Page 9 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke (The Athena Society #1)

CHAPTER 9

“A nd where do you think you’re going, young man?”

The Duke’s deep voice made Tristan freeze mid-step, one foot hovering just above the woodland floor as if time itself had stopped.

Lady Cuthbert’s son had been sneaking forward in a half-crouch, his small frame partially hidden by a cluster of ferns while he chased after a hare that had darted across his path moments ago.

Victor watched as the boy slowly turned to face him, his expression shifting from surprise to dismay at being caught. He straightened up, reluctantly abandoning his predatory stance. Yet there was no fear in his eyes as he looked up at Victor.

How peculiar.

“Your Grace,” he said, his voice a mix of respect and disappointment as the hare vanished into the underbrush. “I was just?—”

“Wandering away from Lord Griggs and the main hunting party,” Victor interjected as he studied the boy. “A rather reckless choice, wouldn’t you say?”

The boy’s gaze fell to his boots, now caked in mud from his adventure through the wetter parts of the woods. “I saw a hare,” he confessed. “A big one! I thought maybe I could catch it and show the gentlemen.”

Victor glanced in the direction the animal had fled and then back at the unruly boy. Despite the seriousness of his demeanor, he was not angry—he knew the child was growing up and curious.

“And how did you plan to catch this creature?” he asked, genuine curiosity brewing in his belly. “Hares aren’t exactly known for their willingness to be caught.”

Tristan’s mouth curved into a small smile that softened the lines of his face. “I thought if I was quiet enough, I could get close. Then I could…” He mimicked a lunging grab with his hands.

“I see,” Victor replied. Though he kept a stern expression, he felt the corners of his mouth twitching upward just a bit. “Your idea has some merit, but you need to refine your technique. You’re putting too much weight on your heels when you stalk. Try walking on the balls of your feet instead—less noise, more control.”

Tristan blinked, clearly taken aback by the calmness of Victor’s instruction instead of the scolding he had braced himself for. “You’re not angry, Your Grace?”

“My anger wouldn’t change the fact that you’ve distanced yourself from your guardians,” Victor shot back. “Come on. We need to get you back to Lord Griggs before anyone notices you’re gone.”

He turned, clearly expecting Tristan to follow, which the boy did eagerly, trotting to keep up with the Duke’s longer strides.

“Is Argus with you today, Your Grace?” Tristan asked after a brief silence, his natural enthusiasm bubbling back up now that it was clear he wasn’t in trouble.

“Argus is at Westmere Hall,” Victor replied. “I’d rather not put my dog through the chaos of the hunt. He’s a retired soldier, you know.”

“Oh,” Tristan said, disappointment creeping in, but a spark of excitement lit up his eyes at the mention of the dog being a retired soldier. “I was hoping to see him again. I’ve been thinking of new tricks to teach him—I read somewhere that dogs can learn to fetch specific items if you train them right, and your Argus is excellent at that, Your Grace! Does Argus fetch your slippers or your newspaper?”

Victor glanced down at the boy, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

“Argus has never shown much interest in fetching household items,” he replied. “Though he does have a rather annoying habit of moving my gloves to places only he knows.”

Tristan giggled, the sound bright and cheerful in the quiet of the woods. “That’s a kind of fetching,” he pointed out. “Just not the kind you want.”

“Well. That is… true enough,” Victor relented.

This time, there was a noticeable softening around his mouth—not quite a smile but definitely a hint that one might appear should the boy continue with his witty replies.

Victor was impressed by the child’s ability to hold a conversation with an adult so easily—a trait inherited from his mother. The thought was sarcastic, but the physical reaction that the mere thought of Lady Cuthbert provoked certainly was not.

Blast it.

“Perhaps your training methods would be more successful than mine,” Victor added, willing himself to steer clear of any thoughts about the boy’s infuriatingly distracting mother.

“Your mother…” He cursed his mouth inwardly for not listening to his mind and keeping thoughts of her at bay. “She must be worried about you going out on today’s hunt.”

“Mama worries about everything,” the boy admitted a little too cheerfully. “But I promised her I’d be careful! I need to learn these things, since I’m the Earl.”

“What a sense of responsibility for one so young,” Victor said to himself, keeping his expression neutral though his eyes couldn’t help but lock onto the boy again. “And does your uncle feel the same way about your education?”

