Page 28 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 28

“I must say, my dear Emma, your continued reluctance wounds me deeply. After all, we are family, are we not?”

Sidney regarded her across the morning room with that practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes.

Emma suppressed a shudder as she noted the way his gaze lingered on the modest décolletage of her morning dress.

Three weeks had passed since Victor’s abrupt departure, and in that time, Sidney had inserted himself into the vacant spaces of her life with the persistence of an invasive vine, finding purchase in every social obligation and familial responsibility.

“A connection through marriage only, My Lord,” Emma replied, maintaining the veneer of civility that her position demanded. “And one that grows increasingly tenuous with each passing day.”

“Ah, but the bond between guardian and ward remains unbreakable, does it not?” He moved closer, his cologne—too strong, too sweet—enveloping her in a cloying cloud. “And I take my responsibilities to young Tristan most seriously.”

Emma took a measured step backward, busying herself with arranging the cut flowers that the housekeeper had placed on the side table. “Your sudden devotion to your guardianship is remarkable, considering you showed scant interest in Tristan’s welfare for the first eight years of his life.”

“People change, my dear,” he murmured, watching her hands as she trimmed a stem with perhaps more force than necessary. “Priorities… shift. Speaking of which, I have secured an invitation to Lady Harrington’s musical evening next Thursday. You shall accompany me, naturally.”

It was not a request. Emma had discovered, to her mounting dismay, that Sidney’s invitations were pronouncements disguised as courtesies—refusals met with subtle reminders of his legal authority over Tristan’s inheritance and education.

“The Athena Society meets that evening,” she demurred, though she knew the excuse was futile before the words left her lips.

“Your little collection of bluestockings can surely manage without you for one evening.” His tone remained pleasant, though a flicker of irritation crossed his features. “I have already informed Lady Harrington of our attendance. It would be most improper to disappoint her now.”

The implication hung in the air between them. And as with all of his implications, it carried the weight of threat beneath its veneer of social nicety. Emma understood, with the clarity born of increasing desperation, that each public appearance with her brother-in-law further cemented the impression that she welcomed his attentions.

“Very well,” she conceded, the words tasting like ash. “Though I must bring Tristan. He has been curious about Society’s events, and would very much like to attend.”

His smile thinned perceptibly. “The child would be bored to distraction. Surely, he would prefer to remain at home with his books and wooden soldiers.”

“I insist,” Emma said, infusing her voice with a firmness she did not entirely feel. “As you have so recently reminded me, your guardianship extends to his social development as well as his welfare.”

Before he could formulate a response, the door opened to admit Tristan himself, freshly returned from his morning ride with Mr. Jenkins. The boy halted abruptly at the threshold, his expression souring at the sight of his uncle.

“Good morning, Mama,” he said pointedly, crossing to Emma and pressing a dutiful kiss to her cheek before acknowledging Sidney with the barest inclination of his head. “Uncle.”

Emma’s heart broke at his childlike attempt to appear all grown up.

“Ah, the young lordling returns,” Sidney said, his voice assuming the condescending tone he reserved exclusively for Tristan. “How was your ride? Jenkins tells me you’ve shown little improvement since our last discussion.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened in a manner so reminiscent of Victor that Emma felt a pang of mingled pride and sorrow.

“Mr. Jenkins is mistaken. What does he know?” the boy replied with careful formality. “The Duke of Westmere remarked that my horsemanship was advancing admirably.”

The mention of Victor caused a momentary stillness in the room, as though the very air had crystallized around his name. Sidney’s expression sharpened with interest, the calculating glint in his eyes setting Emma’s nerves on edge.

“The Duke of Westmere,” he repeated, lingering over each syllable with obvious relish. “How fascinating that you should invoke the opinion of a man who has not been seen in the countryside for nearly a month. One might almost think his disappearance coincided rather… conveniently with certain whispers.”

Emma’s heart stuttered. “Tristan, please inform Mrs. Peabody that you’ll take luncheon in your quarters today. I believe Cook has prepared your favorite tarts.”

The boy’s gaze darted between his mother and uncle, his intuitive grasp of adult tensions far exceeding his years. “But Mama?—”

“Now, Tristan,” Emma said, her tone brooking no argument despite its gentleness.

With visible reluctance, Tristan withdrew, though not without a parting glance of undisguised suspicion at his uncle.

Once the door closed behind him, Emma turned to face her brother-in-law, steeling herself for the confrontation she had sensed brewing since his arrival in the quiet countryside.

“And what whispers might those be, My Lord?”

Sidney’s smile widened, revealing teeth too small for his mouth—a detail that had always disturbed Emma for its suggestion of something predatory lurking beneath his polished exterior.

“Oh, merely idle speculation regarding the nature of the Duke’s regular visits to Cuthbert Hall. Such intimate instruction in… horsemanship, was it? Most generous of him,” he said, his tone dripping with innuendo.

