Page 4 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 4

“T ristan Bickford! Come here this instant!”

Emma’s voice rang out through the evening air as soon as she caught sight of her wayward son.

She had really been too lax with him, she thought as she closed the distance between them in hurried steps, the soles of her evening shoes sinking into the ground.

The gathering dusk cast the Duke’s garden in deepening shadows, rendering the overgrown hedges and untamed rosebushes into formidable sentinels that seemed to watch her hurried approach with silent judgment.

Emma did not like it—neither the fact that she was here again nor the fact that she was forced to imagine the feeling of judgmental eyes from plants. Tristan was driving her positively mad, of that she was certain.

At the sound of her voice, he looked up from where he knelt beside the massive English Setter, his small hands buried in the creature’s thick fur. For a brief moment, guilt flickered across his face before being quickly replaced by the irrepressible enthusiasm that both endeared him to her and tested her patience in equal measure.

She could not let his pretty eyes deceive her because she knew very well that her son had known exactly what he was doing.

“Mama! Look! I’ve been teaching him to sit and give his paw, though it seems he’d already learned that.” He demonstrated with a proud gesture, and to Emma’s dismay, the enormous beast promptly sat, extending one massive paw with surprising gentleness toward her son.

It was at that moment that the beast seemed to notice her presence, and for some reason she could not fathom but for the inherent friendliness of a dog, he bounded toward her with alarming speed, his massive form circling her skirts in an excited greeting that threatened to topple her.

Emma stiffened at once, not quite sure whether to retreat or stand her ground as the animal’s hot breath fanned her hand.

This boy is going to get himself killed by this beast one of these days , she thought, alarmed by the sheer size and heft of the beast all over again.

That he could be so gentle with her son was something she still didn’t trust or believe, no matter what the stubborn boy claimed each time.

“Tristan,” she said, her voice low but no less stern as she carefully sidestepped the dog, “do you have any notion of the worry you’ve caused? Mrs. Peabody was beside herself, and I…”

She paused, unwilling to admit the cold dread that had seized her heart when she’d realized where he must have gone once again. If she admitted that, she would be conceding the fact that the Duke… intimidated her, and that was something she wasn’t quite ready to do.

With her hands on her hips, Emma leveled her son with a hard stare. “This behavior cannot continue. We’re leaving immediately.”

And, of course, while she was quite capable of issuing commands, it was another matter for her one-track-minded son to follow those commands.

At the moment, it didn’t quite look like he was ready to listen to her.

“But Mama—” he started to argue, but she just held up one hand, her other hand going to massage her temple—she could already feel a headache coming on.

It was quite comical. Of all the times and places for her son to begin his pre-teen rebellion against her, did it have to be here, in the Beast of Westmere’s gardens? And did it have to be now, when she worried that he would stumble upon them once again?

It hadn’t even been a day and a half since the Duke had last turned them both out on their ears, and yet Tristan had still come back here. Where he got the audacity to do this, she didn’t quite know.

Did he think their last encounter with the Duke had been a play date of some sort? Teatime? Why was her son doing this to her, for God’s sake!

“Argus.”

The deep voice cut through their exchange like a blade, as if her very thoughts had summoned him from whatever dark enclave he liked to roost in day after day.

Heart thundering in her chest and throat, Emma turned slowly, dread stretching out the moment as though she were stuck in quicksand.

The Duke stood at the edge of the garden path, his imposing figure illuminated by the fading light of dusk.

Once again, Emma found herself facing the Beast of Westmere, his scarred face stern, rendering his expression even more inscrutable than before.

She couldn’t deny the fact that he was handsome nor the fact that meeting that icy blue gaze of his turned her blood molten. There was just something about him that kicked her pulse into high gear when she looked at him—something that she most willingly attributed to fear and mistrust because there was no way it could be anything else.

I must be out of my mind, she thought, willing her pulse to stop racing. It was positively ridiculous.

The Duke, thankfully, seemed unaware of the chaos happening inside her. With a single commanding gesture, he summoned the dog to his side.

