Page 27 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 27

“O ne might reasonably conclude, given the undisturbed layer of dust on your decanter, that the Duke of Westmere has taken monastic vows in my absence.”

Victor did not turn from the window at the sound of Nathaniel’s voice, though the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant acknowledgment.

The gray expanse of London spread before him, its summer foliage muted beneath a persistent drizzle that had rendered the fashionable streets below nearly deserted.

Three weeks had passed since his departure from Westmere Hall. Three weeks of self-imposed isolation in his rarely-used townhouse, where the staff moved with the cautious deference reserved for individuals with unpredictable temperaments.

“The quality of London spirits hardly merits the effort of pouring,” Victor replied, his gaze still fixed on the rain-slicked cobblestones.

At his feet, Argus lay with his massive head resting on his paws, the hound’s usual vigilance replaced by a dejection that mirrored his master’s.

“Though you are, as ever, welcome to sample the collection and prove me wrong.”

Nathaniel stepped further into the study with the easy confidence of long acquaintance.

“A generous offer, particularly from a man famed for his reluctance to part with superior brandy.” He moved to the sideboard and examined the selection with theatrical deliberation. “Though I confess some concern that your staff appears to have misplaced your shaving equipment. Unless, of course, you intend to audition for the role of a particularly dour hermit in some theatrical production?”

Victor’s hand rose unconsciously to his jaw, where several days’ growth lent him an even more forbidding air than usual. “I was unaware that my grooming habits fell within your jurisdiction, Knightley.”

“Oh, they do not,” Nathaniel assured him, selecting a crystal decanter and examining its contents with approval. “My jurisdiction, as the self-appointed guardian of your limited social graces, extends only to preventing your complete dissolution into misanthropy. Herculean labor, I might add, for which history shall undoubtedly revere me.”

He poured two generous measures of amber liquid, carrying one to Victor with an expectant air that brooked no refusal. Victor accepted the glass with reluctant grace, turning finally to face his friend.

“Your concern is noted, if unnecessary,” he said. “I am merely attending to long-neglected business matters.”

Nathaniel’s eyebrow rose in elegant skepticism as he glanced at the conspicuously empty desk. “Indeed? How fascinating that these urgent business matters require neither correspondence nor documentation of any kind. Truly, you have elevated estate management to an art form.”

Argus let out a growl, though whether in defense of his master or agreement with Nathaniel remained unclear.

Victor’s hand dropped to the hound’s head, his fingers absently stroking the silken ears in a gesture that seemed to comfort both man and beast.

“He misses the boy,” he observed quietly, the admission escaping before he could reconsider it.

His friend’s expression softened, the habitual mask of amused detachment slipping momentarily. “Only the hound?”

The question hung between them, heavy with implication. Victor drained his glass rather than answer, the burn of fine brandy a welcome distraction from the more persistent ache that had taken up residence beneath his breastbone.

“I received the most intriguing correspondence from Miss Joanna Dennison yesterday,” Nathaniel continued, settling himself into a leather armchair with the air of a man preparing for an extended campaign. “She expresses profound disappointment in your abrupt departure from the countryside. Apparently, the Athena Society’s discussions have grown tedious because of their founder’s lackluster attendance since your departure.”

Victor’s jaw tightened. “She exaggerates.”

“She also mentioned,” Nathaniel pressed on, swirling the brandy in his glass with studied nonchalance, “that young Tristan Bickford inquired after you at Sunday services. Something about a promised demonstration of proper fly-fishing technique?”

The mention of Tristan’s name coaxed another plaintive whine from Argus, who raised his head to gaze imploringly at his master.

“There’s a tutor perfectly capable of instructing the boy in fishing,” Victor said, his voice carefully modulated to betray no emotion. “As I’m certain Lady Cuthbert has arranged.”

“Lady Cuthbert,” Nathaniel echoed, his tone delicately balanced between inquiry and statement. “Not Emma , then? How remarkably formal, considering the rumors that reached even my notoriously unreliable ears.”

Victor’s gaze snapped to his friend’s face, a dangerous edge entering his voice. “What rumors?”

“Oh, nothing specific,” Nathaniel replied, his casual tone belied by the careful attention with which he observed Victor’s reaction. “Merely whispers of the Duke of Westmere’s unprecedented attendance at a certain household.”