Ice formed in Emma’s veins. “You forget yourself, Sir.”

“Do I?” He moved closer now, close enough that she could see the fine network of broken vessels mapping his nose and cheeks—a testament to years of overindulgence. “I wonder what Society might make of such generosity, particularly when extended to a widow of childbearing years. I wonder what they might conclude regarding the propriety of such arrangements.”

Emma lifted her chin, summoning the dignity that had sustained her through years of her husband’s public humiliations. “You will find, My Lord, that I care precious little for Society’s conclusions.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “But I imagine you care a great deal for your son’s standing within that society. For his prospects. For his future.”

The threat was no longer veiled, and Emma felt her carefully constructed composure begin to fracture. “What do you want?”

His hand reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve with a familiarity that made her skin crawl. “I think you know precisely what I want, my dear Emma. What I have wanted since I first saw you on my brother’s arm at your wedding breakfast. What he was too blind or too indifferent to properly appreciate.”

Emma stepped back sharply, feeling the edge of the side table press against her spine. “I am your brother’s widow.”

“A technicality.” Sidney waved a dismissive hand. “My brother has been gone for years, leaving you in a most… lonely position. A position I could help rectify with the right… arrangement between us.”

The suggestion was so baldly stated that Emma momentarily lost the power of speech, staring at the man before her with undisguised revulsion.

But he continued, seemingly encouraged by her silence. “The ton already whispers of your connection to Westmere. I merely have to confirm what they suspect, to transform whispers into open discussion. Your reputation would not survive it—nor would the boy’s prospects.” He stepped closer still, his voice honeyed with false concern. “But there is an alternative. Discretion can be maintained… for a price.”

“You would blackmail me,” Emma said, the words emerging as a statement rather than a question.

“Such an ugly term,” Sidney chided, his fingers reaching out to brush a stray curl from her forehead. Emma forced herself not to recoil from his touch. “I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your reputation preserved, your son’s future secured… in exchange for what you have already given so freely to the Beast of Westmere.”

Emma’s hand moved before conscious thought intervened, the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek echoing in the still morning room.

Sidney’s head snapped to the side, more from surprise than force, and when he turned back to her, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“That,” he said softly, “was a grave miscalculation, my dear.”

Emma’s momentary satisfaction dissolved into cold dread as he straightened his waistcoat with deliberate precision.

“I am hosting a small gathering at my newly acquired property next Saturday evening,” he continued, as though nothing had happened. “You will attend. You will smile. You will be gracious. And afterward, you will demonstrate the proper gratitude for my continued discretion.” He paused, his gaze sliding over her figure with insulting deliberation. “Unless, of course, you prefer to explain to young Tristan why the doors of every respectable household in England have been closed to him.”

Emma remained silent, her mind racing through alternatives, escape routes, and strategies, finding each path blocked by the immovable fact of her brother-in-law’s legal and social authority over her son’s future.

“I shall send my carriage at eight,” he said, interpreting her silence as acquiescence. “Do wear the blue silk dress. It becomes you.”

He bowed with mocking formality and took his leave, the scent of his cologne lingering like a miasma in the suddenly airless room.

Emma waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before allowing her knees to buckle, sinking into the nearest chair as the full implications of her position crashed over her. Sidney currently held all the power—legal, social, financial—while she possessed only her wits and the fierce, unyielding love for her son that had sustained her through every trial.

But as she stared unseeingly at the light filtering through the curtains, she confronted the chilling possibility that this time, love alone might not be enough to protect what she held most dear.

* * *

“Emma, dearest, you have turned the same page for the past quarter-hour,” Annabelle observed, her voice pitched low enough not to disturb the animated discussion unfolding among the other Athena Society members. “Either Mrs. Radcliffe’s prose has suddenly achieved unprecedented depths, or your mind wanders far from gothic castles and mysterious noblemen.”

Emma blinked, the words on the page before her resolving into coherent sentences for the first time since she had opened the volume. The familiar comforts of Lady Oakley’s drawing room—the muted conversations, the gentle clink of teacups, the shared communion of literary appreciation—seemed to be occurring at a great distance, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope.

“Forgive me,” she murmured, closing the book with a decisive snap. “I find myself rather distracted today.”

Joanna, seated on her other side, exchanged a meaningful glance with Annabelle. “You have seemed distracted for several days, my dear. Ever since?—”

“The Duke’s departure,” Annabelle finished with her characteristic directness. “Though I suspect there is something more immediate troubling you now.”

Emma hesitated, acutely aware of the curious glances being cast in their direction.

“Perhaps we might continue this discussion after the meeting concludes,” she suggested, forcing a smile that felt brittle on her lips.

Annabelle nodded, though her shrewd gaze suggested she would not be easily diverted once privacy was secured.

* * *

When the final farewells had been exchanged and the last carriage had departed, only Emma, Annabelle, and Joanna remained in the drawing room, the latter having closed the door with a decisive click that signaled her expectation of complete candor.