“Lord Sidney?” Tristan’s expression soured almost instantaneously. “He doesn’t care what I do. Well, unless it makes him look good in front of his friends. He says he’s just taking care of my title until I come of age.”

The boy’s blunt honesty—delivered with a clarity that children his age did not usually possess—made Victor’s jaw tighten for a moment.

“I see,” he replied, though those two simple words hinted that he understood much more than Tristan had said.

And he did. He just did not have the energy to delve into it.

“Did you go hunting with your father when you were my age?” Tristan asked, a hint of longing in his voice.

Victor’s grip on his horse’s reins faltered just a bit before he resumed his steady pace. A shadow flashed across his scarred features, but he was quick to rein it in.

“That’s a story for another time,” he said after a brief pause.

That did not deter the child, though.

“My father never took me hunting,” Tristan murmured, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “Mother says he was always busy with important things. Well, I was also quite small when he died, but I think he just didn’t want to deal with me. I wish?—”

Victor suddenly raised his hand in a silencing gesture, stopping their progress with a sharp movement.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, his entire demeanor shifting to one of heightened alertness.

Tristan froze instantly, his eyes widening as he followed the Duke’s lead.

There, tucked away among a bunch of low bushes, was a pheasant, its shimmering feathers glinting in the dappled sunlight as it cautiously pecked at the ground.

With slow, careful movements, Victor lifted his rifle, the action so fluid it looked as though he was merely breathing. He could feel the boy’s eyes on him, no doubt in awe, as he raised a hand to cover his mouth, afraid that even the slightest sound might scare away their target.

Victor was completely focused, his scarred face etched with lines of intense concentration as he aimed down the barrel.

The shot shattered the quiet of the woodland like a clap of thunder, sending birds soaring from nearby trees in a flurry of panic.

The pheasant fell instantly, a clean drop with no struggle—the mark of a shot executed with perfect precision.

“That was incredible!” Tristan burst out, instantly forgetting all about being quiet as excitement bubbled up inside him. “Right through the head! I’ve never seen anyone shoot like that! Not even Lord Griggs—and everyone says he’s the best shot in the county!”

Victor lowered his rifle, grunting as he did. “The meat gets ruined if you hit the body,” he said matter-of-factly. “A headshot is practical.”

With swift, practiced movements, he gathered the fallen bird and tucked it into his game bag, then turned back toward the hunting party, which had drawn nearer during their conversation.

“Now, follow me, boy,” he instructed. “Lord Griggs will be wondering where you’ve wandered off to, and if he sees you with me, he’ll believe that I led you astray.”

“You’re not leading me astray,” Tristan replied earnestly, matching his pace. “That’s when you do bad things on purpose. You’re just helping me get back to where I’m supposed to be.”

Victor glanced down at the boy, and for a fleeting moment, a genuine smile flickered across his lips—brief and rusty from lack of use but definitely there.

“Your point is well made,” he conceded. “Though I have a feeling your mother might see things a bit differently.”

Tristan beamed up at him, seemingly unfazed by his fearsome reputation that made grown men steer clear of his path.

“Maybe,” he said cheerfully. “But I won’t say a word if you don’t.”

Was the boy trying to strike a deal with him? The little rascal.

Lady Cuthbert certainly had her hands full with this one.

Yet, as they approached the sounds of the main hunting party, his hand rested briefly on Tristan’s shoulder—a light touch, gone almost before it registered yet somehow conveying more than words ever could.

* * *

“They’re coming back!” Lady Cecilia’s shrill shout sent a wave of excitement through the ladies gathered on the terrace.

The game had wrapped up long ago, giving way to relaxed chatter as they eagerly awaited the men’s return.

Now, Emma stood up, a wave of relief washing over her as she spotted the hunting party emerging from the trees. Her eyes quickly searched for Tristan’s familiar figure among the men. She felt the tension in her shoulders melt away when she finally caught sight of him, seemingly unscathed and vibrating with excitement as he trotted alongside Lord Griggs.

The gentlemen made their way across the vast lawn, their game bags weighed down by the morning’s catch. Leading the group was Lord Griggs, his ruddy face beaming with satisfaction as servants rushed to take their rifles and start sorting through the day’s haul.

“A highly successful outing, ladies!” Lord Griggs declared as they reached the terrace. “Though I must give credit where it’s due—the Duke of Westmere takes the prize today with the first blood and an impressive tally. Five pheasants, all headshots! I haven’t witnessed marksmanship like that since Wellington himself graced these grounds!”

