Page 5 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 5

“T ristan, sweetheart, you really can’t keep wandering onto the Duke’s property,” Emma said, her voice calm and gentle, even though her words carried a firm undertone. “It’s just not right, and it could be dangerous.”

Morning sunlight poured into the breakfast room, casting playful patterns on the crisp white tablecloth and the delicate porcelain set before them.

The remnants of their breakfast—some toast crusts on Tristan’s plate and a half-full teapot that was quickly losing its warmth—quietly spoke to a conversation that had started off pleasantly but was now veering into a familiar argument that Emma had hoped to sidestep.

She’d spent all night tossing and turning in bed, debating how to bring this up to her son. But she also knew that she couldn’t just let him keep running wild like this. She had to put a stop to it—she could not brave another adventure into the brutish Duke’s property.

Tristan glanced up from his plate, his expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability that tugged at her heartstrings.

When had her little boy started to show such a determined set to his jaw? And that thoughtful crease between his eyebrows?

These subtle changes seemed to happen daily, serving as reminders that his childhood was slipping away faster than she could bear.

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong, Mama,” he protested, his voice ringing with a familiar blend of reason and indignation. “I was just playing with Argus! The Duke wouldn’t even know I was there if you hadn’t come looking for me!”

Emma carefully set down her teacup, trying to hide the slight tremor in her fingers. She had to be strong now—firm. But how could she help him grasp the complexities of the situation without shutting him down?

The Duke of Westmere wasn’t just a neighbor—his name alone made the local gentry whisper in hushed tones. Getting tangled up with him any further would no doubt leave a greater smear on her reputation than the one already there—not to mention what kind of problem it could cause for Tristan himself.

Emma didn’t want to see her son tangled up in such scandals, so she had to nip this in the bud now.

“It’s just not appropriate, Tristan,” she insisted, her voice taking on that tone she reserved for serious matters, hoping to get through to him. “The Duke’s estate is private, just like his dog. We can’t just help ourselves to either whenever we feel like it.”

Frustration was written all over her son’s face, his cheeks turning red as he pushed his plate away.

“There aren’t any children my age for miles!” he complained, his words spilling out faster and faster. “All I do is study with Master Finch from morning till afternoon. Latin, math, history, and”—he waved his hand dismissively—“all sorts of things that keep me stuck inside when I just want to be outside! But Argus likes me! Why can’t I play with him?”

The sadness in his last question hit Emma hard. She could see the loneliness hiding behind his complaints—a loneliness that seemed to grow alongside him like a shadow that just wouldn’t go away.

The countryside, despite its beauty and the safe escape it offered from the judgmental eyes of London society, didn’t provide many friends for a young boy on the brink of adolescence, and she certainly couldn’t be a playmate for a growing boy either.

It seemed that her son was beginning to seek independence. She did not know if it was too early, but she had to deal with it now, unfortunately.

And she was going to have to come up with something.

“Maybe,” she suggested, a spark of inspiration lighting up her mind, “we could get a dog of our own? One that would be all yours to train and take care of however you like.”

The idea felt so right that she wondered why it hadn’t come to her sooner. A friend for Tristan and a way to channel his restless energy.

But Tristan’s response was immediate and firm.

“No,” he said with a passion that surprised her. “I don’t want just any dog. I want to play with Argus! He’s the most amazing creature I’ve ever seen, and he really likes me, Mama! He does!”

Emma held back a sigh, recognizing the stubbornness in his stance—something she sometimes thought he inherited from his late father, though she would never tell Tristan that the trait he shared with the Earl was one of his least charming qualities.

Before she could say anything, Tristan sat up.

“Why can’t we just ask him?” he said suddenly, leaning in with an intensity that caught Emma off guard.

The gleam in his eyes was desperate, and she hated to quench it.

“Why can’t we just persuade the Duke to let me visit Argus every now and then?” he continued, his eyes bright. “If he agrees, everything will be fine.”

Emma felt her cheeks flush at the thought of approaching the Duke of Westmere with such a request.

The memory of their last meeting—his piercing gaze, his aloof demeanor, their heated back and forth, and the tension that had crackled between them—sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest.

“We simply can’t, Tristan dear,” she replied, knowing her answer lacked the solid reasoning that Tristan was obviously looking for this time. “The Duke values his privacy, and we have to respect that.”

Tristan pushed his chair back with a scrape that echoed his frustration. He stood up, his slender frame vibrating with a kind of helpless indignation that only a small child with limited knowledge could express.

“So, I’m not allowed near Argus,” he said, his voice rising slightly despite his efforts to keep it steady within his small chest. “And there are no other children to play with. What am I to do, Mama? What am I to do all day while you go to your gatherings and read your books?”

Emma felt each word hit her like a dart. “We can paint together,” she reminded him gently. “And… you can… you can read, too. You can read with me. You do enjoy our reading, don’t you?”

Her son’s face flushed red as he stomped his foot. “I’m not going to read with you and all the other old ladies!” he said with pre-teen indignation. “I’ll be laughed at if people find out!”

Oh dear .

How was she going to handle this? Her reasonable son had never thrown tantrums quite like this before. What was this?

“I want to do more! Many other things. Like horse riding. Or fishing. Or… or…” he trailed off, but Emma knew what her frustrated son was trying to say to her.

That those were things a father might teach him, but his father was long since dead. And so he should have a male figure, at least. But even that was non-existent.

She couldn’t help but remember the words of her brother-in-law when he demanded to see Tristan. He was, unfortunately, the only male figure Tristan had in his family to look up to, but Emma had absolutely no intentions of letting that man near her son. Not at all.

And so they were at an impasse. An impasse that she had to break as quickly as possible.

