Page 25 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 25

“I confess myself astonished to find Your Grace in attendance,” came a voice at Victor’s elbow.

The Swinton ballroom glittered with an ostentatious display of wealth, its chandeliers casting prismatic light on the assembled crème de la crème .

The Duchess of Swinton’s annual charity ball was renowned as much for its exclusivity as for the ostensible charitable purpose that justified the gathering. Attendance was non-negotiable for those wishing to maintain their social standing—a fact that Victor acknowledged with grim resignation as he accepted a glass of champagne from a passing footman.

He turned to find Miss Annabelle Lytton regarding him with shrewd eyes.

“I had begun to wonder if you had retired permanently to that mausoleum you call a residence,” she told him.

“Miss Lytton,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “The Duchess was most insistent.”

“As well she might be, given that your contribution to the orphanage fund last year exceeded that of all other donors combined.” She sipped her champagne, her gaze never leaving his face. “Though I suspect your generosity had less to do with concern for orphaned children and more to do with a desire to silence any further entreaties for your participation.”

Despite himself, Victor felt his mouth twitch into a smile. Miss Lytton’s directness was refreshing in contrast to the ton’s typical elegant evasion.

“You impugn my charitable nature, Miss Lytton.”

“No,” she corrected, “I merely recognize a strategic deployment of resources when I see one. A quality you share with my dear friend as it happens.” Her gaze shifted meaningfully toward Emma.

Emma .

Here she was, across the crowded room, a vision in deep sapphire silk that accentuated her creamy skin.

However, she was now surrounded by a group of young men whose flushed complexions suggested liberal indulgence in the Duchess’s champagne.

“I merely inquired as to the possibility of your remarrying,” Lord Frampton—Victor recognized him instantly, and with no small measure of disdain—was saying, loud enough for every nearby ear to hear. “A natural curiosity, given your… rather precarious circumstances.”

Victor was already moving, cutting through the crowd with the kind of unflinching purpose that had once carried him across the deck of a warship under cannon fire. As he closed the distance, he saw Emma standing stiffly, her face pale but dignified, her hands clasped with deliberate poise.

“If you’ll excuse me, My Lords,” she said, her voice low but firm, laced with urgency, “I must greet an acquaintance.”

“But the question remains unanswered, Lady Cuthbert,” Lord Frampton pressed, swaying slightly, a smug gleam in his eyes. “One does wonder—how long will you cling to your widow’s weeds when your child remains fatherless? Or does that title no longer trouble you, now that a certain duke is rumored to be haunting your estate like a ghost? Perhaps he’s taken to playing papa, among other things.”

A few gasps sounded nearby. But Frampton only smiled, clearly pleased with the stir he’d caused.

“I suggest you watch your tone, Frampton.” Victor’s voice, though quiet, cut through the surrounding chatter with the precision of a blade. “And your consumption of champagne.”

Frampton turned, his expression shifting from malicious amusement to wariness as he recognized Victor.

“Your Grace,” he acknowledged with a nod that fell somewhat short of respectful. “I was merely making conversation.”

“You were making unfounded insinuations about a lady.” Victor stepped closer, noting with grim satisfaction the way the man’s companions inched backward. “An action unworthy of a gentleman.”

A flush spread across Frampton’s features, anger temporarily overriding discretion. “Some might argue that the true gentleman in this scenario would be the one who doesn’t flaunt his liaison with a widow of questionable?—”

Victor’s hand shot out, seizing Frampton by his elegantly tied cravat. With deliberate slowness, he tightened his grip, lifting the man slightly off his feet as his face flushed red from lack of air.

The room fell silent, the guests retreating in horror.

“Apologize. Now,” Victor growled.

Frampton, however, only sneered, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Ah, the Beast of Westmere,” he drawled, his tone thick with mockery. “I’ve heard of you. You’ve certainly lived up to the name. A duke who beats men bloody for a maid’s honor—how chivalrous .” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper. “And now you’re protecting a widow? Trying to keep the poor thing from all the filth you’ve sunk into, hm? Or perhaps, Your Grace, you enjoy the thought of being the only man to touch her. After all, who else would have her?”

Victor’s hand tightened, his rage bubbling over as Frampton’s words cut deeper than any blade.

His fury exploded. His fist connected with Frampton’s nose with a brutal force, and the sickening crack of bone reverberated through the room. Blood splattered across the man’s fine waistcoat as he crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain.

It was then that Victor’s eyes found Emma. She stood rigid, her face bloodless, her eyes flickering with an emotion that struck him with the force of a physical blow.

Not gratitude for his intervention, but fear. Fear of him and what he might have done.

The realization was sickening. He had sought to defend her honor, to protect her and Tristan from cruel gossip, and in doing so he had only confirmed the ton’s assessment of him as a beast barely contained by the veneer of civility.

