Page 20 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 20

“M y Lady, thank heavens you’ve come!” Joanna’s lady’s maid exclaimed, ushering Emma through the foyer of Dennison House with haste. “Miss Joanna has been inconsolable since returning from Lord Knightley’s ball! But she won’t say what’s wrong.”

Emma, pulse pounding in her throat, followed the maid up the grand staircase of her aunt’s house, her heart constricting at the thought of her distress.

Even though she’d long since left Knightley Hall, her mind was still in such a flurry of confused emotions. But she scarcely had the time to worry about her encounter with the Duke of Westmere at the moment.

Her aunt needed her now. Still, shame colored her concern as she tried to forget the very reason why she arrived so late.

“And how is she now, Fiona?” she asked as they reached the landing, forcing her mind back to the matter at hand.

The lady’s maid sighed. “Her Ladyship has gone quiet, but I fear the worst,” she replied, gesturing toward the double doors that led to Joanna’s rooms. “I wonder what sort of accident has ruined her gown so badly. And oh, how she’d been looking forward to wearing it?—”

“How severe was the damage to her gown?” Emma inquired, removing her gloves as she climbed, her anger resurging as she remembered Lady Harrington’s malicious attack back at the party.

The maid’s expression darkened. “The wine has utterly ruined the silk, My Lady.”

Emma clenched her teeth. But it was not merely the gown—it was the humiliation. Lady Harrington’s circle made certain the incident had been witnessed by half the ton.

They reached Joanna’s bedchamber, where Emma found her aunt crumpled before the fire, still in her ruined finery, tears carving dark paths through her powdered face.

Joanna looked up at Emma’s entrance, her expression momentarily brightening before crumpling once more.

“Oh, Emma,” she whispered, “you didn’t have to leave the party because of me!”

But Emma was shaking her head. “Do not say that, dear,” she said, rushing to sit beside the older woman. “How could I let you be alone after what happened?”

“Oh, how can I face anyone after—” Joanna began to say, but Emma interrupted her.

“Lady Harrington should be the one embarrassed, Joanna,” she said sternly. “Do not let her malicious actions get to you. I’ll definitely make her pay, even if it’s the last thing I do!”

At that declaration, her aunt’s face finally melted into something of a smile, before she sniffled and said, “Thank you so much, Emma. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As she held her aunt, Emma’s mind couldn’t help but wander, returning a little too eagerly to her little tryst with the Duke in the garden. To the vulgar words he spoke and the way his touch sparked a flame?—

“No,” she said out loud.

She should not think about that right now. All that had been was a mistake. She had to think of it that way now, or else… she would go positively demented, she was sure of it.

So, she helped Joanna rise, gesturing for the maid to bring a nightgown. “Let us get you out of this gown first, then you’ll have a warm bath.”

Despite her resolve, however, unbidden images of Victor’s hands and mouth on her body flickered persistently through her consciousness. She had fled from him in a moment of panicked clarity, but now the memory of his touch remained branded on her skin like an invisible claim.

Her aunt no doubt sensed her inner battle because she turned to face her, her eyes sharpening with sudden scrutiny.

“So why did you leave early?” she asked.

Emma opened her mouth to reply, but her aunt’s keen gaze stayed her tongue.

“And do not say you were coming after me. You look rather disheveled, my dear.”

Oh dear. Was it that obvious? She’d thought she’d done a good job of fixing her appearance.

“Did something occur?”

Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks and busied herself with rearranging the bedcovers. “Nothing of significance. I merely found the crush overwhelming for a moment after your departure and sought some air in the gardens.”

“Alone?” Joanna asked, with the piercing insight that had characterized their relationship since Emma was but a tween.

Emma hesitated, torn between her habitual discretion and the longing to confide in someone about the tumultuous feelings Victor had awakened. And who better to speak to about this other than her aunt? Joanna was a brilliant woman who would no doubt have some good advice for her.

“The Duke of Westmere was also taking the air,” she admitted finally, her voice barely audible.

“The Duke?” Joanna sat upright, her fatigue temporarily forgotten. “Emma, you must tell me everything immediately.”

“There is precious little to tell,” Emma prevaricated, though the lingering sensation of Victor’s mouth against her throat belied her words. “We—We got into a fight in the gardens, and…”

“And…?” Joanna was completely focused on her now, and Emma fought the urge to squirm under the attention.

She quickly recognized the futility of trying to hide anything, however. Her aunt was much like Annabelle in that regard.

“There was… an encounter of a somewhat improper nature,” she conceded, unable to meet her aunt’s gaze. “A momentary lapse in judgment that cannot—no, that must not be repeated.”

“Improper?” Joanna echoed.

Oh, she was very interested, indeed. So much so that she’d even forgotten her own woes. “Emma, my dear, do you mean to say that the Duke of Westmere… made advances on you?”