The dog hesitated, looking between Tristan and his master with what Emma could only describe as canine indecision, before slinking reluctantly toward the Duke. A soft whimper escaped the beast as he trotted over to take his place beside his master, his tail lowering in submission.

“No!” Tristan protested, his disappointment palpable.

Emma wanted to knock him in the middle of his adamant, little head.

“We were practicing! He’s been so good with me, Sir, truly! He’s learned to fetch the stick and bring it back every time now!”

The Duke’s gaze shifted to Tristan, something unreadable flickering in his ice-blue eyes as he studied the boy.

Emma watched that same peculiar transformation she’d witnessed the night before occur—slight but definitely there—as the harsh lines around his mouth softened infinitesimally.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, regarding Tristan with what might have been curiosity, but Emma noted the muted, wistful edges in that look, and so she couldn’t quite pin it down.

Against her better judgment, she found her curiosity stirring, intrigue tugging at her heart.

Stop it. Right this instant.

“Has he, indeed?” The Duke’s tone remained neutral, but it lacked the cutting edge that had characterized their previous encounter. “Argus is not typically so… accommodating with strangers.”

Emma instinctively moved closer to her son, positioning herself partially between him and the Duke.

“Your dog,” she said, the words emerging more tersely than she’d intended, “should be properly restrained if he cannot be controlled. My son might have been harmed.”

Oh, she was well aware that she had no right to say those things to him, but she could not bear the idea of looking the fool in front of this man. Knowing that those icy blue eyes of his probably regarded her as nothing but a brainless hussy made her rather irritable.

The Duke’s eyebrow rose a fraction, the only indication that her words had made any impression at all.

“Argus,” he replied with deliberate slowness, “has shown remarkable restraint, considering the repeated trespasses on my property.” His gaze met hers directly, and she knew she could not argue with that at all. It was true that both her and her son were in the wrong here. “One might suggest that proper restraint applies equally to children who wander where they do not belong.”

“One might suggest,” Emma countered, feeling heat rise to her cheeks despite her determination to remain composed, “that a gentleman would recognize a child’s natural curiosity rather than treat him as an intruder.”

She just could not stand the thought of him looking down on her parenting.

“A gentleman,” the Duke returned, taking a step closer, “might also expect a lady to ensure that her child understands the concept of private property.”

They stood mere feet apart now, the air between them charged with an energy that Emma refused to name.

In the gathering darkness, his eyes seemed to gleam with something beyond mere irritation—a challenge, perhaps, or an invitation to a battle of wills she had neither expected nor prepared for.

Argus broke the tension with a sudden, sharp bark, his attention returning to Tristan as if reminding the adults of his presence. The dog strained against invisible bonds of obedience, clearly desiring to return to the boy who had shown him such attention.

The Duke exhaled sharply—not quite a sigh but a sound that suggested resignation.

“Take your son and go, Lady Cuthbert. The hour grows late, and neither of us wishes to explain to the local gossips why you frequent my gardens after nightfall.”

The implication of his words sent a fresh wave of indignation through Emma.

How… how dare he even imply such a thing?

Ha! As if I would ever have a tryst with a brute like you!

Oh, the words hung on the tip of her tongue, ready to shoot out of her mouth in the heat of her passion, but that was before she noticed the flicker of amusement slithering in the windows of his eyes.

He seemed to be enjoying this. Was he trying to get a rise out of her? For what purpose?

But she recognized the wisdom in a strategic retreat. With as much dignity as she could muster, even as her cheeks burned hot, she placed a firm hand on Tristan’s shoulder.

“Come, Tristan. We’ve imposed upon His Grace’s hospitality quite enough,” she said, barely reining in the urge to lash out at her son.

Tristan’s shoulders slumped in defeat, but he offered no further protest. The boy had caused enough trouble to last three lifetimes. At this point, she was quite certain he’d knocked five years off her life already.

She wasn’t sure she was going to survive this year at this rate.

As Emma guided him toward the garden gate, Tristan turned back to wave at the enormous dog, who watched their departure with evident disappointment.

“Goodbye, Argus,” he called softly. “Next time, I’ll teach you to roll over.”

