Page 21 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 21

“M ama! You’ve returned!” Tristan cried as Emma entered the drawing room at Cuthbert Hall.

To her surprise, her son was seated in the window alcove, a leather-bound volume balanced on his knees. While it was not completely unusual to see him with his books, she knew he much preferred his adventure books to thick tomes.

Emma removed her gloves, approaching him with curious interest. “What’s this? My son voluntarily reading a bigger book? That must be over three hundred pages. Oh dear, I fear I must check for signs of fever.”

Tristan giggled heartily at her teasing, his excitement big and open. “It’s a book on military strategy that the Duke mentioned during our last riding lesson. He said it helped him understand chess better and that chess helps with battle planning.”

Oh?

She was not privy to this conversation. Of course, she could not possibly hear everything the Duke told her son during their lessons, but this was intriguing, nonetheless.

“Did he, indeed?” Emma sat beside him, peering at the dense text filled with diagrams of troop formations. “And are you finding it illuminating?”

“Some parts,” Tristan admitted, his finger tracing a particularly complex illustration. “Though I suspect I need to understand chess first to truly comprehend what His Grace described.”

Emma’s heart swelled at his scholarly determination—a quality he had almost lost. “Perhaps we might prevail upon the Duke to provide instruction in chess during his next visit,” she suggested, attempting to ignore the flutter in her stomach at the prospect of seeing the Duke again so soon.

“Do you think he would?” Tristan’s expression brightened considerably. “He told me chess was vital to a gentleman’s education. He learned when he was younger than me!”

“One never knows unless one asks,” Emma replied, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “Though I daresay His Grace is a very busy man with many social obligations.”

“But he always makes time for us,” Tristan pointed out with the straightforward logic of a child. “He said I remind him of himself as a boy.”

The fact that he made time for them did not shock Emma as much as her son’s last words. Truly, she barely concealed her surprise at this revelation. The Duke had never struck her as a man who formed easy connections, particularly with children. The idea that he saw something of himself in her spirited son was both touching and slightly alarming, given the complex feelings he stirred within her.

“Did he elaborate on this comparison?” she inquired, striving for a casual tone.

Tristan shrugged. “He said I asked the same questions he used to ask—the kind that made his tutors throw up their hands in despair.” He grinned with evident pride at this association. “And he said we shared an inability to sit still during tedious social occasions!”

Emma laughed despite herself. “On that count, I can hardly dispute the similarity. But first, I believe this occasion calls for celebration. Wait here.”

She disappeared into her small library, returning moments later with a volume of illustrated myths that had been a favorite during her childhood.

“Shall we read together for a while?”

Tristan nodded eagerly, setting aside his military treatise.

As they settled into the comfortable ritual of shared reading, Emma realized how long it had been since they had enjoyed such simple companionship—a casualty of her efforts to establish them in Society and Tristan’s growing independence.

“Mama,” Tristan said, after they had read several tales, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “do you think the Duke would call again soon?”

Emma marked the page with a ribbon before closing the volume. “I couldn’t say with any certainty. Why do you ask?”

“I like him,” Tristan replied simply. “He doesn’t treat me as though I’m still in short coats, and he answers my questions properly instead of saying I’ll understand when I’m older.”

“Those are indeed admirable qualities,” Emma conceded, her appreciation for Victor’s straightforward manner with her son adding to her already complicated feelings for the man. “We shall send him a note tomorrow inviting him to provide chess instruction if his schedule permits it.”

Tristan beamed, his enthusiasm cutting through Emma’s reservations like sunlight through the morning mist.

For her son’s sake, she would endure the dangerous proximity to Victor—though she silently vowed to maintain strict control over her wayward emotions in his presence.

* * *

“Check,” Victor declared, his bishop sliding diagonally across the board to threaten Tristan’s king.

Emma glanced up from her novel, noting the furrow on her son’s brow as he contemplated his next move.

They had settled into the routine of chess lessons with surprising ease, Victor appearing each Tuesday and Thursday afternoon on their doorstep with unfailing punctuality.

“If I move my king here,” Tristan reasoned aloud, “your knight could capture it in your next turn. But if I place my rook between…” He fell silent, calculating the potential consequences of each move.

Emma noticed how Victor’s gaze drifted to her as Tristan deliberated, the intensity in those blue eyes causing her breath to catch. She quickly returned her attention to her book, though the words swam meaninglessly before her.

Be calm. Be calm , she told herself, angry at the way her cheeks were slightly heating up.

“Your concentration has improved markedly since our first lesson,” Victor told Tristan, though Emma still sensed his gaze on her. “A true strategist learns to evaluate all possible outcomes before committing to action.”

“Is that how you approach all decisions, Your Grace?” Emma asked, unable to hide the subtle challenge in her tone.

For some reason, she found herself seeking to ruffle that composure of his. She could not be the only one plagued with dreams of that night in the garden, could she? Had he truly acted that way merely for his own amusement?

The Duke’s lips curled into a half-smile that sent a ripple of awareness through her, and she was immediately on high alert.