But before she could come up with a response that might bridge the growing gap between them, her agitated son turned sharply.

“Come back here, young man!” Emma put one hand on her hip, her tone sharp.

“No! Leave me alone!” he yelled back and marched out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving her standing there, chest heaving and eyes stinging with tears.

The silence that followed felt like a physical weight pressing down on her. She stayed at the table, surrounded by the trappings of a genteel home that suddenly felt like a poor substitute for the companionship her son so desperately needed.

Oh dear heavens, what was she to do now?

* * *

“I dare say Mrs. Shelley’s grasp of the human experience is far beyond what you’d expect from someone her age,” Mrs. Witherspoon proclaimed, her voice rich with the authority of someone whose literary opinions were always taken seriously. “I think it is rather genius that such deep philosophical questions can come from a ghost story contest. I truly believe her examination of human arrogance in the face of divine power places her work right alongside Milton’s legacy.”

The ladies of the Athena Society were gathered in Mrs. Witherspoon’s beautifully decorated drawing room, a room that had quickly become a haven for the flourishing of feminine intellect, shielded from the judgments of the outside world.

The soft light of the afternoon streamed through lace curtains, creating a warm glow around the room. A room where they could freely engage in discussions far beyond the domestic issues Society expected them to focus on.

Or at least, most of them.

Emma merely nodded—rather absentmindedly, too—at the matron’s comments, her mind drifting far from the gothic tale they were discussing.

Her mind was far away. Or rather, it was still very close to home. She just couldn’t shake the memory of her earlier confrontation with her little boy. She couldn’t forget his frustrated face or the hurt in his eyes, the desperate need for the very thing she just couldn’t seem to give him—male companionship.

What kind of mother was she, failing so completely to understand her son’s needs?

An absolutely horrid one.

The thought was not comforting at all. But there was no alternative.

On the one hand, there was Sidney Bickford, who had not shown even an ounce of interest in Tristan for the last eight years but who was now seeking his attention.

He was a horrid man, and she knew for a fact that he was not the man to quench her son’s thirst for masculine play or wisdom. The man spent most of his time and money on whorehouses and the latest fashion. She had no intentions of turning her son into a worthless dandy who chased after skirts at every minute of the day.

And on the other hand… was the Beast of Westmere himself. The man whom her son had somehow become fixated on. Well, on his dog, not him. But they were joined at the hip at this point.

And just like that, without any warning, her thoughts veered in a completely different direction—to those striking icy blue eyes set in that intriguing face, and the commanding presence that made her heart race despite her better judgment.

The Duke of Westmere. Victor Aldridge.

Even his name stirred a confusing blend of fear and fascination that left her feeling unsettled.

“I suggest for our next meeting,” Annabelle chimed in with her usual enthusiasm, breaking through Emma’s reverie, “that we explore something with a bit more… sensuality than our recent choices.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief as the older ladies exchanged scandalized yet delighted glances.

“What about Byron’s Don Juan ? I find his take on desire to be quite enlightening.”

“Mhm, yes,” Emma murmured, only half-listening to the chatter, her thoughts still tangled between worry for her son and an inexplicable intrigue in the mysterious, brutish Duke, whose eyes alone made her blood simmer.

Noticing her friend’s distraction, Annabelle leaned in closer, feigning casualness. “You know, I think we should spice up our next meeting by showing up in just our chemises. The thrill of being partially undressed would surely enhance our appreciation of Byron’s poetry, don’t you think?”

Across the circle, Joanna pressed her gloved hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh behind a mask of polite interest. Her spectacles caught the afternoon light, reflecting the shared amusement between her and all the women who were seated in that drawing room.

“Mmm, yes, of course,” Emma replied absentmindedly, her eyes glued to the patterns on the carpet as if they held the answers to her struggles of raising a boy on the brink of manhood without a father figure.

“Emma!” Annabelle exclaimed, her eyebrows high on her forehead. “Are you sure about your answer? Should I tell the ladies to get their finest undergarments ready for our next literary discussion?”

That finally shattered through Emma’s distracted thoughts.

She blinked rapidly, warmth flooding her cheeks as she processed Annabelle’s outrageous suggestion. “Excuse me? What on earth are you talking about now, Annabelle?”

Annabelle burst into hearty laughter, the sound infectious enough to coax smiles from the other women. “There you are! I was starting to worry we’d completely lost you to whatever captivating thoughts have been occupying your mind for the last two hours.”

“Forgive me,” Emma said, clearing her throat and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m just a bit… distracted today.”

“Perhaps,” Joanna gently chimed in, coming to her rescue, “we could consider Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho for our next book choice? The Alpine scenery would be such a refreshing change from our usual surroundings.”

That suggestion quickly sparked a lively discussion that naturally wrapped up the meeting, allowing Emma to engage at least a little, even though her mind still wandered.

And as the ladies stood to say their goodbyes, exchanging warm hugs and promises to keep in touch, Emma felt Mrs. Witherspoon envelop her in a comforting embrace.

“My dear,” the elderly woman whispered, her eyes twinkling with an empathy that belied her age and experiences, “whatever is weighing on you, just remember that most of life’s challenges can be eased by good books or good friends—and you, my lucky girl, have plenty of both!”

Oh .

Just like that, Emma’s pulse slowed down as she realized that she’d locked herself inside her own head, isolating herself from the very community that’d given her strength ever since she’d retreated to the countryside.

Now, she couldn’t help but smile warmly at the elderly woman, touched by her simple yet profound wisdom and her efforts to lift her spirits.

“Thank you, Mrs. Witherspoon. I am indeed grateful for this society and for all of you. Truly.”