her features as she watched Lord Knightley lead a stunning blonde through the opening steps, and her heart sank.

Oh .

It seemed Joanna had let her romantic inclinations misinterpret the situation, indeed.

Lord Knightley was naught more than a rake—one who enjoyed charming women of all shapes, ages, and sizes. Of course, he would not be interested in her aunt past the flirtatious comments and looks.

“How disappointing,” she mumbled under her breath, her eyes narrowing on the Marquess.

She knew there was no basis for her to develop any kind of animosity toward the man, yet she couldn’t help but feel for her dear aunt.

Emma was about to return to Joanna’s side when a deep voice spoke from just behind her.

“Lady Cuthbert.”

She turned to find the Duke of Westmere standing closer than she’d expected, his severe features thrown into sharp relief by the nearby candelabra.

Up close, the effect of his formal attire was even more devastating. The fine black wool emphasized his broad shoulders, and his pristine cravat highlighted the strong column of his throat.

Devastatingly handsome.

His scars only served to amplify his beauty in her eyes with an edge of savage danger that made her blood sing. She was beginning to think that maybe she was not as sensible as she’d always believed herself to be, after all.

“Your Grace,” she replied, inwardly cursing the breathlessness of her voice. She cleared her throat. “I-I trust you are enjoying the evening?”

“I find such gatherings tedious,” he answered, his gaze intense. “Though some aspects have proven… unexpectedly tolerable.”

Emma waited, her heart hammering foolishly against her ribs, hoping against hope that he would request the next dance. That was the only reason he would approach her like this, wasn’t it? It was well known, after all, that the Duke of Westmere never approached the ladies of the ton, especially not openly, like this.

Emma decided that she would not analyze her feelings further or investigate the reason why her heart pounded so hard in anticipation as she waited for him to speak first.

But the silence stretched between them, and he made no move to break it or at least strike up a conversation. No, he just stood there, those ocean-blue eyes of his never leaving hers even as she caught them trailing down her body.

What the hell was he doing? No, she supposed the question she ought to ask herself was, What the hell are you doing right now? Why was she waiting for this brute to ask her to dance? Since when had she harbored such desires?

She had better remember propriety and move away from him now.

“I should return to my aunt,” she said finally, as it was now clear that he did not intend to say anything else. She reached for another glass of lemonade for Joanna. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace.”

He inclined his head slightly but made no move to stop her as she walked away, her disappointment a heavy weight in her chest. She willfully had to stop it from blossoming into anything bigger than it already was.

It was for the best, she supposed. What manner of scandal would a dance with the Beast of Westmere have stirred in just one night? Indeed, it would have been a disaster too big to manage in the end. And she really did not need that sort of thing right now.

Her reputation was already hanging on by the skin of its teeth anyway.