“Not all decisions merit such careful consideration, Lady Cuthbert. Some are best made on instinct alone.”

And just like that, the memory of their impulsive and passionate encounter in Lord Knightley’s garden hung between them like an unspoken confession.

Emma hastily returned to her book, her cheeks warming ever so treacherously.

“I’ll move my knight to protect the king,” Tristan decided finally, executing the move with deliberate precision, completely oblivious to his mother’s far more… adult plight.

“An interesting choice,” Victor commented, his attention returning fully to the game. “Though perhaps not the most advantageous in this particular situation.”

Three moves later, Tristan’s defense crumbled beneath Victor’s methodical assault.

“I believe that’s checkmate,” Victor announced, his tone gentle despite his decisive victory.

Tristan sighed dramatically, his lips curling into quite an adorable pout. “I was too focused on attacking your queen and neglected to defend my king properly.”

“A common beginner’s error,” Victor assured him, his tone gentle. “One learns more from defeat than from easy victory.”

“Will you show me that knight’s gambit again next time?” Tristan asked, already resetting the pieces with careful precision.

“I shall be delighted to,” Victor promised, rising from his seat. “You have a natural aptitude for strategic thinking.”

Emma set aside her book and approached the chess table. “You’ve been extraordinarily generous with your time, Your Grace. Tristan speaks of little else between your visits.”

“The pleasure has been entirely mine, Lady Cuthbert,” Victor replied, his voice dropping to a register that sent a shiver of awareness through her.

Especially when he said the word ‘pleasure.’

Her eyes narrowed on him. Was he toying with her?

“Your son possesses both curiosity and determination—qualities I greatly admire,” he finished, one hand going to ruffle the boy’s hair.

Their gazes locked momentarily, the air between them charged with the heated awareness of that night of unbridled passion.

Emma broke the connection first, turning her attention to straightening the chess pieces Tristan had hastily aligned, her pulse fluttering at her throat.

“Mama, may I tell His Grace about the village fair?” Tristan asked, oblivious to the tension between the adults.

“The village fair?” Victor echoed, his expression one of genuine interest.

“We attend every year,” Emma explained, grateful for the change of subject but still a bit suspicious of her son’s enthusiasm. “It’s a simple country diversion—nothing that would interest someone accustomed to London’s entertainments.”

Surely, he doesn’t intend to ? —

“Will you come with us?” Tristan asked eagerly. “There’s archery and games of skill and the most spectacular fireworks at dusk!”

The little imp!

“Tristan,” Emma admonished gently, “His Grace undoubtedly has more pressing engagements. You mustn’t impose.”

“On the contrary,” the Duke replied, his gaze never leaving her face, “I find myself with an unexpected vacancy in my calendar tomorrow. If the invitation is genuine, I would be delighted to join you.”

Tristan whooped with undisguised glee, while Emma struggled to maintain her composure.

“Perhaps it would be best if we traveled separately,” she suggested. “My lady’s maid will accompany us, of course, for propriety’s sake.”

“A sensible arrangement,” Victor agreed, though a subtle gleam in his eyes suggested he found her adherence to propriety somewhat amusing, considering the lines they’d already crossed. “Shall we meet at the village green at two o’clock?”

“That would be perfect,” Tristan answered, before Emma could respond. “Thank you, Your Grace! I shall show you all the best attractions!”

“I look forward to your expert guidance,” Victor assured him, the genuine warmth in his voice causing something to unfurl in Emma’s chest—a dangerous tendril of hope she hastily suppressed.

“We shall endeavor not to keep you overlong,” Emma added, wishing to establish some boundaries to the excursion before her son’s enthusiasm committed them to an entire day in the Duke’s company.

She wasn’t quite sure her heart could take it.

“I have cleared the entire afternoon for this adventure,” Victor countered smoothly. “Time in such agreeable company is never wasted.”

Emma busied herself with arranging the chess set in its velvet-lined box, avoiding his gaze. “Then we shall see you tomorrow afternoon, Your Grace.”

As she watched him take his leave, bowing over her hand with impeccable courtesy that nevertheless conveyed something far more intimate, Emma wondered if she had made a grave error in sanctioning this outing.

The walls she had carefully constructed around her heart seemed increasingly fragile in this man’s presence, and tomorrow would test their strength to the fullest.

* * *

The village fair bustled with activity. Colorful bunting stretched between ancient oak trees, and the tantalizing aroma of roasted chestnuts permeated the air.

Emma watched as the Duke of Westmere patiently helped Tristan aim at the shooting gallery, his large hands adjusting the boy’s grip on the rifle with gentle authority.

“Steady now,” Victor murmured, “and remember to breathe as you pull the trigger.”

The shot rang out, and a ceramic figurine toppled from its perch. Tristan’s triumphant exclamation drew cheers from onlookers and a proud smile from Victor that made Emma’s eyes widen and heart constrict with unexpected longing.

