Page 3 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 3

“I am all right. Everything is all right,” Emma whispered to herself in an almost inaudible voice.

She had learned early in life to wear a mask and pretend that nothing truly moved her. It was, naturally, a necessary skill for anyone in the ton—and especially so for a young widow with a young child to care for and a reputation to maintain.

The afternoon sun cast its long shadows on Lady Pembrooke’s perfectly groomed garden, where society’s elite had gathered for what was, no doubt, supposed to be a celebration of summer.

Emma knew it for what it truly was: just an opportunity for high society to judge and scrutinize one another as usual.

Crystal flutes clinked softly together, and servants meandered between the tables, carrying even more trays laden with wine glasses. Ladies in pastel silks and gentlemen in crisp waistcoats engaged in the familiar dance of polite conversation and subtle character assassination.

Emma quietly took a sip of her wine while she used her other hand to adjust her silk bonnet and make sure the ribbons were still tied in a proper bow underneath her jaw.

She’d put much thought and effort into her dress—the gown was modest enough to honor her status as a widow yet stylish enough to keep her far out of the bad books of the ton’s fashionable ladies. It would not do for her to seem as though she’d completely stepped away from Society—the countryside still boasted a vibrant social life, and it was one she did not intend to be completely isolated from.

And she attended these things not simply for her sake but for the sake of her young son, who was still growing and was quickly gaining an interest in many things she most certainly could not keep up with. If she cut herself off completely from London’s high society, it would only make things terribly difficult for him when he came of age and realized that he was an outcast. She would not ruin him in such a terrible manner.

Still, that did not mean she quite enjoyed having to endure all the curious glances and mocking side talk made at her expense. Even now, she had to use her fan to shield her nearly curdling expression from the barrage of glances and whispers directed her way.

“They’re watching us again,” Annabelle Lytton, her friend and closest confidante, whispered, leaning in so that her words would not carry beyond their small circle.

And indeed, her friend’s blue eyes glimmered with an all-too-familiar mischief that Emma always found herself admiring and envying in equal measure.

“Lady Harwick and her flock of harpies have not stopped staring our way since we arrived.”

Of course, it’s Lady Harwick.

Emma sighed inwardly.

She had been at the mercy of the prying and unkind noblewoman ever since moving to the countryside, and she was already quite used to the woman’s antics.

Lady Harwick was the type to never let a single piece of gossip about those she considered as even a minor inconvenience go unwielded. Emma had an intuition that if the woman had caught wind of Tristan’s venture into the Duke of Westmere’s property, there was no doubt that she would have been the center of gossip in this gathering—even more so than she already was.

Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Let them stare then,” she replied, even as she felt the familiar tightening in her chest. “I suppose they must find their own lives so terribly dull if they’re so focused on others.”

Beside them, Miss Joanna Dennison—Emma’s aunt and one of her closest companions—let out a soft chuckle, the sound partially muffled by her ivory fan. She was quite a handsome woman, but at six-and-thirty years of age, she had been properly put on the shelf, what with the men of the ton running after the skirts of far younger women.

“They are just envious, my dear,” Miss Joanna said, her gray eyes sharp behind the round spectacles that rested on the bridge of her nose. “Not all of us have the courage to create something as meaningful as your Athena Society. We all know it is quite easier to throw stones than to build something of value.”

Emma could not help the warmth that surged through her at the mention of her book club.

The Athena Society had started as a simple meet-up for women who wanted to dive into literature beyond the dull novels that were usually considered ‘suitable’ for them. It had blossomed into a true haven—a space where minds could connect without the usual societal constraints.

Well, of course, the ‘proper’ ladies of the ton never failed to make fun of the club every chance they got.

Emma did not quite care about that. The book club’s members were utterly lovely spinsters and widows, and she loved the idea that her small gathering was the place where all these women could find solace away from the loneliness she knew had them in a tight grip.

“Speaking of stone throwers,” Annabelle said, her voice dropping a notch into a conspiratorial whisper, “get ready. The vultures are circling.”

Emma followed her friend’s gaze and spotted Lady Harwick approaching, flanked by two other women whose names she most definitely remembered but whose company she never particularly enjoyed.

