Page 7 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)
CHAPTER 7
“I see the Beast of Westmere has decided to grace us with his presence,” came a barely hushed comment from somewhere to Victor’s left, clearly meant to reach his ears while pretending to be discreet. “One wonders if Lord Griggs invited him out of genuine friendliness or just out of morbid curiosity.”
Victor kept his expression neutral as the whispers flowed through the hunting party like a breeze through summer wheat.
Such murmurs had long since failed to penetrate the protective shell he had built since returning from the war—a shield that was as effective as it was isolating. The opinions of the ton mattered to him as much as the buzzing of insects on a warm afternoon: persistent, sometimes annoying, but ultimately trivial.
In fact, at that moment, he couldn’t care less about those words, for he locked eyes with the very woman who was beginning to prove herself to be a siren who haunted his mind at every given opportunity.
Emma Bickford, the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert.
There she stood, draped in a soft blue dress that hugged her curves in ways he wished he did not notice.
But he did. Oh, he did. Even now, holding her gaze from afar, it was as though she’d become the only thing in his field of vision.
This is madness, Westmere , he told himself, and yet he still could not find the will to break eye contact first.
And so she did it for him. Those honey-brown eyes darted away from his just as easily as they had locked him in their thrall, and Victor realized that he’d been barely breathing.
Letting out a breath, he shook his head, his scowl deepening even more, making his face all the more forbidding.
He adjusted his leather gloves with careful precision, now acutely aware of the cautious glances directed his way—the slight movements of gentlemen with impeccable lineage and questionable bravery as they found reasons to distance themselves from the scarred Duke.
Their wives, elegantly dressed on the terrace, watched him with apprehension and fascination, as though he was an exotic animal kept safely behind the bars of a zoo and they were the spectators who’d paid money to watch him do a trick.
How dull , he thought, determined to ignore the way his pulse had yet to calm from that brief moment with the Dowager Countess—if one could even count it as a ‘moment.’
It was the weather that elicited this reaction, he decided. That would make it less complicated to deal with.
But then again, ever since meeting the Dowager Countess, he’d found himself making way too many excuses like this one—too many for comfort, in fact.
“You might want to try smiling,” suggested Nathaniel, appearing at his side with the ease that came from a long friendship. “Just a little one, mind you. We wouldn’t want to scare the crowd with too much friendliness. They might faint right on the spot.”
Victor shot his friend a sidelong look that would have silenced anyone else. “I am here because you insisted, Knightley. Just because I am participating in the hunt doesn’t mean I have to perform like a trained bear for the entertainment of idle gossipers.”
“How badly you misjudge your charm,” Nathaniel said, still in good spirits. “A trained bear would be welcomed with far less fear and a lot more joy. I think you’ve earned the title of the only man in England whose mere presence can make a dowager clutch her pearls from fifty feet away.”
“Your humor is commendable, but I don’t see the point in pretending to be friendly for the sake of those who have already made up their minds,” Victor drawled.
“The point, my gloomy friend, is to shake up their expectations,” Nathaniel replied, his voice light, though his eyes sparkled with a cleverness that contradicted his reputation as a mingler. “When people expect a growl, a kind word can be far more disarming than the fiercest outburst.”
Before Victor could come up with a suitably sharp retort, their chat was interrupted by a small group of gentlemen, led by the stout figure of Lord Harrington, whose family’s long history had made up for generations of dwindling intelligence.
“Westmere,” Lord Harrington greeted with a stiff nod that couldn’t quite hide his discomfort. “Knightley.” His tone brightened on that word. “Lovely day for a hunt, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely, Harrington,” Nathaniel replied with effortless charm. “Though let’s hope the pheasants are a bit more challenging than your grouse last season. I heard they practically flew into your gun barrels out of sheer boredom.”
The other gentlemen in the retinue chuckled politely, but Victor noticed how their eyes darted toward him, debating whether it was safe to laugh in his presence. The ridiculousness of their caution might have been funny if it weren’t so painfully familiar.
“One can’t help but wonder,” said a slender gentleman whose name Victor vaguely remembered as either Wexford or Welford—not that it really mattered to him. “If the Duke finds our little provincial sport to be sufficient entertainment after the, um, more vigorous pursuits of his military career.”
The implication lingered in the air, a thinly disguised jab wrapped in polite conversation. Victor felt that familiar chill wash over him, the calculated detachment that had always served him well on battlefields, both real and social.
“I believe, Sir,” he replied, letting his voice drop to that deep, rumbling tone he knew would enhance the intimidating effect of his scarred face, “that man remains the most dangerous game, no matter the setting.” He leaned in just a bit, taking grim satisfaction in the way the gentleman instinctively pulled back. “Though I must admit, the hunt does stir certain… primal instincts.”
The reaction was immediate and gratifying. Wexford or Welford—his name hardly mattered, since Victor honestly doubted they would ever speak again—turned a deep shade of crimson, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he struggled to find words.
There were none. None but those threaded with humiliation along their seams.
“I just remembered,” the gentleman finally stammered, “a matter I need to discuss with Lord Griggs before we leave. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
His hasty exit was mirrored by the gradual retreat of the others, their murmured excuses leading them back to the safety of more predictable company.
What a bunch of spineless curs they were.
Victor watched them go with the detached curiosity of a naturalist studying the defensive behaviors of a particularly skittish species.
“Very impressive,” Nathaniel remarked, once they were alone again. “Your growl has definitely improved since our last social gathering. Perhaps next time you could consider showing your teeth? I can only imagine how poor Welford would faint on the spot, sparing his family the hassle of dealing with his rather costly and utterly pointless existence.”
Victor brushed off the jab, his gaze already drawn to a flash of chestnut-brown hair on the terrace.
Once again, his eyes found and stayed on Lady Cuthbert, her stiff posture hinting at a discomfort she couldn’t quite hide. Unable to resist, he followed her line of sight and quickly spotted the source of her unease—Sidney Bickford, the regent to the young Earl of Cuthbert, who seemed to be inching closer to the widow with every passing moment.
Memories of their past encounters flooded his mind—her fierce protectiveness of her son, the way she had faced him head-on despite her clear apprehension, and the subtle tremor in her gloved hands that she had fought so hard to mask. Yet here she was, visibly shaken by the mere presence of her brother-in-law.
In that instant, a wave of anger surged within Victor, igniting a fire in his chest.
And he realized that he wanted to tear the man limb from limb.
Whether it was a feeling that stemmed from his inherent need to protect the vulnerable or from the darker emotion that felt a lot like possessiveness, he didn’t quite know.
“Hmm. Now, that is interesting,” Nathaniel observed, his voice laden with smug amusement, breaking through Victor’s haze.