Page 30 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)
CHAPTER 30
“Y ou look absolutely lovely this evening, Mama,” Tristan declared with a solemn formality that just made him even more adorable.
Emma descended the staircase, the blue silk gown Sidney had specified flowing around her like water.
“Though I still think we don’t need to attend Uncle Sidney’s tiresome ball,” the boy added.
Emma managed a smile, despite the leaden dread that had settled in her stomach since the morning. “Such gallantry, my darling. I believe His Grace’s lessons in gentlemanly conduct have taken root most admirably,” she said, even though her heart hurt at the mere thought of the Duke.
At the mention of the Duke, however, Tristan’s expression brightened momentarily before clouding over. “Do you suppose he might return soon? Mr. Jenkins says His Grace’s business in London must be terribly important to keep him away for so long.”
The innocent question pierced Emma’s heart with unexpected sharpness, and she found herself sucking in a sharp breath in response, as if to soften the blow.
“I cannot say, dearest. The Duke’s affairs are his own concern,” she said, even though the words formed a ball in her throat.
“But he promised to teach me fly-fishing,” Tristan persisted, his disappointment palpable. “And he never got to see how well I can ride a horse now. And I haven’t seen Argus in ages!”
Emma knelt carefully, mindful of her gown, and took her son’s hands in her own. “Tristan, you must understand that sometimes adults have… obligations that take them away from those they—” She broke off, unable to complete the platitude. “From those they have come to know.”
“The Duke wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye,” Tristan said, his words catching her off guard.
Indeed, the simple faith in the boy’s voice nearly undid her, but she held onto her composure with all her might. It would not do to burst into uncontrollable tears in front of her eight-year-old son.
“We must not presume to understand His Grace’s reasoning,” she said gently, rising to her feet. “Now, have you thanked Martha for agreeing to accompany us this evening? It is most generous of her to forsake her evening off.”
Tristan nodded, though his expression suggested he was unconvinced by her evasion. “Yes, Mama. And I have promised to be on my very best behavior. But I still think Uncle Sidney is a?—”
“A gentleman who has extended us a courtesy,” Emma interjected hastily as Martha entered the foyer. “And we shall repay that courtesy with impeccable manners. Is that not so, Tristan?”
The boy’s reluctant nod coincided with the arrival of Emma’s carriage.
Emma drew a steadying breath, lifting her chin with the practiced dignity that had carried her through countless ordeals during her marriage.
“Come,” she said, extending her hand to Tristan. “Let us face the evening with courage.”
And she was speaking as much to herself as she was to her son.
* * *
“Ah, the guests of honor arrive at last.” Sidney himself materialized before them in evening attire, which seemed calculated to compensate for his diminutive stature.
His gaze lingered appreciatively on Emma’s décolletage before sliding dismissively over Tristan to rest with visible disapproval on Martha, her lady’s maid.
“I was not aware we were extending invitations to the staff,” he sneered.
“Martha accompanies us as Tristan’s chaperone,” Emma replied smoothly, laying a restraining hand on her son’s shoulder, as the boy bristled visibly at his uncle’s tone. “A sensible precaution, as I expect to be much in demand as a dance partner this evening.”
Something unpleasant flickered across her brother-in-law’s features before his practiced smile reasserted itself.
“Indeed. I have claimed the first set for myself, naturally.” He extended his arm with a flourish that struck her as faintly ridiculous. “Shall we join the assembly? I have arranged a most advantageous introduction for young Tristan—the Marchioness of Langley’s grandson is in attendance, a boy of similar age and excellent connections.”
Tristan’s expression suggested he would rather be introduced to a den of vipers, but he maintained a stiff civility as they proceeded into the ballroom. Emma could not help but feel a surge of pride in her son’s composure, even as anxiety churned within her.
The ballroom was already in full swing, the room a kaleidoscope of silk and jewels as couples moved through the intricate patterns of a country dance.
Emma noted with resigned familiarity the subtle shift in the atmosphere as she entered on Sidney’s arm—the momentary pause in conversations, the speculative glances, the barely concealed curiosity.
High society had long regarded her with a mixture of pity and prurient interest, first as the widow of the dissolute Earl. Now, it seemed, they had cast her in a new role: the presumed mistress of her brother-in-law.
“Lady Cuthbert, how delightful to see you this evening,” Lady Milton simpered, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she assessed Emma’s gown with calculating precision. “And in such… fetching attire. One would almost think you were once again on the marriage mart, were it not for the… complexities of your situation.”
“Lady Milton,” Emma acknowledged, ignoring the barb with practiced ease.
Then, Sidney’s hand tightened possessively on her arm. “You must excuse us, Lady Milton. I believe the musicians are striking a tune.”
As he led her toward the center of the ballroom and they moved through the steps of the quadrille, his hand lingered on her waist with a familiarity that made her skin crawl.
“You dance divinely,” he commented, executing a twirl that brought them momentarily closer than propriety strictly demanded. “One wonders if your… other physical endeavors are executed with similar grace.”
Emma’s smile did not falter, though her eyes flashed a warning. “You forget yourself, My Lord.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, his voice honeyed with false concern, “I am merely anticipating our more private entertainment later this evening. The blue silk becomes you admirably. Though I confess I look forward to seeing you without it.”
Emma missed a step, earning a disapproving glance from Lady Everett, partnered with Lord Henry Bowles to her left. Sidney’s grip tightened painfully on her fingers, forcing her back into the pattern of the dance.
“Careful, my dear,” he cautioned, the solicitude in his tone a grotesque parody of concern. “We wouldn’t want the guests to suspect any… discord between us, would we?”
