Page 8 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 8

“T he formidable Duke of Westmere seems to be locked in a rather intense exchange of glances with Cuthbert’s widow. How utterly fascinating.”

How irritating.

Victor reluctantly tore his gaze away from the Dowager Countess, shooting his friend a glare that spoke volumes.

“Your observations are as unwelcome as they are off the mark,” he growled, adjusting his gloves with a bit more force than necessary.

“Of course, they are,” Nathaniel replied, his voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Just like it’s pure coincidence that you’ve decided to attend your first social gathering in months, just days after running into the lady in question. Twice, if I remember your reluctant confession correctly.”

Victor snarled then, making a nearby gentleman jump back in surprise, spilling his drink all over his pristine riding coat.

“Your spectacular way with words never ceases to amaze me, dear Westmere.” Nathaniel chuckled. “Tell me, do you practice that particular growl, or does it come naturally? It’s quite effective at parting a crowd.”

Before Victor could come up with a suitably sharp retort, Lord Griggs’ booming voice rang out, cutting through the morning air.

“Gentlemen! To your mounts if you please! We’ve not got all day, and the pheasants are waiting!”

Oh, wonderful. How exciting.

The group sprang into action, servants leading horses forward while the hunting dogs strained against their handlers, barking excitedly and quivering with anticipation.

Victor made his way to his mount—a massive black stallion whose temperament mirrored his own: strong, unpredictable around strangers, and not one with a penchant for unnecessary noise.

“I see the heir of Cuthbert is eager to join the hunt instead of just watching from the sidelines like most boys his age,” Nathaniel noted as they prepared to mount.

Victor followed his friend’s gaze to where Tristan Bickford, the Earl of Cuthbert, was being helped onto a chestnut gelding that seemed far too big for his small frame.

“He can’t ride.”

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by Victor’s take on the situation. “I didn’t realize you had taken the time to study the boy’s riding skills.”

“I haven’t,” Victor shot back, effortlessly swinging himself up into the saddle. “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes and a basic grasp of horsemanship. The kid looks like a sack of grain ready to topple over.”

“Then maybe,” Nathaniel suggested, mounting his own horse with a bit more flair, “ someone should step in and offer some advice before the lad ends up breaking his neck trying to impress the adults.”

Victor chose to ignore the jab, though his gaze drifted back to Tristan as the hunting party began to form up. He felt a flash of irritation—more intense than he had expected—when he noticed that the boy’s uncle, Lord Sidney Bickford, had taken his place at the front of the group next to Lord Griggs, seemingly indifferent to his nephew’s struggles.

“One might think,” Victor muttered under his breath, “that the boy’s guardian would care more about his well-being.”

“One might, indeed,” Nathaniel replied, eyeing Lord Sidney with open disdain. “But I suspect the man’s interest in guardianship goes only as far as the societal and financial perks it brings him and not a step further.”

The hunting horn blared, its clear call marking the start of the chase. The party moved forward across the rolling meadow that lay east of Griggs Manor, a vibrant mix of tweed and leather set against the lush backdrop of early summer.

Victor let his horse drift toward the back of the group, positioning himself so he could keep a close eye on Tristan without drawing attention to his scrutiny.

The boy was clearly struggling to stay in the saddle as the pace picked up, his small hands gripping the reins tightly. He bounced awkwardly with each stride of his mount, yet the determination on his face was unmistakable—a child desperately trying to navigate a world meant for adults.

“The lad’s got spirit, I’ll give him that,” Nathaniel continued, guiding his horse closer to Victor’s so he could continue his annoying rhetoric within earshot. “He reminds me a bit of a stubborn young man I once knew. Though that particular fellow had a rather unfortunate habit of?—”

“Your reminiscences are neither required nor welcome,” Victor cut him off sharply.

“My, my. Such hostility,” Nathaniel replied, completely unfazed by his brusque tone. “I was just noting that sometimes determination can outweigh experience when it comes to horsemanship. The boy might surprise us all.”

As if to contradict this optimistic view, Tristan’s horse suddenly shied away from a rabbit darting out of the bushes, making a quick sideways move that nearly threw the young boy off.

The boy managed to hold on with impressive grit, but the incident only reinforced Victor’s worries about whether this was a good idea to venture out with the adults.

“Does Lord Griggs have a decent physician on hand?” Victor asked, keeping his tone neutral, even though his posture betrayed the tension in the rigid lines of his body.

Nathaniel shot him a sidelong glance, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Worried about the boy’s safety, are we? How utterly unexpected.”

“I merely don’t want to witness a preventable disaster during what should be an outing meant for fun,” Victor replied stiffly. “The child is clearly overmounted and under-experienced.”

“Then maybe the fearsome Duke of Westmere should consider giving him some lessons,” Nathaniel suggested innocently. “I seem to remember you were quite the horseman in your younger days. Before you turned into a reclusive, grumpy misanthrope, that is.”

Yes, his patience was tested every waking moment by this knave he called his friend.