Lady Harwick’s smile was sharp as a knife, and her pale blue eyes scrutinized Emma’s appearance with the precision of a jeweler examining a dubious gem.

“Lady Cuthbert,” she greeted, her voice pitched just right so that those nearby could hear. “How lovely to see you out and about. We were starting to think you had permanently retreated into your widow’s weeds and… those unusual literary interests of yours.”

Emma kept her smile in place, though she could feel it tightening at the edges. “Lady Harwick, what a delight. I believe a well-rounded life needs both solitude and social interaction in equal parts.”

“Indeed,” Lady Harwick replied, her gaze darting to Annabelle and Joanna before settling back on Emma. “And how is your little… gathering coming along? The Athena Circle, was it?”

“Don’t you mean, the Club for Society’s Undesirable Women ?” Lady Mary Rothforth, a tall, spindly woman who wished she was half as unkind as Lady Harwick, giggled behind her fan.

And then the three of them started to laugh, inciting others within earshot to join in.

But Emma was unmoved.

“The Athena Society,” she corrected firmly, deciding not to take the bait. “And it is thriving, thank you for your interest.”

Lady Harwick let out a disgusted scoff.

“We have just finished a fascinating discussion on Mrs. Shelley’s work,” Emma added, refusing to give the noblewoman the satisfaction of seeing her stutter.

Lady Harwick’s second companion—Lady Penelope Morton, if Emma remembered correctly—let out a small sound that was probably meant to be a laugh but came out more like a snort.

“How progressive of you. Next, you will be telling us you have taken an interest in politics or mathematics!” she mocked, her voice high and needling.

“And what a terrible disaster that would be,” Annabelle chimed in, her smile bright but her blue eyes icy. “Just think of the horror—women using their minds for anything other than romance novels, gossip, and needlework. Society would surely fall apart!”

It was clear that Lady Harwick did not appreciate Annabelle’s sarcasm, from the way her lips pressed into a near-invisible line. “Your wit is as sharp as ever, Miss Lytton. One has to wonder if that is why you remain a spinster.”

Before Annabelle could unleash what was sure to be a cutting retort, Emma gently placed a hand on her arm.

“We have been neglecting our other friends,” she said smoothly. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Harwick, I think I see Mrs. Halloway waving at us.”

Emma was well aware that Annabelle was a devoted fan of romance novels, often sharing her favorites with the book club. However, she also knew that her friend would invariably seize any occasion to insult Lady Harwick and her sidekicks, even if it meant taking a jab herself.

Emma quickly led Annabelle away, making sure to keep Joanna close behind. It wasn’t until they had put a good amount of distance between themselves and Lady Harwick’s group that Emma finally let her shoulders drop a little.

“That woman,” Annabelle huffed, the feathers on her hat shaking with her frustration. “I swear she must practice her insults in front of a mirror every morning.”

“You really shouldn’t have engaged with her, Annabelle,” Joanna said, though there was a playful lilt in her voice. “It just feeds her nasty, little habit.”

“And we should just let those gossiping hens walk all over us?” Annabelle shot back, rightly incensed. “Emma works so hard to create an environment where women can actually think, and they act like she’s running a brothel of some sort!”

Emma knew her friend was fighting for her honor, but she also found her mind quickly wandering. And it was going back to a certain blue-eyed man she ought not to even be thinking about.

The Duke of Westmere.

For some reason she couldn’t quite put a finger on, her thoughts kept on circling back to him—particularly to that last moment before she’d left his estate, when she’d caught that tender look on his face as he patted his dog.

He was the Beast , the man the ton had labeled dangerous, half-mad, and remorseless; and yes, while he had been cold, she’d glimpsed something in his eyes in that flicker of a moment that contradicted the coldness of his demeanor as he spoke in a hushed tone to the animal.

Indeed, it felt as if he was wearing a mask, much the same as she was. And Emma did not quite know what to think about that.

“Emma? Have you heard a word I’ve said at all?” Annabelle’s voice pulled her out of her reverie.

Emma blinked hard and fast, realizing she’d completely retreated into her head.

