Page 18 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 18

“E ver the scoundrel, that Marquess, don’t you think, dear Emma?” Joanna said, turning to give her niece what she must have believed to be a humorous smile, but it only came out strained.

With her own heart in her throat, Emma approached her aunt, who was struggling to maintain a brave facade near a marble column, though the set of her shoulders betrayed her distress.

“He’s merely fulfilling his obligations as a host,” Emma said gently, offering the lemonade. “I am certain he would much prefer your company.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Joanna replied with forced lightness. “Lord Knightley is simply being kind to a spinster with limited prospects. I harbor no illusions.”

And while her aunt’s mouth said those flippant words, her eyes told a completely different story. The brown of her eyes was brimming with a crushed hope so profound that Emma couldn’t help but wonder if this was all but a silly crush on her aunt’s part.

Joanna was sensible. She would know better than to have feelings for a rake as popular and unrepentant as the Marquess, wouldn’t she?

Before Emma could respond, the music died down, and the dancers began dispersing. A cluster of elegantly dressed ladies approached, their expressions suggesting malice thinly veiled by social niceties.

“Miss Joanna,” cooed the leader, a statuesque woman in crimson silk whom Emma recognized as Lady Harrington. “How unexpected to see you here. I hadn’t realized Lord Knightley’s invitation extended to the scholarly bunch.”

Joanna stiffened but maintained her composure. “Lady Harrington. A pleasure as always.” Her words were dry, evidence that she did not at all mean them.

“Indeed,” Lady Harrington replied with a serpentine smile.

Then, she took a step forward, her movement seemingly innocent until her foot caught in the hem of Joanna’s dress. The glass of red wine in her hand tilted, its contents cascading over Joanna’s emerald-green gown in a crimson wave.

“Oh!” she exclaimed with patently false dismay. “How terribly clumsy of me!”

Titters rippled through her companions as Joanna stood frozen, the wine seeping into the expensive silk, staining it permanently.

“You did that on purpose,” Emma hissed, her eyes narrowed, her anger flaring hot and immediate.

But Joanna was already backing away, her face ashen beneath her spectacles.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, before turning and fleeing toward the terrace doors.

Emma moved to follow, but Lady Harrington blocked her path, feigning concern.

“Such sensitivity! It was merely an accident, I assure you,” she said, her lips curling into a concerned pout.

“An accident, my foot. You are heartless, Lady Harrington,” Emma replied coldly, before pushing past her, not even giving her or her group of lackeys the opportunity to say anything back.

By the time she reached the terrace, Joanna was nowhere to be seen.

A footman approached, bowing respectfully.

“Miss Joanna Dennison has departed, My Lady. Mrs. Weatherby offered to return her home, I believe.”

Ah. Of course. Mrs. Weatherby was another elderly member of the Athena Society.

Emma sighed, knowing that her aunt would be completely mortified by the incident. She couldn’t leave her alone.

She nodded to the footman. “Thank you. Please inform Lord Knightley that I shall depart to call on my aunt shortly to ensure her well-being.”

Needing a moment to compose herself before arranging her departure, Emma descended the terrace steps into the garden.

The night air was cool against her heated skin as she followed a winding path deeper into the grounds, eventually discovering a secluded stone bench partially concealed by a flowering arbor.

She was feeling very sorry for her aunt, of course, but she was also feeling quite sorry for herself. It seemed that Lord Knightley and his friend the Duke were indeed birds of the same feather.

He is worried about being seen with a widow.

“Ha! As if I give a whit about him! That brute,” she murmured.

He was the one who kissed her first, too! Did soldiers not understand etiquette? Or did he simply not care for anything else but his own fulfillment?

She had been seated for only a few minutes when the crunch of gravel announced another’s presence.

Emma looked up to find the Duke of Westmere approaching, his expression unreadable in the mingled moonlight and shadows.

Her pulse quickened.

“Are you unwell, Lady Cuthbert?” he inquired, his tone formal yet laced with concern.

“I am quite well, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “I merely desired a moment of solitude before departing.”