“Did you see that, Mama?” Tristan called, waving the small wooden toy he had won. “His Grace says I have a natural eye!”

Yes, she did see it, and now she wanted to see more of it. More of that smile.

“Splendid shooting,” Emma praised, approaching the pair. “Though I suspect your success owes much to your instructor’s guidance.”

“Lady Cuthbert underestimates her son’s natural talents,” Victor remarked, his shoulder brushing hers as they watched Tristan dash to examine the other prizes on display. “Just as much as she underestimates her own.”

Emma’s breath caught at his proximity. Where their shoulders touched, her skin warmed. “You speak in riddles, Your Grace.”

“Do I?” His voice was low, meant for her ears only. “I thought I was being uncommonly direct, My Lady. Need I drop all courtesy, then? I doubt you will misunderstand me then.”

Before Emma could formulate a response to the innuendo, Tristan had returned, tugging at Victor’s sleeve to pull him toward the next attraction.

Throughout the afternoon, as Tristan darted between booths with boundless energy, Emma found her eyes drawn to the Duke’s broad shoulders, his expression pleasant, despite the scar on his face. And of course, he caught many of those glances, his lips curling into that rare ghost of a smile that made her want to coax much more out of him.

When their fingers brushed as he handed her a cup of mulled cider, the contact sent sparks through her veins.

“Your hands are cold,” he observed, his thumb lingering against her wrist, where her pulse betrayed her reaction to his touch.

“The wind has a bite to it today,” she managed, withdrawing her hand a little too quickly, her cheeks flushing.

“Allow me,” Victor replied, removing his fine leather gloves and offering them to her with a gallantry that bordered on courtship.

Was he… Could he possibly be flirting with her right now?

“I couldn’t possibly,” Emma protested, her breath catching in her throat. “What of your comfort?”

“I assure you, I am warm enough,” he insisted, his eyes conveying more beyond the simple words.

Emma’s entire face reddened, and she lowered her eyes immediately.

“Are you sure you are all right, My Lady?” The Duke sounded amused, but she could not look up at him.

“Yes, I… I’m all right, Your Grace, thank you.”

She accepted the gloves, the leather still bearing the warmth of his hands as she slipped them on.

They were comically large on her slender fingers, but she found that her heart very much liked it, oddly moved by the intimate loan of a personal article.

“He’s remarkably like you,” Victor observed quietly as they watched Tristan enthusiastically describing the mechanics of the puppet show to her lady’s maid. “The same determined set to his jaw when he’s absorbed in a task.”

“Well, he does look like me,” Emma replied, surprised by the observation.

Victor’s gaze lingered on her face. “And his spirit is unmistakably yours.”

“You speak as though you know me well, Your Grace,” Emma said, attempting to inject a note of lighthearted chiding into her voice.

Maybe she could dissolve this tension between them…

“Not nearly as well as I would like,” he replied, his candor stealing her breath. “I had once believed myself to be a patient man, Lady Cuthbert, but now I cannot fool myself when it comes to you.”

The implications of his statement hung between them, fraught with a possibility that both thrilled and terrified her.

Before she could respond, Tristan had bounded back to them, eagerly describing the fire-eater’s performance and effectively dispelling the moment.

Emma didn’t know whether to be grateful or apprehensive.

As dusk approached, she reluctantly announced they should leave.

“The carriages will be waiting at the eastern edge of the village green,” she reminded Victor. “We shouldn’t keep your driver waiting in the gathering darkness.”

“I shall escort you,” Victor insisted, offering his arm.

Emma hesitated before accepting, acutely aware of her maid and Tristan following several paces behind, the boy chattering excitedly about his victories at the various game booths.

“I must thank you for indulging Tristan today,” she said as they walked, the twilight casting long shadows across the village green. “He has few male influences in his life, and I fear I cannot provide the sort of guidance a growing boy requires in certain matters.”

“He is a credit to your parenting,” Victor replied. “And I have found his company unexpectedly refreshing. You need not worry about it.”

“And what of my company, Your Grace?” Emma asked, the gathering darkness lending her courage she would not have possessed in daylight. Indeed, her heart was pounding erratically in her chest. “Do you find it similarly refreshing?”

With Tristan and the maid now far away, Victor drew to a halt, turning to face her fully. “I find your company addictive, Lady Cuthbert.” His voice, usually gruff and curt, now had a heated edge to it that caused heat to pool in her lower belly. “A dangerous indulgence I find myself increasingly unwilling to let go.”

The naked honesty in his expression stole her breath. This was no practiced gallantry, no empty flattery designed to seduce. This was raw truth—perhaps more than she was ready to acknowledge.

“Your Grace,” she started, her voice trembling. “I don’t think we should?—”

They had nearly reached the carriages when her lady’s maid’s panicked voice cut through the evening air.

“My Lady! Master Tristan… he… he’s gone after a fox into the woods!”

Emma whirled around to see her maid pointing frantically toward the dense copse of trees bordering the village green, darkness already swallowing the path where her son had disappeared.

And her heart froze with sudden terror.