Why did she keep thinking about that grouchy and insufferable man?

“Forgive me,” she said quickly, making sure to hide her thoughts behind her sociable mask.

She had yet to tell her friends about the incident with the Duke the night before, but she knew that if they caught wind of it, they would not leave her be until she divulged all. And she was not prepared to do that here, within earshot of whoever could be lurking.

“I was… distracted.”

At that, both Annabelle’s and Joanna’s eyebrows rose high on their foreheads, concern etching lines on their faces almost at once.

“Is everything quite all right?” Joanna asked, her voice soft. “Is it Lady Harwick? You should not let that miserable harpy ruin your happiness, Emma. You are doing good things for many of the women in the countryside, you know.”

Her aunt never failed to uplift her with such kind words, but Emma couldn’t let her keep on thinking that Lady Harwick was the reason for her distraction. Not only because it was not true but also because she really did not want her aunt and friend thinking that that woman’s pettiness even managed to make a dent in her self-esteem. Because that was simply not true either.

Emma opened her mouth to say something—even she did not quite know what exactly—when a voice sliced through their conversation like a knife.

“My dear Lady Cuthbert, you grow more stunning by the day.”

Emma’s body tensed up even before she turned around, instinctively recognizing the voice before her mind caught up.

And there stood Sidney Bickford, her late husband’s brother and the regent currently serving as the Earl of Cuthbert, dressed in a dark green coat that cloaked his frail, potbellied figure. His smile, which many found charming and polite, always struck Emma as a bit predatory—a wolf’s grin just before it pounced.

“My Lord,” she greeted, the title a bitter reminder that this man temporarily held her son’s birthright. “What a surprise to see you out in the countryside. I thought your business kept you firmly rooted in London.”

The slimy man’s smile did not falter. “Even the most dedicated businessman needs a breath of fresh air now and then. Besides, I have recently taken on some local interests that require my attention.” His lecherous gaze roamed over her figure subtly. “Among other… attractions.”

Beside her, Emma could feel Annabelle bristle, even if she didn’t see it. Joanna’s greeting was just as icy, a slight nod of her head that spoke volumes about what she thought of the current acting Earl of Cuthbert.

It was a great smear on her reputation as the Dowager Countess that she had to concede the running of the estate to this man, even though he was her husband’s brother and, by law, had the right to do so in trust for her son, who was the true heir to the earldom.

And that was simply because Sidney was nothing but a self-serving dandy who cared for nothing more than climbing the social ladder and spending her son’s wealth.

Many of the ton smiled and laughed with him, but she was certain he was not aware of the way they gossiped about him behind his back, even going so far as insinuating that he was a smear on the House of Cuthbert and, by extension, her reputation.

“How delightful for us all,” Annabelle said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I am sure Lady Pembrooke is thrilled to have you at her little gathering.”

He barely glanced her way. “Lady Cuthbert, may I have a word in private? We need to discuss some matters regarding young Tristan.”

Emma felt a chill creep into her stomach at the sound of her son’s name on his lips.

Before she could respond, Annabelle smoothly cut in, “I’m afraid we’ve just promised to join Mrs. Halloway for tea. Perhaps another time would be better?”

His expression turned steely then, though his smile stayed plastered on his face. His eyes, reminiscent of the cold, distant brown of his late brother’s, locked onto Emma with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“I insist,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Unless you want to cause a scene, my dear sister-in-law? I’m sure Lady Pembrooke wouldn’t appreciate her carefully planned afternoon being disrupted by such… unpleasantness. From a widow, no less.”

Emma recognized the threat for what it was. With a resigned sigh, she turned to her friends.

“Please send my apologies to Mrs. Halloway. I’ll join you shortly,” she said.

Annabelle opened her mouth to protest, but Emma silenced her with a look that promised an explanation later.

With visible reluctance, Annabelle and Joanna moved away, both casting worried glances back at her.

Sidney offered his arm, and Emma placed her gloved hand on it with the same enthusiasm she might have shown for touching a viper—which was none at all . But she could make no bones about it, especially not here amid other nobles who were quick to spin such lurid tales from the blandest of altercations.