“And why should I?” Victor grumbled. “I have nothing to do with the runt.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Oh, your cantankerous exterior may fool others, but I know you’re worried about the little chap.”

Victor did not reply to his friend’s nagging, more so because he knew that it was true.

The hunting party had now reached the edge of the woods, where the paths narrowed and required more careful navigation.

Victor watched with growing concern as Tristan’s horse, sensing its rider’s uncertainty, began to test its limits with small acts of rebellion—tossing its head, resisting the bit, and choosing its own path rather than responding to the boy’s tentative commands.

“The situation is getting even worse,” he observed grimly, his tone sharp.

“Indeed,” Nathaniel agreed, sobering as he too recognized the developing problem. “But I fear that a direct intervention from the Beast of Westmere might be more traumatic for the boy than a tumble from his horse. Your reputation certainly precedes you, especially among the impressionable youth.”

Victor felt his jaw clench at the unwelcome reminder of how Society viewed him—and by extension, how the boy might perceive him. He was aware that his worries ran counter to the boy’s earlier interactions with him, but he could not shake them still.

“I have no desire to scare the child,” he finally said. “He shouldn’t end up breaking his neck trying to impress men who hardly deserve the effort.”

Victor shifted his position within the hunting party, keeping a careful distance behind Tristan but remaining close enough to step in if things took a turn for the worse.

The rest of the group had started to move ahead, their focus on the dogs that had picked up a scent and were leading the chase with growing excitement.

Lord Griggs and his more seasoned companions, including Lord Sidney, had already rounded a bend in the woodland path, leaving Tristan to struggle in their wake, determination battling with rising anxiety on his youthful face.

“You seem ready to rush to the boy’s aid,” Nathaniel remarked, his voice low enough for only Victor to hear. “Quite noble of you, but you and I know the real reason you care for him.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Victor replied gruffly, narrowing his eyes at him warningly. “I merely do not tolerate negligence,” he continued, his gaze on the boy as he skirted a particularly rough patch on the path. “Lord Sidney seems to have left his nephew to brave the path alone.”

The filth of a man.

“Sounds a bit familiar, doesn’t it?” Nathaniel said. “Although that particular young man had some advantages that the heir of Cuthbert doesn’t.”

Victor stayed silent, but he could feel the tension in his jaw as he absorbed Nathaniel’s pointed remark. The similarities were clear, even if he wanted to ignore them.

A young boy desperately trying to prove himself in a man’s world. A child yearning for validation from those least likely to give it.

The hunting horn blared once more, its sharp sound resonating through the trees.

Up ahead, Tristan’s horse grew more restless with excitement, tossing its head and resisting the bit while the boy fought to keep it steady.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Victor muttered, his grip on the reins tightening instinctively.

* * *

Lady Pembrooke called out to Emma, her voice laced with a hint of annoyance, “Your turn, Lady Cuthbert.”

Though she said nothing more, her gaze suggested that she thought Emma’s mind was elsewhere.

Emma started as she realized the other ladies had been waiting for her to take her shot. She’d been staring off at the tree line where the hunting party had disappeared.

“Forgive me,” she said, forcing a smile as she positioned herself to hit the ball. “My mind is a bit… elsewhere this morning.”

Her mallet connected with the ball, sending it rolling across the lawn, but it missed the wicket entirely.

“Oh dear,” Lady Harwick said, her tone a little too sympathetic. “How unfortunate. You might do better if you focused on the game rather than… letting your mind wander elsewhere .”

Emma decided that it was not worth answering. She merely stepped back to allow the next player to take their shot.

Annabelle moved in to take her turn. “I find it rather funny that you would think to offer such advice, when your own efforts with your mallet have yielded next to naught, Lady Harwick,” she said.

Lady Harwick let out a gasp of affront.

“Emma’s attention is focused on her son,” Annabelle added. Then, with a playful glint in her eyes, she leaned closer to Emma so her words didn’t carry over the wind. “And perhaps a certain… duke who rode out with the hunting party.”

Oh, how Emma regretted ever telling Annabelle about her run-ins with the Duke of Westmere.

Now, it seemed she would not hear the last of it.

“Don’t be absurd,” she said, her tone curt. “My only concern is Tristan.”

Annabelle’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Oh, of course. The Duke of Westmere is naught but a mere passing thought. No, he barely warrants a thought, I reckon.”

Emma’s cheeks flushed. “You’re being ridiculous,” she gritted out, her eyes darting around to make sure no one was eavesdropping—and caught the eye of Lady Cecilia, daughter of the bothersome Lady Harwick, watching them both.

Lady Cecilia turned up her hooked nose. “I don’t think I’d find the Duke of Westmere anything but… intimidating,” she said. “That scar and those eyes make you feel like you’re being stalked by a feral beast. It’s no wonder he’s called the Beast of Westmere. But what’s this? Is there any reason for Lady Cuthbert to be concerned with the Duke?”

Emma cut a sharp glare at Annabelle then, and her friend winced.

“I am merely concerned about my son, My Lady,” she responded, straightening her back.

