Page 29 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 29

“F or God’s sake, Victor, you cannot continue this farce indefinitely!”

Nathaniel’s voice reverberated through the study with uncharacteristic force, devoid of its usual good humor.

Victor looked up from the correspondence he had been studiously ignoring, surprised to find his friend’s customary mask of affable detachment replaced by genuine anger.

“I wasn’t aware that my personal affairs warranted such vehemence,” he replied coolly, setting aside his untouched letter with deliberate precision. “Particularly from one so typically indifferent to matters beyond his immediate pleasure.”

“And I wasn’t aware,” Nathaniel countered, “that the Duke of Westmere had perfected the art of martyrdom to such a remarkable degree. My congratulations on achieving new heights of self-inflicted misery.”

The barb struck with unexpected precision, and Victor felt his jaw tighten involuntarily. Two days had passed since their previous conversation, during which he had steadfastly avoided thoughts of the countryside, of Emma, of Tristan—with predictably limited success.

“If you have come merely to insult me, you might have saved yourself the journey. I have a staff perfectly capable of providing that service.”

“I have come,” Nathaniel said, advancing into the room with unusual gravity, “because circumstances have changed. And because despite your best efforts to convince the world—and yourself—that you are devoid of human feeling, I know better.”

Something in his tone caused Victor to set aside his reflexive irritation. “What circumstances?”

The Marquess hesitated, an uncharacteristic uncertainty passing across his features before he answered. “Sidney Bickford has established himself in the countryside. He has leased a property not two miles away from Cuthbert Hall.”

A chill that had nothing to do with the summer rain settled in Victor’s chest. “The man is entitled to reside where he pleases,” he said, even as dread stirred in his guts at the implication of his friend’s words.

“He has been seen calling on Lady Cuthbert with increasing frequency. He accompanies her to social gatherings, positions himself as young Tristan’s primary male influence, and has made no secret of his… personal interest in Lady Cuthbert.”

Victor rose abruptly, crossing to the window that had become his refuge during these gray London days.

The rain had finally ceased, leaving the city streets washed clean, the cobblestones gleaming in the weak afternoon light.

“How did you come by this information?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral despite the surge of protective fury that threatened to overwhelm his hard-won composure.

“Miss Joanna has been corresponding with me,” Nathaniel admitted. Victor noted the slight softening of his friend’s expression at the mention of Emma’s aunt. “She is concerned for her niece’s welfare, as am I. As you should be, if you can set aside your stubbornness long enough to acknowledge what is plainly before you.”

“And what, precisely, is that?”

“That you love them!” Nathaniel’s voice rose to match Victor’s, his customary deference abandoned in the face of greater urgency. “I have watched you bury yourself in grief for a decade. I have stood by while you rejected every opportunity for human connection. I have respected your choices, however misguided, because I believed you had the right to determine your own path.”

He advanced until he stood directly before Victor, his expression uncharacteristically fierce.

Victor envisioned Emma as he had last seen her—her face pale with distress, her eyes wide with the shock of recognition as she witnessed the violence he had barely contained.

Then, unbidden, came the image of Tristan standing protectively before his mother, small and fierce in his determination to shield her from harm.

The thought of either of them at Sidney Bickford’s mercy was intolerable.

“Argus,” Victor said abruptly, turning toward the hound, who had remained uncharacteristically subdued throughout the confrontation.

At the sound of his name, the dog’s head lifted, his ears pricked up in sudden alertness.

“We are going back.”

Relief flashed across Nathaniel’s features, quickly masked by his customary sardonic expression.

“A wise decision, Your Grace. Though perhaps a razor might be employed before you depart? Your current appearance suggests less ‘avenging hero’ and more ‘recently escaped convict.’”

Despite everything, Victor felt the corner of his mouth twitch in reluctant amusement. “Your concern for my appearance is noted.”

The momentary levity faded as he contemplated the task ahead of him—not merely confronting Sidney Bickford but facing Emma herself.

Apologizing. Explaining. Risking rejection—or worse, indifference.

Whatever awaited him back in the countryside—whether reconciliation or final separation—he would face it directly with the courage he had once brought to bear against more tangible enemies.

“We depart within the hour.”