It was not much, but it was enough to imply scandal—as Victor already expected from the ton. They were a bunch of hapless gossips draped in finery, after all.

“Society’s capacity for manufacturing intrigue from innocuous circumstances never ceases to disappoint,” he said coldly.

Nathaniel leaned forward, his customary levity giving way to rare earnestness. “Victor, we have known each other since we were scarcely older than the boy. We have faced French guns and stormed enemy ships together. I have seen you at your best and your worst—indeed, I am one of the few privileged to know there is a ‘best’ beneath that forbidding and rather miserable exterior you present to the world.”

Victor turned back to the window, unwilling to meet the concern in his friend’s gaze.

The rain had intensified, sheets of water obscuring the view beyond the glass, transforming the outside world into an impressionistic blur of grays and muted colors.

“Your point?”

“My point ,” Nathaniel said quietly, “is that in all our years of acquaintance, I have never seen you look at any woman the way you looked at Lady Cuthbert. Nor have I seen you engage with any child as you did with her son.”

Victor narrowed his eyes. “And what, pray tell, do you think you have seen?”

Nathaniel scoffed. “Oh, come now, Westmere. You truly do not think that I did not notice how much you changed, or how your relationship with Lady Cuthbert has evolved?”

“I assaulted a man in public.”

“Frampton?” Nathaniel gave an inelegant snort, stretching his legs out in front of him. “The man is a pestilential ass who has been begging for a thrashing since Eton. If anything, your restraint was the truly remarkable aspect of that encounter?—”

“She was afraid,” Victor said abruptly, the admission torn from him. “When I confronted Frampton, I saw it in her eyes—not concern for him, but fear of me. Of what I might do.”

Understanding dawned in the Marquess’s expression. “Ah…”

Victor let out a frustrated breath. “Her late husband… he was not known for his temperance or gentle disposition either.”

At that, Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “And so you concluded that you, having defended her from malicious gossip, were somehow equivalent to a man who abused his wife?” His tone suggested he found this logic profoundly flawed. “Forgive me, but that seems a rather spectacular leap of reasoning—even for a man of your particular caliber of determined self-recrimination.”

Argus rose suddenly, moving to the door with ears pricked up in attentive hope.

For a moment, Victor thought he heard the rapid footfalls that had become familiar during Tristan’s visits to Westmere Hall—the eager, slightly uneven gait of a boy perpetually on the verge of running despite his mother’s frequent reminders about proper deportment.

The phantom sound faded, leaving only the rhythmic percussion of rain against glass.

Argus whined again, returning to his place at Victor’s feet with visible disappointment.

“It is not merely that,” Victor admitted, refilling his glass with mechanical precision, and ignoring the disappointment blooming in his chest. “Caroline… John…”

Nathaniel’s expression sobered. “Your wife and son have been gone for nearly a decade, Victor.”

“And does that diminish my responsibility? My failure?” Victor demanded, a rare flash of emotion breaking through his carefully maintained reserve. He could not allow that. “I was her husband. I was to be his father. And yet I failed to protect them.”

“From fate?” Nathaniel spoke the words quietly, a compassion he rarely showed. “Even you, with your outsized sense of duty, must recognize the limits of human intervention. The finest physician in London attended to Caroline during the birth. Nothing more could have been done.”

“You cannot know that,” Victor insisted. “Had I?—”

“This is not about Caroline,” Nathaniel interrupted. “This is about Lady Cuthbert and her son. This is about your fear that permitting yourself happiness is somehow a betrayal of a ghost. Or worse, that embracing this chance might result in similar loss.”

The accuracy of Nathaniel’s assessment made Victor freeze, and he turned away, unwilling to have his innermost fears so precisely articulated.

“You presume a great deal,” he said stiffly.

“I presume that my closest friend is condemning himself to solitude based on a series of faulty assumptions and misplaced guilt,” the Marquess replied, rising to stand beside him at the window. “I presume that a woman of considerable intelligence and a boy of remarkable potential have grown to care for you, despite your best efforts to appear utterly unlovable. And I presume that you, in your infinite wisdom, have stupidly decided that their lives are better served by your absence than your presence.”

Victor’s silence was confirmation enough.