So she let him guide her to a quiet spot in the garden where a small stone bench nestled under the dappled shade of an old oak tree. It was a private, little nook yet still close enough to the party that Emma felt a flicker of gratitude for that small mercy.

“You look well, Emma,” he started, his gaze lingering rather uncomfortably on the graceful curve of her neck that disappeared beneath her modest collar. “Widowhood seems to agree with you.”

Excuse me?

The thought was a whip across the expanse of her mind, but she managed to keep her composure even as his words echoed in her head.

She knew he was being deliberately uncouth and antagonizing, trying to get a rise out of her, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing her react. Still, that did not change the fact that his words made her skin crawl.

“Is there more to this conversation than just inappropriate remarks?” she asked calmly, keeping a careful distance between them on the bench. “You mentioned Tristan.”

His smile tightened a bit. “Always so straightforward. It’s one of your more… challenging traits.” He leaned back, appearing relaxed, though his eyes remained sharp. “As I said, I have made a business investment that will keep me around for a while. It seems only natural to take this chance to get to know my nephew better.”

“Natural?” Emma echoed, unable to hide the bite in her voice now. “You’ve shown hardly any interest in Tristan for the last eight years.”

A respite she did not take for granted at all.

“A regrettable oversight I plan to fix,” he replied smoothly. “After all, he is the Earl. He should learn from me what responsibilities lie ahead.” His expression turned serious. “He ought to see me as a father figure, Emma. A boy needs that kind of guidance.”

Emma knew he was right. Tristan was a growing boy, and his interests were becoming increasingly more masculine and more than she could handle, but she also did not think that a man like Sidney was the best mentor for her son.

No . She would rather die than see that happen.

Emma felt her hands clench in her lap, thankful for the gloves that concealed her white-knuckled grip.

“Tristan has done just fine without that kind of guidance so far,” she said, her tone thankfully steady.

“Has he?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard rumors that he’s become quite the wild child, roaming the countryside without supervision. Doesn’t seem fitting for the heir to an earldom, does it?”

The barely concealed jab at her parenting ignited a wave of anger in her chest.

She turned to face her brother-in-law; her anger was simply too great to swallow this time.

“My son is spirited, curious, and kind—qualities I cherish far more than the strict conformity you seem to hold dear.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’ve got it all wrong, Emma. I have always admired your independent spirit. It’s one of the many things that make you so… intriguing.”

His hand found hers, his thumb gently tracing circles on her wrist just above her glove. The unwelcome contact sent a shiver of disgust through her, and she quickly pulled her hand away, rising to her feet in one smooth motion.

“I think we’ve quite finished talking about my son ,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart. “If you’ll excuse me?—”

He stood up as well, looming over her in a way that felt intentionally menacing.

“We have barely scratched the surface of our conversation, Emma. I haven’t seen you in months, and there’s so much I want to discuss.”

Before Emma could come up with a reply that would not escalate the situation he had warned her about, she caught a welcome sight—the women of the Athena Society, striding toward them with purpose.

Annabelle led the way, flanked by Mrs. Halloway, Mrs. Greene, and the elderly yet formidable Mrs. Witherspoon.

“Lady Cuthbert!” Annabelle called out, her voice ringing across the garden. “We absolutely need your thoughts on the matter we were just discussing! You know how much we value your literary insights.”

A wave of relief washed over Emma like a refreshing breeze.

Sidney’s expression darkened for a moment before he quickly masked it with a charming smile as the ladies drew near.

“Ladies,” he greeted, bowing with practiced grace. “How fortunate Lady Cuthbert is to have such loyal friends.”

“Indeed, she is,” Mrs. Witherspoon replied, her sharp, rheumy eyes sizing him up. “And we are equally fortunate to have her brilliant mind to steer our discussions.”

Sidney nodded once in acknowledgment, recognizing his defeat—at least for now. Before he took his leave, however, he leaned in close to Emma, his lips almost brushing her ear.

“This conversation isn’t over, my dear. I am indeed a patient man, but not indefinitely so. We will talk again. Soon.”

