Page 24 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 24

“B ut Mama, all the other boys are permitted to ride unaccompanied by the time they are eight!” Tristan’s small face flushed with indignation, his hands balled into fists at his sides. “Even the Duke says I handle a horse remarkably well during our lessons.”

Emma regarded her son with a mixture of exasperation and fierce protectiveness… and maybe even a little bit of shame. Because the mere mention of Victor sent an unbidden warmth through her body as memories of yesterday afternoon in her art studio, when he had come upon her mixing pigments, threatened to overtake her mind.

Memories of how swiftly the brushes had been forgotten, her canvas pushed aside as he backed her against the table, easel lying askew but his mouth hot against her neck, his hands lifting her skirts with delicious urgency…

She straightened, banishing the improper thoughts, blinking rapidly to clear the memory from behind her eyelids. By God, what was she even thinking in front of her eight-year-old son? Now was certainly not the time to be distracted by such carnal pleasures.

She cleared her throat once, trying to affect a stern look despite the pitter-patter of her pulse at the base of her throat.

“The Duke of Westmere supervises your riding most attentively, my dear. That is precisely why you have progressed so admirably,” she said. “But you’ve barely had the chance to ride since your fall?—”

“It was but a scratch!” Tristan declared, his whine emerging slowly.

Apparently, now that he was alone with his mother, with no Duke in sight, he was slowly becoming a ‘child’ again, no more a ‘man’ as he was always quick to point out to her these days.

“And would you care to remind me how that fall happened?” Emma arched an eyebrow at him, and his mouth snapped shut at once. “You’ve been bedridden for days?—”

“But now the wound is healed completely!” Tristan argued. “His Grace said that I was very bold.”

Ah, yes, of course. These days, Tristan spared no moment to talk about the Duke.

About Victor .

Despite their many secret trysts since their first coupling all those days ago, Emma could not stop a dusting of red from blooming on her cheeks every time she remembered just how intimately she’d come to speak his first name, especially in such… close quarters.

“A ‘scratch’ that required fifteen stitches and left you feverish for days,” Emma countered, smoothing her skirts as she sat straighter in her chair.

These past weeks, as Victor had integrated himself into their lives, Tristan’s admiration for the Duke had grown into something akin to worship.

“You may ride Caesar, but only with Mr. Jenkins or His Grace accompanying you.”

“Mr. Jenkins!” Tristan’s expression crumpled at the mention of his former riding instructor. “He rides as though he fears the horse might suddenly transform into a dragon beneath him. And His Grace is attending to business in London today.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Emma’s mouth as she recalled Victor’s whispered promise to return by nightfall, his eyes dark with desire as he kissed her goodbye in the shadowed alcove of the east hallway.

“Nevertheless, those are my conditions.”

“If the Duke were here, he would let me ride alone,” Tristan murmured, his voice barely audible. “He understands that a man must learn independence.”

The words made Emma press her lips into a thin line. The boy’s attachment to Victor made her heart swell, that was true, but she definitely didn’t like it when he tried to use it as a bargaining chip.

“Ha,” she scoffed, and his eyes widened with childish affront. “No, he would not , and you know that.”

“Mama—” he started to protest, his small face blooming red, but Emma had just about enough.

She lifted her hand, her expression stern. “That is enough, Tristan. My decision stands,” she said, her tone final.

Her son’s eyes—so like her own—narrowed dangerously. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, his footfalls unnecessarily heavy on the parquet floor.

Emma sighed, her head falling back in the silence.

Indeed, if Victor were here, Tristan would be a great deal more agreeable than he was now. It was obvious that she was ill-equipped to handle an eight-year-old toeing the line of masculine rebellion, but she tried not to let herself be too hard on him. He was, after all, a young boy trying to find his own identity, and his rebellion was but the consequence of that.

* * *

That afternoon, when Emma was working in her art studio, Victor suddenly appeared, locking the door behind him.

“Vic—” she gasped, but her words vanished in the air as Victor lifted her onto the table amidst her scattered brushes.

“Shh, we don’t want to wake Tristan, do we?” he whispered against her throat, his throbbing member pressed against her molten center with a teasing possessiveness that had nearly sent her into an orgasm of grand proportions.