Instead of leaving, he moved closer. “Departing? I do not think you should be going anywhere in such a condition, My Lady,” he said.

Emma arched an eyebrow. “And what condition might that be, Your Grace?”

The Duke tilted his head slightly and said matter-of-factly, “You’re distressed.”

Emma almost let out a hysterical laugh. Even if she was, how was it any concern of his?

“My aunt has suffered an unpleasant encounter. I should go to her.”

“Is there something I might do to assist?”

Emma shook her head, her irritation flaring at his persistence. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone?

“You can leave me to my thoughts, Your Grace.”

“And if I refuse?” There was something different in his voice now—a rough edge that sent a shiver down her spine, one that made her hackles rise.

“Then you prove yourself as inconsiderate as your reputation suggests,” she retorted, standing up abruptly.

The Duke stepped closer, his tall, imposing frame blocking her path. “Is that what you believe of me? That I am the beast they claim me to be?”

“I believe you are a man who takes what he wants with little regard for others’ feelings,” Emma snapped, her frayed emotions getting the better of her.

But she was not the one in the wrong here. What right did he have to ask her these things after the line he’d drawn so blatantly in the ballroom earlier? Now, her wits were back, and she saw that it was indeed wise to keep that line in place.

“And what of your feelings, Emma?” The sound of her name on his lips was like a caress, dangerous and thrilling. “Do you imagine I’ve given them no thought?”

“I imagine you think of them precisely when they serve your purposes,” she replied, hating the tremor in her voice. “Such as when you choose to ignore me at a ball but follow me into gardens uninvited. This is far more dangerous than being seen with me in the ballroom, need I remind you.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I ignored you? That I am ashamed of being seen with you?”

Emma clenched her jaw, but she said nothing. What was there to say, anyway?

The Duke laughed. “You foolhardy woman,” he said.

Emma’s temper flared, but he pushed on without giving her the chance to yell at him for the insult.

“Have you not stopped to think that perhaps it was I who was sparing you the injustice of having to be associated with me? I am the Beast of Westmere, after all. Your reputation would be in shambles if you were seen with me.”

Emma huffed. “Then you should have stayed away completely, Your Grace.” Her tone was sharp as glass. “You should have ignored me till the end. Why come to me, then? Does that not defeat the logic of you ignoring me in the first place?”

At once, the Duke’s expression darkened, as though a storm cloud passed over his face.

“I suppose you’re right. I should have stayed away since I’d decided to.” He bared his teeth then. “But how could I, when every man in that ballroom watched you enter and kept watching you long moments after? How could I ignore you, when I have spent the evening keeping myself away from you lest I prove incapable of letting you go again?”

“I… I don’t understand you,” Emma whispered, her pulse thundering in her throat.

Why was he doing this to her? It felt as though he were playing with her just the same way his friend was toying with her aunt’s feelings.

Although, he was most at fault here, seeing as he deliberately did things to mislead her whilst Lord Knightley fell back to his rakish proclivities.

“Nor I you,” he growled, taking another step closer. “You claim indifference, yet your eyes seek mine across crowded rooms. You speak of distance yet return to my home week after week. Tell me, My Lady, what game are we playing?”

“No game,” she breathed, acutely aware of his proximity and the heat radiating from his body. “I come for Tristan’s sake alone.”

“Liar,” Victor murmured, raising a hand to brush a loose tendril of hair from her cheek.

Emma’s anger flared then, almost too suddenly, hot and defensive. “Do not speak as though you know me,” she snapped, her eyes flashing in the moonlight.

Victor’s lips curled into a silkily seductive grin that made her heart pound against her ribs. He moved closer, crowding her personal space until she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“Oh, My Lady,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a register that seemed to vibrate through her very bones, “I know just enough.”

Emma gasped, her chest heaving with each rapid breath, the tension between them thick and suffocating. The scent of him—sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely him—enveloped her senses.

“I know that you want me,” he added, his gaze dropping to her parted lips, “just as much…” Ragged breaths punctuated his words. “… as I want you. Do you not?”

