Page 52

It was a child, all right, darting between the trees ahead.

Her child, to be precise.

That little goblin!

“Tristan!” she hissed, abandoning caution as she lurched forward. “Tristan Bickford, you come here this instant!”

The small figure paused, turning slightly, and even in the poor light, Emma recognized her son’s profile and the unruly curls that no amount of combing could tame. Relief flooded her, so potent she nearly collapsed.

But the boy didn’t come to her. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he continued on, moving with purpose toward a structure Emma hadn’t noticed before—a small cottage set apart from the main mansion, its windows glowing with warm light.

Where does he…

Fear returned like a lance straight through her heart.

“Tristan, no!” she called, louder now, no longer caring who might hear. “Return here this instant!”

Her son disappeared around the side of the cottage.

Emma gathered the last of her strength and sprinted the remaining distance, her mind conjuring horrific scenarios with each step—the Duke finding her son trespassing, the punishment he might inflict.

The stories of his temper were legion, and if even half were true…

As she rounded the corner of the cottage, a sharp, booming bark froze her in place.

A dog. A large one, by the sound of it.

“Tristan!” she screamed, terror lending her voice a strength she didn’t know she possessed.

She burst into a small, enclosed garden at the rear of the cottage, illuminated by lanterns hung from hooks along the walls.

In the center of the garden knelt her son, his back to her. Before him stood—no, not stood, but sat —an enormous dog, an English Setter with a coat that gleamed silver and black in the lantern light.

Emma rushed forward, prepared to throw herself between the beast and her child, but as she approached, she realized with bewilderment that Tristan wasn’t cowering in fear. He was holding out something to the dog, who accepted it with a gentleness that seemed incongruous with its size.

“Tristan Bickford!” she gasped, skidding to a halt beside him, her chest heaving and her eyes blazing. “What in heaven’s name do you think you’re doing?”

But Tristan looked up at her with a face alight with pleasure rather than fear, his eyes twinkling as though this were merely another day spent playing hide and seek in Cuthbert Hall.

“Mama! You found me!” He beamed up at her then, and Emma wondered if she’d been too lax with the boy.

Surely, this was completely unacceptable, and he ought to know better. In fact, she was rather certain that he did know better.

She went to reprimand him again, but he continued to speak with an innocence that was far younger than his age. Which meant that the little imp knew he was in trouble and was doing it on purpose.

“Look at this magnificent dog! His name is Argus, and he’s ever so friendly.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. Indeed, the dog didn’t seem the least bit threatening now. It wagged its tail enthusiastically, looking between Tristan and Emma with intelligent eyes.

“How do you even know its name?” Emma asked, already feeling a throbbing in her temple.

“I heard one of the footmen call him that,” the little boy replied with a cheeky smile that did nothing to quell the pain that had taken over her head.

Where did this little imp learn to be so sly? she thought to herself with one hand notched on her hip.

“I have brought him some of Cook’s chicken,” Tristan explained, holding up a napkin that contained what appeared to be the remnants of his dinner. “I noticed him at the boundary yesterday, looking hungry, and I promised I’d come back with something better than my biscuit.”

So, he had touched his supper, just not for himself. Ah, yes, her child was going to be the death of her, that much was true now.

Emma sank to her knees beside her son, trying her best to keep her temper.

“You came all this way—crossed into the Duke’s lands—to feed a… dog?”

“He’s a very special dog,” Tristan insisted, his brown eyes blinking too innocently back up at her. “Look how clever he is. He can sit and give his paw and everything, Mama!”

As if to demonstrate, Argus extended a large paw which Tristan shook solemnly.

Calm down, Emma. You are a lady. The Dowager Countess. Keep your manners, she thought to herself, talking herself down from losing her temper with her young son.

“Tristan, do you have any idea how worried I have been? The entire household is searching for you!” Emma grasped her son’s shoulders, giving him a little shake. “We must leave at once. This is the Duke of Westmere’s property. We are trespassing, and if he finds us?—”

“Argus wouldn’t let anyone hurt us,” Tristan said confidently, slinging an arm around the dog’s neck. “Would you, boy?”

The dog responded by licking Tristan’s cheek, causing the boy to giggle. The sound, normally so precious to Emma, now only increased her anxiety.

“That is beside the point, Tristan, and you know it. How many times have I warned you about… about the Duke?” She bit the words out as though they were granite stones between her teeth. “We cannot be?—”

But the words quickly died in her throat as the cottage door swung open with a creak that seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of the garden.

Lamplight spilled out, silhouetting a figure so large it nearly filled the doorframe.

And the dog—Argus—bolted from the arms of his new friend, bounding instead toward the man with evident joy, tail wagging furiously.

And when the man stepped into the garden, Emma’s worst fears were confirmed.

Because, even in the uneven light of his lantern, there was no mistaking the scar that bisected his face, running from his right temple down to his jaw, twisting his features into a perpetual half-grimace.

The Duke. The Beast of Westmere.

Oh, dear God.