“It was mutual folly,” Emma corrected, rising to pace the small confines of the bedchamber. “An impulse born of… I know not what. But it signifies nothing. The Duke does not seem like a man who forms attachments, and… and I have Tristan to consider. The entire episode is best forgotten.”

Yes. It was best to forget it ever happened in the first place. It was best not to dwell on the fact that the beastly Duke of Westmere had given her her first orgasm in years.

Joanna studied her niece’s flushed countenance. “You care for him,” she observed quietly. “Beyond mere physical attraction.”

Emma went still, her heart pounding with an intensity that terrified her, truly.

“That…” She cleared her throat. “That cannot be true, Joanna.” She tried to sound as stern as she possibly could. “I couldn’t possibly be that much of an idiot. Care for him? No. I merely appreciate him for… for all the attention he shows Tristan. He’s far too kind to the boy.”

“Hm…” Joanna considered. “And what about the attention he shows you?”

Emma’s cheeks flushed a deeper red. “I do not possibly know what you mean, Joanna,” she said stubbornly. “That grouchy beast paying me any attention? I suspect it’s nothing more than a fleeting amusement on his part.”

“Perhaps,” Joanna conceded, but her expression remained thoughtful. “Though I have noticed how he looks at you when he believes no one is watching. There is genuine regard there, Emma.”

But Emma shook her head. “We shall speak no more of it. Tonight is for your comfort, not my confused sentiments.”

Joanna relented, and Emma grabbed a coverlet from the nearby chaise longue and tucked it around her shoulders. “Will you stay?”

“Of course,” Emma agreed, grateful for the change of subject. “I’ll send word to Cuthbert Hall that I’ll return in the morning.”

“And what about Tristan?”

Emma’s heart squeezed at the mention of her son. “He will be fine. He should be asleep by now.”

Well, at least, she hoped he would.

The reason she was this tangled up with the Duke in the first place was because that little imp was never where she left him, but she was confident this time that he would be nicely tucked in bed by now.

She’d made sure to take precautions that night against his wanderings.

As Joanna drifted into exhausted slumber beside her, Emma lay awake, her body still humming with phantom pleasure even as her mind cataloged all the reasons she must guard her heart against the Duke’s dangerous allure.

For Tristan’s sake, for her self-preservation, she had to ensure their interactions remained within the bounds of proper acquaintance—regardless of how much her traitorous body yearned for his touch.

* * *

Joanna stood motionless at her drawing room window, the morning light catching the lenses of her spectacles as Mrs. Flint delivered the news that momentarily suspended all rational thought. Lady Harrington’s carriage stood on the gravel drive, its polished elegance as incongruous against the surroundings of Dennison House as its owner’s presence would be within it.

“Show her in,” Joanna instructed, smoothing her day dress with hands that betrayed a slight tremor. “And perhaps arrange for tea.”

Lady Harrington cut an imposing figure in lavender silk and Brussels lace, her usual hauteur noticeably diminished as she examined a small watercolor landscape with feigned interest. The silence between them stretched like an overwound clock spring until she turned, fidgeting uncharacteristically with her reticule.

“Miss Joanna, I believe I owe you an apology for the regrettable incident at the Marquess of Knightley’s ball last evening.”

The statement, delivered with visible difficulty, momentarily robbed Joanna of her usual composure.

“An apology,” she echoed, the words emerging more as a confirmation than a question.

“Indeed. The spillage of wine on your gown was not the accident I claimed it to be.” Lady Harrington’s lips thinned. “It was a deliberate act, prompted by petty jealousy of your evident rapport with the Marquess.”

Joanna’s eyebrows rose. “Jealousy? Of what, pray tell?”

“His attention to your conversation was… noticeable. Particularly to one such as yourself, who makes no particular effort to cultivate the social graces most gentlemen find appealing.”

The assessment, though partially wrapped in apology, contained barbs that might have wounded Joanna had she not spent a lifetime developing immunity to such judgments.

Was Lady Harrington truly here to apologize? She spoke like someone who’d never had to apologize in her life.

Her housekeeper’s arrival with tea provided a momentary reprieve from the tension.

Once cups had been poured, Lady Harrington withdrew an envelope from her reticule. “I have taken the liberty of including a sum that should cover the cost of replacing the garment.”

Joanna regarded the envelope without reaching for it. “That is most… generous. Though I confess I am curious about this unexpected change of heart.”

“Let us say that I have been reminded of certain obligations that accompany privilege,” Lady Harrington replied. “I also wished to extend an invitation to you and your niece, Lady Cuthbert, to attend my garden party next Thursday.”

Joanna’s jaw dropped. Lady Harrington’s garden parties were exclusive affairs; that she should extend such an invitation defied all established patterns of their acquaintance.

“It would please me greatly to demonstrate that any… unpleasantness between us has been resolved to mutual satisfaction.”