She was far too occupied with his fiery yet slow kisses to formulate an answer, her moans being constantly swallowed by his lips as she sought release.

She should worry that her son might happen upon them, but she had found that when she was in Victor’s embrace, all her feminine desires awakened—especially the very inappropriate ones.

When his hand found her throbbing center, she screamed into his mouth before throwing her head back as she savored the feel of his thick fingers slowly pushing into her aching flesh, one finger after the other, massaging her inner walls and stretching her all at once.

Her fingers, tinged with paint, tangled in his hair, streaking the thick, dark brown curls with blue and purple.

“Ah,” she moaned as Victor hummed against her throat, his tongue snaking out to lick the sweat at the base of her throat.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his fingers thrusting with urgency as his hips undulated against hers. “I want to feel you around my cock again. I need to have you again.”

“Oh,” Emma exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening in his hair as she rose to kiss him. “Please,” she begged, no longer caring for anything but the conflagration that was to come. “I want you inside me, Victor.”

He cursed, pulling down his pants hurriedly, while she tugged at his cravat and shirt. His chest was now bare, and she dragged her paint-stained fingers along the muscled ridges of his abdomen, leaving more streaks of blue and purple.

Victor chuckled. “Hm, am I your canvas now, my sweet Emma?” he murmured against her ear, thrusting slowly in her grip as she held him. “What would you like to paint on me?”

“I do not know,” Emma replied. “I want you, Victor. Now.”

Victor’s expression turned ravenous. “As My Lady wishes,” he said silkily, before taking his manhood and thrusting once, slow and long, into her waiting heat.

“Oh…” she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut at the invading fullness, her legs parting wider to accommodate his girth.

“You minx,” Victor growled, tugging at her chemise to bare her breasts to his gaze.

Then, he dipped one finger into the red paint splattered across the table beside them.

When he smudged the color across her chest, Emma couldn’t help but laugh at the absurd picture he painted.

“What are you doing?” She laughed, but then she broke off at the molten fire in his gaze.

“Playing with my food,” he drawled and lowered his head to suck one nipple into his mouth.

“Oh…” she gasped, and her hips jerked once as he drew back and slammed back into her.

“My mouth looks so good on your skin,” he groaned, the look in his eyes one of complete obsession. “What color should I paint the other breast, little kitten?”

But Emma could barely think as his thrusts quickened, his hips working inside her with exquisite skill that left her breathless.

“Hm?” he prompted, angling his hips to brush against that sweet spot inside her that made stars burst in front of her eyes. “Tell me, Emma. What color should I mark this beautiful breast with? Green? Yellow? Or blue… just like my eyes?”

She hated how much he teased her, so she only cupped his face in her hands and captured his lips with hers. Victor moaned, and he kept kissing her until he pulled away.

He growled softly against her mouth, his breath hot and uneven. “I want to paint you in the color of my desire,” he whispered, his lips grazing her ear. “And watch it melt off you while you tremble around me.”

Emma gasped. His words, the rhythm, the pressure—it all collided in a surge that swept her under. Her back arched as pleasure overtook her, a cry tearing from her throat as he followed her over the edge with a deep, guttural groan, his hips jerking once, twice, then going still.

For a moment, neither moved. The only sounds were their breaths—ragged, mingled, real .

Victor collapsed atop her, burying his face in her neck, his hand lazily trailing down her side.

“You ruin me,” he murmured against her skin. “And I don’t even care.”

Emma let out a shaky laugh, threading her fingers through his damp hair. “You’re a menace.”

He smiled against her collarbone. “Only for you, little kitten.”

A few moments later, he helped her off the table, his hands firm around her waist as he steadied her. He grabbed a cloth and began wiping the paint smeared across her stomach and hips, slow and deliberate—until she reached to wipe the last of it from her breast.

He caught her wrist.

“Leave it,” he murmured, his voice like velvet stretched over something darker. His eyes locked onto the vivid mark he’d left. “No one else will see it. Just you.”

Emma’s breath caught, her body still tingling from what they’d done.

