Page 53

“ W hat is this?” Victor Aldridge, the Duke of Westmere, couldn’t help but feel amused as he spoke in a low pitch.

A woman, clearly of some standing despite her disheveled look, was kneeling beside a young boy who had his small arms wrapped around his traitorous dog.

That damned dog .

Victor heaved a sigh, even as he observed the scene with a cold detachment, his frame still filling the doorway.

The woman, dark-haired and curvy in all the ways that mattered to a man—yes, even him —was speaking in a hushed, urgent tone to the child.

Her hair was coming loose from its pins, dark brown tendrils framing a face that, even in distress, betrayed the refined bone structure of gentle breeding.

She had clearly rushed through his estate, taking no heed to the damage to her attire.

It was just the sort of impulsiveness that Victor had little patience for.

He let the lantern light illuminate his form, making no effort to angle his face to hide the scar that cleared the right side. He’d seen enough of war to have lost whatever hubris he’d once held for his looks. Now, he expected only one type of reaction from the rest of Society.

And the woman reacted exactly as he expected—the immediate recoil, the terror dilating her pupils when her eyes caught and held his, the way she pulled the boy closer to herself, her body tensing like a bowstring strung taut.

Her horror confirmed what he already knew: that he’d become nothing more than a spectacle for Society to gawk at, a grotesque curiosity to be whispered about in drawing rooms across the Queen’s great country.

The boy, on the other hand, did not seem afraid, and Victor found that both annoying and oddly refreshing.

In fact, instead of terror, his eyes sparkled with that peculiar mix of morbid curiosity that only children seemed to have—the same look Victor had once noticed on the faces of street kids in Naples when they stumbled upon exotic animals in traveling shows.

“So,” he finally spoke, his voice a low growl grown rough from disuse, “you’re the one who’s been fattening up my dog?”

The greedy beast. No one would accuse him of neglect, and yet the blasted animal took every opportunity to play the victim.

The lady stiffened at once, her slender throat working as she swallowed. At that moment, she looked as though her thoughts raced with everything he had no doubt she’d heard about him.

He could see the calculations in her eyes—she was weighing her options, deciding whether to back away or stand her ground, measuring how fast she could get to safety against how quickly he might catch up to them.

The fact that she thought he could harm a child should have made him furious. Instead, it merely reinforced his contempt for Society and its facile judgment—not that he cared all that much, anyway.

They should’ve known better than to trespass, and he wanted them gone.

No matter how much she stared at him, Emma could not believe she was standing right before the very famous Duke who refused all callers and was rumored to wander his estate at night, driven half-mad and half-naked by his pain and fury.

He was much taller than she’d imagined—broader, too, his shoulders stretching the fabric of his woolen shirt—but, of course, nothing could quite prepare her for the reality of his visage.

The lantern’s glow hit his face at a sharp angle, casting deeper shadows that made his scar stand out, making him look even more savage . And she found herself wondering if he would give chase, should she pick up her son and run.

Her son, completely unaware of the tension swirling around him, beamed up at the Duke with an unwarranted familiarity.

“He really loves the roast chicken, Sir!” he said, speaking with the confidence of one accustomed to adult attention. “The cook makes it with herbs and butter.”

At that, the Duke cocked an eyebrow and took a deliberate step forward, noting how her body instinctively curved toward her son.

Well, he couldn’t fault her for that. But instead of being annoyed, he seemed impressed, even though it was slight, as though he was praising her for being protective of her child.

“You are aware, I’m sure, that trespassing is a punishable offense that can lead to serious consequences, boy?” the Duke said, addressing Tristan directly. “As is approaching unfamiliar animals without their masters’ consent?”

“But he’s not unfamiliar,” the boy insisted, his childish logic shining through the words. “He’s really clever, Sir.”

“Tristan!” Emma snapped, finally finding her voice. Surprisingly, it came out steadier than she’d thought it would, especially with the way her heart was racing as though it was about to burst. “Be quiet.”

The Duke turned his attention to her, and Emma felt like she was under the scrutiny of a general surveying a battlefield.