His words slithered over her skin like the slime of a snail—so disgusting that she wanted to take off the clothes he’d made her wear but not for the inappropriate reasons he anticipated.
The remainder of the dance passed in a blur of mechanical movements, Emma’s mind racing as she sought some escape from the trap that had closed so inexorably around her.
When the music finally concluded, she bobbed a curtsy with rigid formality before withdrawing her hand from his grasp.
“I must check on Tristan,” she said, her voice steady despite the panic threatening to overwhelm her composure. “Excuse me.”
Sidney’s eyes narrowed fractionally before his social mask of slimy charm reasserted itself. “Of course. Though do not dilly-dally for too long—I have promised Lady Harrington that you would join her circle for refreshments.”
As though she were a trinket to be passed around!
But Emma merely inclined her head in acknowledgment before turning away, scanning the crowded ballroom for her son.
She located him in an alcove near the terrace doors, engaged in what appeared to be a decidedly unenthusiastic conversation with Lady Langley’s grandson, a pallid youth whose expression suggested he found Tristan equally uninteresting.
As she approached, Tristan’s face brightened with visible relief. “Mama! Fred was just telling me about his pony. I was explaining that His Grace has been teaching me to ride his horse, who stands nearly seventeen hands high.”
The wistfulness in her son’s voice as he mentioned the Duke again sent a fresh pang through Emma’s heart.
“How delightful,” she managed, nodding politely to Fred. “Though perhaps you might wish to join Martha for some refreshment? I believe I saw her near the lemonade table.”
Tristan required no further encouragement, making his escape with barely concealed eagerness.
Emma watched him weave through the crowd before turning to scan the ballroom once more, seeking some momentary respite from her lecherous brother-in-law’s attention.
Her relief was short-lived. She had scarcely taken a step toward a group of Athena Society members when she found herself surrounded by Lady Harrington and her particular circle—women whose social currency depended primarily on their access to and dissemination of scandal.
“Lady Cuthbert, you simply must join us,” Lady Harrington insisted, her plump fingers closing around Emma’s wrist with surprising strength. “We were just discussing the most fascinating rumor about the Duke of Westmere. They say he left for London quite abruptly and under the most interesting circumstances.”
Emma’s heart stuttered painfully as she struggled to maintain her composure. “I cannot imagine what circumstances those might be, Lady Harrington. The Duke’s business is his own, surely.”
“Oh, but that’s precisely what makes it so intriguing,” Lady Pettiford interjected, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For a man of his… temperament, to depart so suddenly and immediately following that dreadful scene at the Swinton musicale, one can’t help but wonder if there might be a connection.”
“Perhaps he simply tired of country life,” Emma suggested, striving for a tone of casual disinterest. “London offers diversions more suited to a gentleman of his position.”
Lady Harrington’s eyes gleamed with the particular satisfaction of a gossip scenting vulnerability. “Diversions, indeed. Though one hears he found ample diversion right here, specifically at?—”
“Lady Cuthbert.” Martha’s voice cut through the conversation like a lifeline. “Forgive the interruption, but I believe Master Tristan requires your attention. He has gone out to the gardens alone.”
The ladies’ circle parted reluctantly, their disappointed expressions suggesting they had been denied a particularly choice morsel of gossip and even further harassment.
Emma seized the opportunity for escape with barely concealed desperation.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, already moving toward the terrace doors. “A mother’s duties must take precedence.”
Once outside the stifling confines of the ballroom, Emma inhaled the cool evening air, fighting to steady her racing heart. “Where is he, Martha?”
The maid’s expression was grave. “I saw him slip out after Lady Langley’s grandson said something… unkind about his father. And about you, My Lady.”
A fresh surge of protective fury cleared Emma’s mind of all other concerns. “Which way did he go?”
Martha gestured toward a path that wound through formal gardens barely visible in the light spilling from the ballroom windows. “Toward the rose garden, I believe. Shall I accompany you?”
“No,” Emma uttered, already gathering her skirts. “Remain here in case he takes another path. I shall find him.”
The gardens were shadowy and unfamiliar, the carefully manicured hedges creating a labyrinth that might have been designed to disorient visitors.
Emma moved as swiftly as her evening slippers allowed, calling Tristan’s name in a voice that grew increasingly urgent as she penetrated deeper into the grounds without seeing a sign of her son.
She had nearly reached the far end of the rose garden when a muffled sound caught her attention—something between a sob and a shout, quickly stifled. Her pace quickened, her heart hammering against her ribs as she rounded a tall hedge to discover a sight that froze the blood in her veins.
Tristan stood rigid with defiance, his small figure dwarfed by Sidney’s looming presence.
Sidney gripped the boy’s shoulder with one hand, the other holding what appeared to be a small pistol.
“I told you to be quiet, boy,” he was saying, his voice slurred with the effects of too much wine. “Your mother need never know you saw me. Just a quiet word between us gentlemen, that’s all.”
“You are not a gentleman,” Tristan retorted, his voice shaking but resolute. “You’re a coward who threatens my mama! The Duke says that a true gentleman protects those weaker than himself, not?—”
Sidney lifted his hand, ready to strike him.
Emma’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint of incandescent rage as she surged forward.
“Take your hands off my son,” she commanded, her voice barely recognizable to her own ears.
Sidney put his hand down and whirled around, the pistol wavering in his grasp as he registered her presence.
“Ah, my dear Emma,” he slurred, attempting to reassert his customary charm. “The boy was merely being disciplined. A guardian’s right, you understand.”
“The only thing I understand,” Emma replied, her voice steady despite the terror clawing at her throat, “is that you were about to strike my child. Release him. Now.”