“Oh?”

“Hmm, what else can we expect from the Beast of Westmere?”

The murmurs amongst the ladies were unforgiving.

“He must have enjoyed slaughtering the poor animals. The man’s twisted.”

But, despite the murmurs, Emma’s gaze was drawn to the Duke, who stood a bit apart from the other gentlemen. His face was unreadable as he handed over his rifle and game bag to a waiting servant. Unlike the others, who were animatedly sharing tales of the hunt, he seemed completely uninterested in boasting about his achievements.

Or he is just too prideful to converse with the others , she thought, even though she still could not take her eyes off him.

“Mama!” Tristan’s voice rang out, breaking through her thoughts as he dashed away from the group, his cheeks flushed with excitement.

Emma knelt down to wrap her arms around him, inhaling the earthy scents of the woods that clung to his clothes—pine, soil, and a hint of gunpowder.

“Did you see how many birds the Duke caught?” he exclaimed, pulling back from their embrace, his eyes sparkling with admiration. “He’s the best shot in the whole county—maybe even all of England! He taught me how to track properly too and said I need to walk on the balls of my feet instead of my heels when I’m stalking, and?—”

“When you’re stalking?” Emma interjected, her relief at his safe return quickly fizzling out as his words began to sink in. “Tristan, what do you mean by that? You were supposed to stay with Lord Griggs and observe. So what is this I’m hearing about you stalking ?”

Tristan’s excitement dimmed a bit under her sharp gaze. He looked every bit like the naughty child who’d said way more than he should.

“Well,” he started, his voice small, “I saw this hare, and I thought?—”

“Tristan Bickford, did you run off on your own again? You did. I don’t even need to ask you that,” Emma answered her own question, gently pulling him away from the main gathering to give them a bit of privacy. “Tristan, we talked about this. You promised me you would stick with Lord Griggs and follow his instructions to the letter.”

“But I wasn’t alone,” Tristan protested. “The Duke found me and brought me back. And he let me watch him shoot a pheasant—right through the head! He says that’s the right way to do it because it doesn’t ruin the meat.”

Emma didn’t even know what to feel—thankful that the Duke had stepped in before anything could go wrong or worried that her son had been alone with a man known for his unpredictable nature.

“Regardless,” she said firmly, “you broke your promise to me. That was both dangerous and disrespectful, Tristan.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he replied, his expression showing genuine remorse, though his eyes still sparkled with excitement. “But the Duke wasn’t cross at all. He even?—”

“Well, well,” Sidney’s smooth voice chimed in as he strolled over, his hunting gear suspiciously clean for someone who had just spent a morning in the wild. “I see my nephew has come back from his first hunt in high spirits. Did you enjoy it, boy?”

Tristan’s lively demeanor shifted in an instant, his earlier excitement replaced by a guarded silence that tugged at Emma’s heart. “Yes, Sir,” he replied, his voice flat.

“I managed to bag a few birds myself,” Sidney continued, seemingly unaware—or perhaps just indifferent—of the change in the boy’s mood. “It was quite a successful morning.”

Tristan frowned. “But Lord Griggs said you didn’t catch anything,” he shot back. “I heard him telling Sir Bartholomew that you missed every shot and complained about your damp powder.”

Emma squeezed Tristan’s shoulder, a silent warning, as Sidney’s expression darkened for a brief moment before settling into a tight smile.

“Children often misinterpret what they hear,” he said, his tone light but his eyes cold. “It’s a common youthful mistake.”

“I didn’t misinter—” Tristan started, but Emma’s grip tightened, cutting him off.

“I am sure it was just a misunderstanding,” she cut in, using her most diplomatic tone, though she did not doubt her son’s accuracy.

Her brother-in-law’s skill with firearms was as limited as his patience for anything that didn’t provide instant gratification.

Sidney’s gaze shifted from Tristan to Emma, his eyes roving over her figure with unsettling scrutiny that made her skin crawl beneath her simple gown.

“I trust I can expect an invitation for dinner at Cuthbert Hall soon,” he stated. “It’s been far too long since I have enjoyed your hospitality, sister-in-law.”

Before Emma could form a response that balanced courtesy with her strong desire to never host him again, he had already turned away, waving his hand to summon his servant as he went.

“I don’t like him,” Tristan declared once Sidney was out of earshot.