“Now,” Joanna said, removing her spectacles and fixing Emma with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated generations of drawing-room gossips, “you will tell us precisely what has occurred to render you so utterly distracted that you failed to notice Mrs. Pennington proposing The Lustful Turk for our next discussion.”

Despite everything, Emma heard a startled laugh escape her lips. “Surely not!”

“Indeed,” Annabelle confirmed, a hint of mischief lightening her concerned expression. “The dear lady was attempting to suggest The Castle of Otranto but became flustered when no one corrected her initial misstep. You, my dear friend, were a thousand miles away, and I was too amused to intervene.”

The momentary lightness faded as Emma contemplated the trust represented by these two women—Annabelle, whose own experiences with betrayal had left her wary but not defeated, and Joanna, whose quiet strength had sustained Emma through the darkest days of her marriage.

“Sidney knows,” she said finally, the words falling like stones into the stillness of the room. “About Victor. About… the lessons… and my feelings for him. He knows everything.”

Joanna’s expression tightened. “How?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he has his sources—a bribed footman, perhaps, or one of the stable boys. It hardly matters. He has threatened to confirm the rumors to the ton unless…” Emma faltered, the ugliness of Sidney’s proposition sticking in her throat.

“Unless you become his mistress,” Annabelle concluded, her voice flat with disgust rather than shock. “The man truly is despicable beyond measure.”

Emma nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. “He has invited me to a ball at his new estate on Saturday. Afterward, he expects me to…”

She could not complete the sentence, but her meaning was clear enough.

Joanna rose abruptly, pacing the length of the drawing room with uncharacteristic agitation.

“This cannot stand,” she declared, her normally measured voice vibrating with outrage.

“If I refuse, a scandal would break out, and it would destroy Tristan’s prospects irrevocably.”

“Then we must find another way,” Annabelle insisted, her blue eyes flashing with determination. “Perhaps if we approach the Duke?—”

“No!” Emma’s vehemence surprised even herself. “Victor has made his position perfectly clear. He wants nothing more to do with us. And even if he did… this is my burden to bear, my responsibility.”

Joanna returned to her seat, taking Emma’s cold hands between her own warm ones. “My dearest girl, you have shouldered far too many burdens alone. Allow those who love you to help carry this one.”

Emma felt tears prick her eyes and blinked them away fiercely. “What would you have me do? If I refuse Sidney, he will ensure that Tristan is ostracized from every decent household in England. If I agree to his demands…” She shuddered, unable to complete the thought.

“There must be a third option,” Annabelle said firmly. “Some way to neutralize his threat without subjecting you to his… attentions.”

“Perhaps,” Joanna suggested carefully, “a strategic retreat might be advisable. A visit to relatives abroad, perhaps, until this situation can be addressed more thoroughly.”

Emma shook her head. “Sidney is Tristan’s legal guardian until he reaches his majority. Any attempt to remove him from England without that man’s consent would be viewed as kidnapping.”

A heavy silence descended as the three women confronted the reality of their society—a world in which a woman’s reputation, once compromised, became an irrevocable sentence; a world in which a child’s prospects could be destroyed by whispers; a world in which men like Sidney Bickford wielded power with casual cruelty, secure in the knowledge that the system was designed to protect their interests above all others.

“I shall attend the ball,” Emma said finally, the decision crystallizing even as she spoke the words. “I shall smile and dance and play the role expected of me. And afterward…” She drew a steadying breath. “Afterward, I shall find a way to ensure that Sidney never threatens my son’s future again.”

Alarm flashed across Annabelle’s expressive features. “Emma, whatever you’re contemplating?—”

“I merely contemplate protecting what is mine,” Emma interrupted, a steely resolve entering her voice. “As I have always done.”

“At least allow us to help,” Joanna pleaded. “There is strength in numbers, and Sidney would not dare move against all of us together.”

Emma regarded her friend and her aunt with a surge of gratitude so powerful it momentarily eclipsed her fear. “I appreciate your support more than I can express,” she said softly. “But I cannot risk involving either of you further. Sidney is vindictive, and he has connections that could ruin you both. This is my battle to fight.”

“Emma—” Annabelle began, but was silenced by a gentle shake of Emma’s head.

“Please,” she said. “Respect my decision in this as you have respected my choices in all things.”

The request hung in the air between them, weighted with the history of their shared confidences and mutual support.

After a long moment, Joanna nodded reluctantly. “Very well,” she conceded. “But know that should circumstances change, should you require our assistance in any capacity, you need only ask.”

Annabelle’s agreement came more grudgingly but with no less sincerity. “We shall honor your wishes,” she said finally. “Though I reserve the right to express my profound disagreement with your decision to face this alone.”

Emma managed a genuine smile for the first time that day. “I would expect nothing less from either of you.”