His gaze was striking—an icy blue that reminded her of the bleakest winter skies.

But there was more to him than just that; something about his expression didn’t quite fit the sharp angles of his face or the reputation that preceded him.

There was intelligence there, a hint of weariness, and, surprisingly, a glimmer of genuine curiosity.

She didn’t quite know what to think of that.

“Your son, I take it?”

Those words came out even rougher than when he had addressed Tristan, and he subtly tried clearing his throat as she flinched.

Emma straightened her back, years of her aristocratic upbringing kicking in despite her fear. She would not cower before anyone, Beast of Westmere or not.

“Yes. And we were just leaving. I apologize for the intrusion, Your Grace.”

She knew who he was, but he could not say the same about her, and that ought to be remedied at least. Something… There was something about her that nagged at his memory.

Something about her is also nagging at some… other parts… of my anatomy.

Victor’s frown deepened instantly, incensed at his own thoughts for even acknowledging something he’d tried his best to put behind him since laying eyes on the woman.

His annoyance added force to his already gruff tone as he said, “Not so fast,” and the woman stiffened.

“I believe I deserve an explanation for why your child is wandering about my estate after dark.”

He took yet another step toward them, unable to help himself—indeed, he felt like a moth being drawn to a dangerous flame.

And he despised the feeling immensely.

The woman moved with a speed he hadn’t thought she could manage, placing herself between him and the boy—a move he considered both reckless and admirable.

What did she suppose he would do? Did she really believe she would be able to fight him off, should he decide to do it?

The fact that she believed him a brute based on his appearance alone made his expression harden even more. That was probably not helping his case any further, but he didn’t think he was the one who had anything to prove here. The woman and child were the intruders on his property.

“I assure you, Your Grace…” she spoke with the confidence of a woman used to fending off the attentions of many men, and he did not know why that irritated him.

“I had no idea about my son’s little adventure… until this evening. It was not my intention—” she started to explain, but Victor interrupted her with a wave of his hand, brushing her off.

“Intentions mean very little when it comes to results,” he scolded.

But Victor could deny it no longer: the woman was beautiful. Beautiful in that way that Society adored. She was the kind of beauty that had once captivated him in ballrooms and at dinner parties before the war and loss had dulled his appreciation for such things.

It has dulled no such thing.

Victor’s jaw clenched as he willed himself to turn away from that thought without considering it.

Instead, he focused on her gaze—and the directness of it that many of her standing lacked—and it made him pause.

“And you are?” he prompted, though a suspicion was already forming in his mind.

He caught the sharp intake of breath from the way her chest heaved once before she spoke.

“Lady Cuthbert,” she replied, her gaze never leaving his own, as though she were tracking a predator. “Dowager Countess of Cuthbert.”

And that was the moment realization dawned.

So, she was the widow of Cuthbert—that arrogant, sneering fool who had publicly mocked his decision to serve in the war.

The man had openly scorned anyone who had chosen duty over privilege and anyone who stepped outside of the confines of aristocratic laziness, and Victor had loathed him with particular fervor.

Now, here was his widow, who seemed to have wandered far from the comforts of her mansion, wading in the dirt of his garden.

Victor knew that he ought not to regard the woman with the same lack of favor he’d considered her late husband, but he could not help it. He did not suppose a woman who’d been under the influence of that lazy oaf would have any thoughts of importance on matters of state or any such thing.

A smile that lacked any kind of warmth curved his lips. “Lady Cuthbert.”

He saw the way her eyes narrowed at his tone, noting how quick she was to detect the lack of sincerity in his greeting.

Perhaps she was much more quick-witted than he’d thought.

“I understand that we are… neighbors. In the loosest sense of the word,” he said, gesturing toward the boy— Tristan. “But I don’t suppose you have a habit of misplacing important belongings of yours on other people’s grounds? Because that would be rather careless of you.”

In the glow of the lantern light, Victor watched as her face flushed red with affront, blooming color on her otherwise pale skin.

It was fascinating to see, after months of near-total isolation from any other human being. It was so fascinating, in fact, that Victor felt a stirring in his loins.

What in the devil’s ? —