And with those words, which Emma decided to consider as a threat, he slipped away with the confidence of a man used to stealing his way to power.

“Are you all right?” Annabelle asked softly, taking Emma’s arm as the other ladies formed a protective circle around them. “You look as pale as the moon.”

“I’m fine,” Emma replied, though the words sounded empty even to her own ears. “Just tired of the same old dance.”

Mrs. Halloway, a plump widow with kind eyes and a sharp mind, gave her hand a comforting pat. “That man makes my skin crawl, even on a warm day. He looks at you like… Well, it’s not polite to say.”

“Let us talk about something more pleasant,” Emma suggested, eager to push thoughts of Sidney aside. “Have you all decided on our next read?”

The tension eased as they shifted their conversation to literature, the familiar topic offering her the comfort she so desperately craved.

This was her true circle—women who cherished ideas over idle chatter, depth over appearances, and genuine connections over social climbing.

“I say we pick something scandalous next time,” Annabelle proposed with a cheeky grin that made several of the older ladies blush.

“You never give up, do you, Miss Lytton.” Mrs. Witherspoon shook her head, even as her round cheeks bloomed bright red.

Emma smiled softly, willing her mind to absorb the warmth of these women surrounding her instead of replaying the conversation with her brother-in-law.

“Emma?” Annabelle gently nudged her, her perceptive blue eyes bright with concern. “You’re woolgathering again. Where has that mind of yours wandered off to?”

“Nowhere important,” Emma replied, plastering a smile on her face again.

And she was grateful for Mrs. Greene, who soon launched into an animated discussion about their last read.

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of chatter and carefully crafted smiles.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Emma found herself longing to head home—to take off the mask she wore in public and just be herself, if only for a few precious hours before sleep took her.

* * *

The solitude of her bedchamber was a welcome reprieve after the social demands of the afternoon.

Emma settled at her dressing table, watching in the mirror as her lady’s maid, Martha, gently removed the pins from her hair, letting her chestnut-brown waves tumble down her back. With each pin that came out, Emma felt a little more of the day’s tension slip away.

“Is there anything else you need, My Lady?” Martha asked, placing the last hairpin in a delicate porcelain dish.

“No, thank you, Martha. It is almost dinner time,” Emma said, a small smile on her face. “There’s not much else to do for me. Just get Tristan ready for dinner.”

She looked forward to seeing her son again—it was the only thing that could assuage the fear that had been fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird.

“Yes, My Lady.” Martha bowed her head and promptly left the room.

Once she was alone, Emma made her way to the window, pulling back the curtain to take in the twilight sky.

Stars were starting to twinkle, tiny dots of light against the deepening blue. Beyond the trees that framed her modest estate lay Westmere Hall and its elusive master, the Duke of Westmere.

His name echoed in her mind, disturbing and intriguing her all the same.

Their meeting had been brief and tense, yet she couldn’t shake the image of him from her thoughts. That fleeting softness when he had petted his dog revealed a gentleness that seemed at odds with his fearsome reputation.

Logically, she knew she should be afraid of him. After all, the scarred Duke was known for his thunderous scowl and violence.

And yet…

There was something in his eyes when he’d spoken of danger, of protecting one’s child—a flicker of pain she’d thought she’d imagined at first. But now, she was not so sure.

Emma pressed her fingers against the cool glass of the window, tracing the outline of the distant trees.

Was he there now in that shadowy cottage, alone with his loyal dog? Did the thought of her cross his mind as well, or had their brief encounter faded from his memory like the fleeting annoyance she had no doubt he considered it to be?

A sudden knock on her door jolted her out of her thoughts. Before she could respond, it swung open to reveal Mrs. Peabody, the housekeeper, her usually calm expression twisted with worry.

“My Lady!” she gasped, her hand clutching her chest. “It’s young master Tristan!”

Emma’s heart thudded painfully as she stood up. “What’s happened? Is he hurt?”

“He’s gone, My Lady,” Mrs. Peabody replied, her voice shaking. “His bed is empty, and young Tommy says he saw the boy slip out through the kitchen garden not half an hour ago.”

Emma gasped. “Not again.”