“Later tonight,” he continued, leaning in so his lips brushed her ear, “I want you to take a bath. Let the water get warm—hot enough to sting a little. Then, when the paint begins to melt off your beautiful skin…” He paused, just long enough to make her ache. “Touch yourself. Think of my hands. My mouth. My eyes watching you.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

Victor kissed her temple, slow and possessive. “That’s mine. Even when I’m not there, Emma—you’re still mine.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears, his words echoing inside her like a spell she couldn’t shake. The heat of his breath on her skin, the command in his voice—it left her trembling, wet all over again. She couldn’t even look at him without her thighs pressing together.

“All right.” She nodded, biting her lip.

“That’s my good girl.” He smirked, his thumb brushing her lower lip.

Silently, they began to dress, helping each other with rumpled layers and half-buttoned clothing. Victor smoothed a curl from her cheek, his fingers brushing her lips in a touch more intimate than a kiss.

And then the door burst open.

“My Lady! Master Tristan has taken one of the horses and ridden off alone!” the housekeeper exclaimed, her cap askew. She blinked and blushed as she spotted Victor and took in the state they were in. “Y-Your Grace. P-Pardon?—”

“What? A horse?” Emma cut her off. “How did he even manage to saddle him?”

“He didn’t, My Lady. Rode bareback, h-he did. Straight past the stables,” the housekeeper sputtered.

The blood drained from Emma’s face. Terror seized her heart as she envisioned her small son in danger.

As she turned to Victor, she saw alarm flashing in his eyes momentarily. His gaze carried an unspoken understanding of their shared concern for the boy who had come to mean so much to him.

“How long has he been gone?” he asked, his voice steady.

“Ten minutes at most,” answered the housekeeper, who pretended not to notice his hand briefly clasping Emma’s.

Without hesitation, Victor turned to the door. “I shall find him, Emma. You have my word.”

Emma couldn’t help but feel that the three of them—her, Victor, and Tristan—were forming something akin to a… family .

“But—” she began in a trembling voice.

“Do not fear,” he murmured, his expression grave yet determined. His hand reached up to briefly touch her cheek, a gesture hidden from the housekeeper’s view by his broad shoulders. “Stay here. I will return with him before dusk.”

As Victor departed, Emma stood frozen in the doorway, listening to the fading sound of his footsteps and then the distant thunder of hoofbeats as he galloped away.

* * *

“Your mother is very worried, Tristan!” Victor’s voice was stern as he steered his horse off the path toward the grass before climbing down.

He’d rode his horse aimlessly for a while before he’d come upon hoof tracks that had led him into his estate, to a secluded corner.

The corner where Caroline and John were buried.

Of course, he should have figured that the boy would be on his grounds, seeing as the child seemed to like something about his property.

Tristan jerked and whirled around at the sound of his voice, his face flushing with embarrassment—and maybe a little guilt.

“Your Grace!” he exclaimed, shuffling his feet and fidgeting as he watched the older man approach him. “I?—”

“You rode a horse without a saddle or even any recourse to your safety,” Victor interrupted, his voice hard as a rock and as jagged as one hewn by harsh elements. “Did you forget why you’ve been bedridden these last few days, boy?”

Tristan looked sufficiently chastened in front of him now. “I… I just wanted to show you that I could ride a?—”

Victor, now closing the distance between them, grabbed the child by the arms. “Is that more important than your safety? Than your mother’s well-being? Is my approval more important than your life?”

Tristan’s eyes were wide as he held his gaze. “I… I just wanted to…”

Victor took a deep breath, shoving his panic back behind the giant steel doors he’d constructed around his heart.

This was dangerous, indeed. The boy seemed to look up to him too much, even if it put him in danger.

What had he done to deserve such devotion?

Victor sighed and released the boy. “Let us go home now,” he suggested. “Your mother is waiting for?—”

“This stone,” Tristan said, his voice quiet, pointing to the headstone behind him, “it bears your name.”

Victor blinked, his breath stuttering in his chest.

Ah .

He’d hoped they could leave without having to address the obvious.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Tristan looked up at him with earnest eyes. “You had a son?”

And the words were like serrated blades tearing into his heart, past the steel contraption he’d erected around it. The child’s earnestness dredged up emotions that he’d long since buried.

“He would have been seven this year.”

Victor had not intended to speak the words aloud. They escaped unbidden as he stared down at the modest marble headstone, its surface gleaming with a cold purity in the afternoon light.

Caroline Aldridge, wife to Lord Victor Aldridge, and infant son John.