The careful phrasing suggested motives beyond mere contrition, yet the apology itself seemed genuine enough if reluctantly delivered.

“I shall, of course, need to consult with my niece, but speaking for myself, I would be… pleased to accept your invitation.”

Relief flickered briefly across Lady Harrington’s features, before her composed facade reasserted itself. With brisk efficiency, she concluded her visit and departed, leaving Joanna in a state of bewildered contemplation.

Emma came down the stairs shortly after, finding her aunt still at the threshold, watching Lady Harrington’s departing carriage.

“She came to my house and apologized to me.” Joanna’s voice trembled with disbelief. “I cannot fathom it. Why would she humble herself so?”

Emma followed her gaze, recognizing the crest. “Lady Harrington called on you? Whatever for?”

“To apologize for the wine incident, offer compensation, and invite us both to her garden party next Thursday.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “Lady Harrington invited us to her garden party? The same woman who missed no chance to disparage us whenever she could?”

“The very same,” Joanna confirmed, removing her spectacles to polish them—a gesture that accompanied her deepest perplexity. “She claimed to be motivated by remorse, but there was something in her manner… a suggestion of external influence.”

The invitation sat between them like a riddle waiting to be solved, its presence a disruption to the carefully mapped social terrain they had grown accustomed to navigating.

Emma speared her aunt with a look again as the woman picked the card up.

Joanna huffed out a laugh. “I am just as astonished as you are,” she added, her fingers still clutching the elegantly embossed card as though it were made of clouds. “What could have possibly prompted such a remarkable change of heart?”

“Perhaps she experienced a crisis of conscience,” Emma suggested, knowing that her explanation sounded implausible even as she uttered it.

Now, Joanna’s laugh held a note of incredulity because she, too, did not believe those words either.

“Lady Harrington would require a conscience first, my dear.” Her gaze sharpened as she noted Emma’s heightened color. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this, would you?”

“Me?” Emma blinked at her aunt in innocent surprise. “How could I possibly influence Lady Harrington? We hardly run in the same circles.”

“Then… could it have been Annabelle?” Joanna mused, setting the invitation aside and taking Emma’s hands in her own. “That girl does have a temper, after all.”

Emma shook her head. “I am not so sure. We may ask her about it the next time we meet.”

“Indeed.” Joanna nodded. “I truly am curious as to what prompted this.” Then, she tilted her head. “Or… maybe the Duke stepped in?”

Emma froze. The Duke? Why would her aunt bring him up out of nowhere like this? Had she been too eager when she’d told her aunt about what happened last night?

Already, her thoughts were plagued with memories of the previous evening—of the Duke’s strong arms enfolding her, of his lips claiming hers with intoxicating possession, of his voice whispering scandalous promises against her heated skin.

Embarrassed, she quickly banished the memories, though a telltale flush crept up her neck.

She quietly extricated her hands from Joanna’s grasp, busying herself with straightening the already immaculate arrangement of flowers on the side table.

“I fail to see what the Duke of Westmere’s movements could have to do with Lady Harrington’s sudden bout of remorse.”

“Am I reaching too far?” Joanna’s tone was gentle, but there was a sliver of suspicion there.

Emma nodded once. “You surely are.”

“Forgive me.” Her aunt put her hand on her shoulder. “I am just concerned about your relationship with the?—”

“I keep telling you, Joanna, there is no relationship,” Emma interrupted, her voice a bit too shrill.

“Is that truly so?” Joanna pressed, taking a seat beside her. “Because your expression suggests that you hope for something more?—”

“No, I…” Emma stared down at her clasped hands. “I shouldn’t have allowed it,” she whispered. “A moment of weakness… It was just a momentary indulgence that can lead nowhere.”

“Oh, my dear Emma.” Joanna’s voice softened. “You’ve denied yourself happiness for so long, carrying the weight of propriety and responsibility since Harold’s passing. Is it so terrible to feel something for another man, even momentarily?”

“You don’t understand.” Emma’s voice caught. “I have Tristan to consider. I cannot indulge in… in whatever this is. The Duke… He does not seem like a man who seeks permanence, and I cannot afford to be a passing fancy. The scandal alone would ruin Tristan’s prospects.”

“And yet,” Joanna observed quietly, “I’ve never seen Tristan so animated as when he speaks of His Grace. Nor have I seen such light in your eyes since Lord Cuthbert died.”

Before Emma could formulate a response, the door burst open to admit a flustered maid. “Begging your pardon, My Lady, but Master Tristan has sent word asking when Lady Cuthbert might return home.”

Emma rose, grateful for the interruption. “I should return home.”

“Thank you for your support, my dear.” Joanna embraced her niece. “And… think on what I said. And perhaps consider that what seems like an impossible choice may not be so impossible, after all.”