Lady Cecilia tilted her head and then nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. I wouldn’t wish to be anywhere near a man with his appearance. Your poor boy must be quite frightened, too.”

Annabelle’s response was smooth. “Some men have more substance than just looks, My Lady. Though I suppose that’s a bit beyond the concerns of those who worry about which ribbon to wear with their bonnets.”

Lady Harwick bristled at the slight to her daughter, but before she could speak, another voice intervened—the honeyed tone of Lady Penelope Morton.

“Speaking of considerations,” she said, casually twirling her mallet between her gloved fingers, “I can’t help but wonder why you haven’t thought more about finding a proper guardian for your boy, Lady Cuthbert. You know, all those manly pursuits do need a man’s guidance. A boy without a father is at such a disadvantage, especially one who has inherited a title.”

Thick tension hung in the air. Emma felt a chill settle in her stomach, but she held herself together with a firm grip.

“What my son needs—” she started, but Annabelle stepped in before she could finish.

“How very kind of you to worry about Tristan’s well-being, Lady Penelope,” Annabelle said, her tone sweet but laced with sarcasm. “Especially considering your lack of experience with raising children—or securing a husband, for that matter.”

Lady Penelope’s face flushed a mottled red with anger. “I simply pointed out that a boy needs a masculine influence?—”

“And I simply pointed out,” Annabelle interrupted, “that unsolicited opinions on other people’s lives are rarely appreciated, not to mention unmannered. Perhaps you should focus your considerable analytical skills on your own life, which likely needs more immediate attention.”

“Friend,” Emma said softly, placing a calming hand on her friend’s arm, “it really is quite all right.” She turned to Lady Penelope, her expression neutral. “I appreciate your concern for my son’s well-being, My Lady, but I assure you, I am more than capable of deciding what’s best for Tristan on my own.”

Lady Oakley, who had been watching the exchange, nodded in approval. “Well said, Lady Cuthbert. Now, shall we continue our game? I believe it’s my turn to show how this sport is played by those who have experience, rather than just strong opinions.”

The tension eased as everyone shifted their focus back to the game, but Emma couldn’t help stealing glances at the woodland path.

“He’ll be fine,” Joanna reassured her, picking up on her worry. “Lord Griggs is very attentive to the younger riders.”

“I’m not worried about Lord Griggs’ attention,” Emma confessed softly. “It’s Lord Sidney’s lack of it that really troubles me.”

“That man,” Joanna said, her disdain evident, “has never cared about anything beyond his own immediate pleasure.”

Just then, Annabelle, having skillfully maneuvered her ball through two wickets, returned to Emma’s side with a victorious grin.

“Your son has more support than you think,” she whispered. “I saw the Duke of Westmere keeping a close eye on him as they left.”

Emma’s eyes went so wide they nearly bugged out of their sockets. “The Duke? You cannot mean that.”

“Unless there’s another brooding, scarred duke with striking blue eyes among us,” Annabelle teased, one eyebrow arched. “Yes, the Duke. He seemed quite concerned about Tristan’s struggles with his horse.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” Emma insisted, though a warm feeling spread through her at the thought. “The Duke has made it clear that he sees both Tristan and me as nothing but an inconvenience.”

“Your turn again, Lady Cuthbert,” Lady Harwick snapped, her tone indicating she was less than pleased with the private chatter during a game she was currently losing.

Especially since she’d just lost rather publicly and spectacularly in a verbal battle that she’d instigated all on her own.

Emma stepped up to take her turn, but her mind was still torn between worry for her son and a growing curiosity about the Duke’s unsettling interest in her son.

Did he plan to teach her son a lesson for all the times the boy had trespassed on his property? Why else would the Beast of Westmere watch her boy as Annabelle claimed?

“I hope they come back soon,” Lady Cecilia said as Emma got ready to take her shot. “These hunting trips can drag on forever, and I’m already feeling quite hungry.”

“Maybe if you had eaten more than just one strawberry for breakfast, you wouldn’t be on the brink of starvation before noon,” her mother shot back, mixing a bit of criticism with genuine concern, which was typical of their dynamic.

“Speaking of food,” Lady Oakley chimed in, “I heard Lord Griggs will set up a luncheon on the southern terrace for when the hunting party returns. I think Cook will whip up her famous game pie. Though I really hope Lord Sidney’s aim has improved since last season. I found shots in almost every bite last time.”

“If his aim is anything like his attention to detail, we might all be dining on lead,” Annabelle whispered just loud enough for Emma to hear.

Emma stifled a smile as she finally managed to send her ball smoothly through the wicket. Maybe the morning’s distractions had helped—she had been overthinking her shots way too much.

“Well done, Lady Cuthbert,” Lady Pembrooke conceded. “Your skill seems to improve the further away the hunting party is. Perhaps we should keep the gentlemen out of sight permanently.”

“I have a feeling many marriages thrive on that very idea,” Annabelle remarked dryly, eliciting a few appreciative laughs from the other ladies.

Emma let a smile curve her lips, even as her thoughts remained beyond Pall-Mall, toward the hunting grounds where she could only pray that her son was safe.