The boy beside him shifted, his small fingers tightening on the reins of his horse, the stallion now docile after the wild gallop that had brought them to this secluded corner of the Westmere estate.

“Your wife’s name was Caroline?” Tristan asked, his voice hushed.

Victor nodded, surprised to find that the usual constriction in his throat had eased somewhat. Perhaps it was the presence of the boy—this child, who had, without permission or precedent, carved a place for himself in Victor’s previously solitary existence.

“She was a good woman,” he said. “Gentle, but also determined. She played the pianoforte exquisitely.”

Tristan took a tentative step closer to the headstone, his brow furrowed in concentration as he processed this information. “And the baby… he was to be called John?”

“Yes. After my grandfather, the fifth Duke.” Victor found himself kneeling to bring himself to eye level with the boy.

A breeze rustled through the copper beech trees that sheltered the small family plot, their leaves casting dappled shadows across the immaculate grass. Victor had instructed his groundskeeper to maintain this section of the estate, though he himself had avoided visiting for years.

“Did you love her very much?” Tristan inquired, his eyes wide with the unabashed curiosity of childhood. “Like in the stories?”

The question caught Victor unawares. He had respected Caroline, certainly. Had admired her grace, her accomplishments, her exemplary breeding. But love? That all-consuming passion described in poetry and plays? He had imagined such sentiments would develop in time, as was often the case in arranged marriages.

“We were very young when we married,” he answered carefully. “It was what was expected of us both.”

Tristan considered this, his expression suggesting he found Victor’s response lacking. “Mama says that some people marry for duty and others marry for love. She says that the best marriages have both.”

Victor’s chest tightened.

Emma .

The thought of her invariably evoked a constellation of responses within him—desire, certainly, but also a profound tenderness that had taken root in the time he’d spent with her so far.

Their clandestine liaison had been born from his inability to stay away from her, and it had only grown deeper as their relationship progressed. He’d believed he could deal with it, but now…

Now, he did not know what he believed any longer.

“Your mother is a wise woman,” he said finally.

“She cries sometimes,” Tristan confided, his voice dropping further. “When she thinks I’m asleep. I think she’s lonely.”

Victor regarded the boy who stood so earnestly before him—this child who bore Emma’s determined chin and quick intelligence.

“Do you miss them very much?” Tristan asked, gesturing toward the gravestone. “Is that why you went away to war?”

Again, that disarming directness.

“I suppose I did,” Victor replied solemnly. “The house seemed… too empty. And there was a demand for men to serve.”

Tristan nodded sagely, as though Victor had confirmed some private theory. “When my father died, I wasn’t sad.” He kicked at a tuft of grass, not meeting Victor’s eyes. “Is that wicked of me?”

Victor hesitated. The late Earl’s reputation had preceded him—a man of dissolute habits and violent disposition. A man who had treated his wife with callous indifference at best and cruelty at worst, before his death.

The knowledge that Emma had endured such a marriage, that this bright-eyed child had witnessed his mother’s suffering, kindled a familiar rage within Victor’s chest.

“No,” he said firmly. “It is not wicked to withhold grief from those who have not earned it.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by Ares’s occasional snort as he grazed on the lush grass at the perimeter of the burial ground.

“You know,” Tristan said abruptly, his expression brightening, “it’s very sad what happened to your family. But at least you have me and Mama now.”

The words, delivered with such innocent certainty, struck Victor with the force of a physical blow. The boy’s transparent hope—his unguarded affection—laid bare the precarious nature of the path Victor had allowed himself to tread.

He had inserted himself into the lives of this woman and her son, had permitted himself to imagine a future that included them. A domesticity he had once scorned now beckoned with cruel allure.

“I suppose I do,” he said, a small smile playing on his lips. “But we must return you to Cuthbert Hall. Your mother will be concerned.”

The boy nodded. “I’m sorry for taking Caesar without permission, Your Grace,” he said stiffly.

“I am not the one you should be apologizing to,” Victor replied, leading the way back to where the horse waited.

Tristan nodded in defeat. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said in a small voice. “I will apologize to Mama as soon as I return home.”

Victor nodded once. “I trust you understand the potential dangers of this enterprise and will not do it again.”

“I won’t, Your Grace.”