Emma quickened their pace, not daring to look back to see the Duke’s reaction to her son’s presumption of a ‘next time’ that would never come—not if she had any say in the matter.

* * *

“Checkmate in three moves, I believe.”

Victor looked at the chessboard with a calmness that masked the intricate strategies at play. The ivory pieces glimmered in the warm firelight, casting long shadows over the polished mahogany surface.

He picked up his glass of brandy, letting the rich, smoky flavor linger on his palate before swallowing, relishing the familiar burn as it slid down his throat.

Across from him sat Nathaniel Godric, the Marquess of Knightley, his closest friend in his very solitary life—and a constant source of annoyance even now—who was studying the chessboard with exaggerated focus, his brow creased in mock despair.

Sometimes, Victor grew weary of the Marquess’s mischief.

This was one of those times.

The drawing room of Knightley Hall wrapped them in a simple yet comfortable atmosphere—leather-bound books lined the walnut shelves, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and spirits, and the crackling fire cast playful patterns of light and shadow on the wood-paneled walls.

“Damnation,” Nathaniel grumbled, raking a hand through his already tousled auburn hair. “I really thought I had you this time.”

Victor merely nodded, albeit absentmindedly, his thoughts drifting back to the earlier encounter in his garden.

Those wide, defiant eyes the color of honey, the protective stance of a mother shielding her child that never failed to trigger memories he would very much prefer to forget. The boy, who had somehow managed to win over Argus, a creature known for being picky about who he tolerated.

The Dowager Countess of Cuthbert and her son.

This was the second time in a mere two days. He would not acknowledge the fact that he’d thought of her many more times and for far too long in these two days. Nor would he acknowledge what thoughts of her did to his body.

No . He simply could not.

“You’re being unusually quiet tonight,” Nathaniel remarked, breaking into Victor’s thoughts as he poured himself another glass of brandy. “Usually, you at least let me bask in your triumph after you crush my defenses.”

Victor’s mouth curled into what could almost be called a smile. “Maybe I have grown tired of winning once again.”

“Cruel,” Nathaniel said, though a playful glint danced in his eyes. “Most cruel, indeed. And here I thought our friendship had weathered the storms of war, only to be shattered by your unbearable arrogance at the chessboard.”

The mention of war cast a familiar shadow over Victor’s mind—the ghostly scent of gunpowder and blood, the haunting sounds of cannon fire, and the cries of men.

He pushed those memories aside with practiced ease, choosing instead to focus on the warmth of the fire, the taste of brandy, and the comforting presence of his oldest friend.

“You’re not fully here,” Nathaniel observed, his tone shifting from mock offense to genuine curiosity. “Your thoughts seem to be wandering tonight. Should I dare to hope that some lovely lady has finally breached the fortress you call your heart?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Victor shot back, perhaps a bit too quickly.

But his thoughts betrayed him, drifting back to the Dowager Countess—to the fierce dignity she displayed when facing him despite her evident nervousness, to those bright honey-brown eyes that met his gaze without flinching, and to the slight tremor in her gloved hands that she fought so hard to hide.

Nathaniel leaned in closer, clearly intrigued. “Good heavens, I’m right, am I not? The Beast of Westmere has finally found a beauty to tame him!”

“Your romantic notions are as exaggerated as they are misguided,” Victor drawled, hoping he’d affected the bored tone perfectly, even as he downed his drink in one gulp. “There is no woman.”

Nathaniel narrowed his eyes, suspicion brewing.

“And yet there’s something,” he pressed, leaning back in his chair like a man who was ready to wait forever for an answer. “Come on, Westmere. We’ve been friends since our days at Eton. I’ve seen you stand your ground against enemy fire without batting an eye. Whatever’s on that sharp mind of yours, you might as well let it out.”

Victor thought about keeping quiet, but he knew it was pointless. Nathaniel had the persistence of a terrier with a favorite toy when he was curious.

“Lady Cuthbert’s son has taken to wandering onto my property,” he finally admitted. “I’ve caught him in my gardens twice now, trying to befriend Argus.”