And she had no defense against that silken dare and declaration rolled into one, no snappy comeback, her anger retreating at the naked desire she saw in his gaze as he stared down at her.

Indeed, it had been quite a while since she’d been looked upon like that, and she couldn’t deny the brazen desire burning bright and strong in her lower belly.

With a sound akin to surrender, Victor’s control finally snapped. His hands seized her waist, pulling her roughly against him as his mouth descended on hers.

Unlike their first tentative kiss by the lake, this was pure, undiluted passion—demanding, possessive, almost savage in its intensity.

Emma gasped against his lips, her hands instinctively rising to push him away, only to curl into the lapels of his coat instead, drawing him closer.

His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her with a thoroughness that left her trembling. One large hand slid up her spine to cradle the back of her head, angling her face to deepen the kiss further, while the other pressed her hips firmly against his, leaving no doubt of his desire.

“My Lady. Mine ,” he growled against her lips, the word a dark promise that sent liquid heat through her veins, that same liquid heat pooling between her legs. “Tell me you feel this too.”

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered, even as her body arched into his touch.

“But you do.” It wasn’t a question. His mouth trailed scorching kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Say it, Emma. Say you want this as I do.”

“Victor,” she breathed, his name foreign yet perfect on her tongue. It fell from her lips as though she’d spoken it all her life. She supposed it should sound so natural, given how many times she’d awakened from desire-hazed dreams with that name chasing the air out of her mouth. “I can’t think when you?—”

“Then do not think, pet.”

His mouth captured hers again, swallowing her protests with a kiss that obliterated rational thought, leaving only sensation in its wake—the solid strength of his body against hers, the intoxicating taste of him, the dizzying knowledge that the fearsome Duke of Westmere was coming undone in her arms.

This was nothing like their encounter by the lake. That had been a revelation, a first taste of forbidden fruit. This was consumption, possession, a wildfire that threatened to devour them both.

Emma was already being consumed, breath by ragged breath. And she found that she didn’t mind. Not at all. In fact, she wanted to be consumed whole.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, mussing it as she pulled him closer, meeting his ferocity with her hunger. The cool stone wall of the garden alcove pressed against her back as Victor crowded her against it, one muscular thigh sliding between hers, his large hands spanning her waist with a grip that bordered on desperation.

She felt the place between her legs moisten with her desire, and she feared he might scent it in the air between them. But she did not have the chance to seek clarity because Victor pressed his body against hers so that there was no more distance between them.

And Emma’s brain nearly melted in her skull.

Oh God, this is too much.

“I’ve thought of nothing but you,” he confessed raggedly against her throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Your scent, your taste, the sound of your elusive laughter—it haunts me, Emma. Torments me.”

And yet not nearly enough.

She gasped as his mouth returned to hers, his kiss deeper, more demanding than before. His tongue swept inside, claiming her with a thoroughness that left her trembling and clinging to his broad shoulders for support.

The taste of him—brandy and something darker, more primal—flooded her senses until she could scarcely remember her own name, let alone why she should resist this overwhelming tide of desire.

“Tell me to stop,” he commanded hoarsely, even as his lips traced a burning path down the column of her throat to the sensitive hollow at its base. “Tell me now, or I won’t have the strength to leave you.”

Instead of pushing him away, Emma’s hands slid beneath his coat, feeling the powerful muscles of his back flex beneath her palms.

“I can’t,” she admitted, the confession torn from somewhere deep and true inside her.

At her tortured admission, a sound like triumph rumbled in his chest. His hands tightened possessively on her waist, lifting her slightly to better align their bodies. Through the layers of silk and wool, she could feel the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against her—thick and deliciously heavy, sending a shockwave of heat to her core.

“Oh,” she moaned against his mouth, and she felt his answering shudder within her very bones.

“Say my name again,” he demanded, his voice rough with barely leashed control as he nipped her earlobe.

“Victor,” she whispered, the syllables like a plea on her lips.

With an almost beastly growl, the Duke’s fingers expertly found the laces of her bodice, undoing them and tugging them down to expose one breast.