Nathaniel sighed, the sound uncharacteristically weary. “Do you recall Captain Harrison?” he asked suddenly.

The non sequitur caught Victor off guard. “Of course. A fine officer. Lost during the engagement at Algeciras.”

“Indeed,” Nathaniel agreed. “A fine officer and a devoted husband and father. The night before the battle, he showed me a small portrait of his wife and baby girl. Do you know what he said?”

Victor shook his head.

“He said, ‘If anything happens to me tomorrow, I shall regret only the years I will not have with them—never the years I did.’ Harrison understood what you, for all your strategic brilliance, have not: that the possibility of loss is the price we pay for the certainty of love. And that it is a price worth paying.”

“A philosophical observation that provides scant comfort to those left behind,” Victor countered.

“As opposed to the profound comfort of never having loved at all?” Nathaniel challenged. “Tell me, has your determined isolation provided the contentment you sought? Has your grand mansion, with its echoing halls and silent rooms, fulfilled your expectations of a well-lived life?”

Victor did not respond.

Argus whined softly, pressing his warm bulk against his master’s leg.

“Return to the countryside,” Nathaniel urged. “Speak with Lady Cuthbert. Allow her the dignity of making her own assessment of the suitability of your temperament.”

“She has made her assessment perfectly clear,” Victor said firmly. “As have I. The matter is concluded.”

Nathaniel studied his friend’s implacable expression for a long moment, then nodded with reluctant acceptance. “Very well. Though I wonder if you have considered what message your abrupt disappearance conveys to the boy.”

Victor’s hand stilled on Argus’s head. “What do you mean?”

“Simply that the young Earl has already experienced the abandonment of his father,” Nathaniel observed. “Your withdrawal, however nobly intended, might reasonably appear to him as history repeating itself—another man departing without explanation or farewell.”

The observation landed with devastating precision. Victor had not permitted himself to consider Tristan’s perspective on his departure—he had focused entirely on Emma’s reaction and his inner turmoil. The thought that the boy might interpret his absence as rejection, might believe himself somehow at fault, was unexpectedly painful.

“Children understand that adults have obligations that necessitate their attention elsewhere,” Victor said, though the justification sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Foolish, even.

“Of course,” Nathaniel agreed with exaggerated solemnity. “Children are renowned for their rational assessment of adult behavior, particularly when it affects them personally. I’m certain he has not given your absence a moment’s thought, beyond perhaps wondering why his riding instructor has been replaced by a man who, according to Miss Lytton, sits on a horse as though expecting it to explode beneath him at any moment.”

Despite himself, Victor felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. Mr. Jenkins’ equestrian deficiencies were indeed pronounced, a fact that Tristan had observed with the merciless accuracy of childhood during their first lesson.

“Your concern for the boy’s horsemanship is touching,” he said dryly.

“My concern,” Nathaniel corrected, “is for the happiness of a friend who has denied himself that state for far too long. And for a woman and child who have evidently penetrated your formidable defenses to a degree that has sent you fleeing to London in abject terror.”

“I do not flee,” Victor objected indignantly.

“No?” His friend raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What would you call this strategic withdrawal to the safety of urban isolation, if not a retreat from the battlefield of genuine emotion?”

“I would call it prudence,” Victor said finally, turning from the window with renewed resolve. “Now, if you have exhausted your repertoire of unsolicited advice, perhaps we might discuss a matter of actual consequence. I understand Harrington has proposed a new budget for the coastal defenses at Portsmouth.”

Nathaniel regarded him for a long moment, the corners of his mouth tightening.

“Very well,” he said quietly, rising from his chair and retrieving his gloves from the side table. “If you’re determined to bury your head in parliamentary nonsense, I won’t stop you.”

Victor’s gaze flicked to him, briefly surprised. “You’re leaving?”

“I’ve said all I can,” Nathaniel replied, donning his gloves with slow deliberation. “You may call it prudence, Victor, but don’t be surprised when others—those who matter—call it cowardice.”

Victor’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

Nathaniel paused at the door. “You walk away thinking it’s the noble choice. That absence will shield them. But people don’t remember absence kindly. They remember who stayed.”

He gave Victor one last look—measured, not unkind, but heavy with disappointment—then turned and left, the quiet snick of the closing door louder than any rebuke.