“Cuthbert’s widow?” Nathaniel’s eyebrows shot up, clearly intrigued. “The one who started that literary society for women? Quite a striking woman if I remember correctly. And you’re saying that her son has been visiting your grounds?”

“Uninvited,” Victor clarified.

“Of course, of course.” Nathaniel nodded eagerly, a hint of suspicion in his tone. “And what about the lady herself? Has she come to fetch her wayward child?”

Victor’s mind drifted to the image of the Dowager Countess standing in his garden at dusk, her chestnut-brown hair escaping its pins in the gentle evening breeze, her eyes blazing with protectiveness as she stood between her son and what she saw as a threat—him.

“Yes,” he said, the word falling like bricks.

“And…?” Nathaniel prompted, clearly wanting more than just a simple answer.

“And nothing. She took the boy and left. Just as you’d expect.”

Nathaniel’s disappointment was evident. “That’s it? No fiery exchange? No dramatic showdown? No…” He waved his glass around. “… moments of unexpected connection?”

Victor leveled his friend with a deadpan stare. He couldn’t believe he was listening to such foolery—it was his misfortune to be stuck with a man such as this.

He did not even think he ought to dignify the man’s words with a response. But then that only seemed to encourage Nathaniel.

“Maybe,” he suggested, his voice carefully casual, “you should think about inviting Lady Cuthbert over to Westmere Hall. Just her, of course, not her son.” He gave a playful wink that instantly reignited Victor’s annoyance.

The little bastard.

“What on earth for?” Victor shot back, his annoyance simmering.

“Well, to chat about the boy’s little escapades, obviously,” Nathaniel replied, feigning innocence. “Or maybe to find some common interests. I hear she’s quite the reader. Your library is impressive. There could be some shared interests to discover.”

Victor scoffed at the idea, but his traitorous mind was already painting a picture of the Dowager Countess browsing his bookshelves, those graceful fingers that trembled in his presence gliding over the spines of his first editions, her lips slightly parted in admiration of some rare book.

And just like that, the image shifted, uninvited, to those same fingers on his skin, those same lips parted in a much more enticing way?—

Christ!

What was with him? Was he so starved of female attention that even his mind would turn against him like this?

“Your imagination is crossing the line,” he said sharply, but it was more to himself than to the mischievous Nathaniel, who was eyeing him with a knowing glint in his eyes that he certainly did not like.

“Crossing the line?” Nathaniel laughed. “What a boring restriction for lesser men to deal with. Surely a duke can entertain a widow without causing a scandal?”

“I have no desire to entertain anyone,” Victor insisted, though even he could hear the emptiness in his own words. “Especially not a woman who looks at me like I might eat her child at any moment.”

“What a shame,” Nathaniel sighed, casually rearranging the chess pieces. “If you’re not keen on tackling this head-on, maybe a more… subtle approach would work better.”

Victor regarded his friend with suspicion. “What are you plotting now?”

“Plotting? Oh no, not at all,” Nathaniel said, pretending to be offended. “Just an invitation. Lord Griggs is hosting his annual pheasant hunt next week. I’m going, and I thought you might want to join me.”

“And why would I do that?” Victor arched a questioning eyebrow.

“Fresh air. Some sport. Good old-fashioned male bonding,” Nathaniel replied innocently.

Victor narrowed his eyes. “And what does the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert have to do with any of this?”

“I believe the ladies will be off playing cards and enjoying Pall-Mall while the gentlemen are out hunting,” Nathaniel explained, a hint of satisfaction barely hidden in his tone. “She might just be one of them. Lord Griggs certainly knows how to cast a wide net with his invitations.”

The thought of seeing the Dowager Countess again sent an unwelcome thrill through Victor, despite his determination to pretend otherwise. And so he tried to convince himself that it was just mere curiosity—a chance to see how she navigated the social scene, to find out if she became so fiercely protective of her son only around him or if she was that way with the whole ton.

Despite himself, his curiosity stirred.

Damn it.

“I’ll think about it,” he finally replied, working hard to sound indifferent.

Nathaniel’s knowing smile made him uneasy. “Perfect. I’ll let Griggs know to expect us both. Argus could use the exercise, after all.”