Before he could take another step, a voice cut through the tension.

“Duke, please .”

The Duchess of Swinton appeared at his side. Her face was a picture of composed shock, but her voice was firm and unwavering.

“This is a ballroom, Duke, not a battlefield.” She gestured toward the bloodied man on the floor, her eyes narrowing. “This act of violence is completely unacceptable.” Her gaze flicked to the stunned guests. “You must leave, Duke. Immediately.”

Victor looked at her, his chest heaving, his hands still clenched in fury. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he stood still, his fury still burning. Then, with a sharp exhale, he straightened his back.

“Goodnight, Duchess,” he muttered and turned sharply, ignoring the hushed whispers that rippled through the room as he made his way toward the door.

* * *

“How dare you.”

Victor had nearly reached the stables when he heard her voice, sharp with accusation.

He turned to find Emma advancing toward him, her silken skirts gathered in one hand to facilitate her pursuit, her face flushed with anger.

“Emma,” he acknowledged stiffly. “I am sorry for the scene. It was not my intent to cause further embarrassment.”

“Embarrassment?” She nearly spat the word. “You believe that is my primary concern? That you have embarrassed me?”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “Frampton’s insinuations were unconscionable. He deserved?—”

“What?” she demanded. “To be struck in front of half the county? Is that your natural response to provocation?”

The words stung with precision.

“He insulted you,” Victor said, his voice flat.

“Then allow me to repeat myself,” she snapped. “Are you planning to strike every member of the ton who insults me? You’ll wear yourself out before breakfast, I assure you!”

Her voice rose, sharp with fury, before she forced it down, glancing around quickly to ensure they were alone. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, more controlled, but no less intense.

“I have spent years trying to teach my son that strength does not lie in one’s fists. That real men use words, not violence. And then you—” Her breath caught. “Then you, whom he admires above all, prove otherwise.”

Victor flinched, shame coiling in his gut. “I would never hurt the boy.”

“I know that.” Her voice broke. “God help me, I know that. But don’t you see? That isn’t the point.”

She stepped back slightly, as though needing physical distance to manage the weight of her words.

“You don’t know what it is like to watch a man lose his temper and have no idea where that fury might land. You don’t know what it is like to flinch at raised voices, at slammed doors. To shield a child with your own body because you’ve learned the hard way that no one else will.”

Victor said nothing. He stood still, barely breathing.

“I saw your fist, Victor,” she said quietly. “And for a moment—just a moment—I was back in a room I never wish to enter again.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said finally.

“But you did.” Her expression softened, grief crowding the edges of her anger. “And worse, you confirmed everything they say about you. That you’re dangerous. Uncontrolled. A man shaped by violence.”

Victor felt the fight drain from him, leaving only a hollow exhaustion in its wake. “Then perhaps we are both too damaged for this… whatever this might be.”

Emma studied him for a long moment, her expression morphing into something that looked very much like anguish. “Do you truly believe that? That we are beyond fixing?”

He turned away from her, unable to hold her gaze. “I believe,” he said carefully, “that I cannot be what you and Tristan need. I have proven myself incapable of such constancy. Not when I lose control like that. Not when I make you remember things you never should’ve had to endure.”

“You don’t know what I remember,” she said, her voice trembling.

“I don’t need to.” His voice was rough. “I saw your face. I saw your fear.”

Emma took a shaky breath. “You were kind to Tristan. Gentle. He watches the door, hoping you’ll walk through it. And now you’re leaving?”

Victor’s expression shuttered. “Emma… I… I can’t bear to become a reminder of something you’ve spent your life trying to forget.”

“And if I say you won’t?” she asked desperately. “If I say that what I saw today frightened me, but not because I believe you capable of hurting us. Because I’ve lived with the consequences of fury unleashed. I’ve seen what it does. What it costs. I merely wished to pull you away from it. Together, we can work through it.”

Victor looked at her then, truly looked at her. He felt a hollowness spreading beneath his breastbone. He felt like he was standing on a precipice. To continue would be to court disaster—to invite the possibility of failure, of loss, of fresh grief.

Emma and Tristan had already weathered one man’s abandonment and neglect. Better to return to solitude than to gamble their happiness on his flawed stewardship.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “But I cannot risk becoming what he was.”

Emma regarded him steadily, her initial anger having faded into a sorrowful resignation. “That is not your decision to make alone. Risk is inherent in living, Victor. In loving.”

“Then perhaps I am unequal to both,” he said, bowing formally. “Good evening, Lady Cuthbert.”

This time, as he walked away, she did not call him back, and he pretended that it did not hurt him.

The following morning, Victor instructed his valet to pack for an extended trip.

By noon, he was on the road to London, Westmere Hall receding behind him like a dream from which he had forcibly awakened himself.