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She had yet to tell her friends about the incident with the Duke the night before, but she knew that if they caught wind of it, they would not leave her be until she divulged all. And she was not prepared to do that here, within earshot of whoever could be lurking.

“I was… distracted.”

At that, both Annabelle’s and Joanna’s eyebrows rose high on their foreheads, concern etching lines on their faces almost at once.

“Is everything quite all right?” Joanna asked, her voice soft. “Is it Lady Harwick? You should not let that miserable harpy ruin your happiness, Emma. You are doing good things for many of the women in the countryside, you know.”

Her aunt never failed to uplift her with such kind words, but Emma couldn’t let her keep on thinking that Lady Harwick was the reason for her distraction.

Not only because it was not true but also because she really did not want her aunt and friend thinking that that woman’s pettiness even managed to make a dent in her self-esteem.

Because that was simply not true either.

Emma opened her mouth to say something—even she did not quite know what exactly—when a voice sliced through their conversation like a knife.

“My dear Lady Cuthbert, you grow more stunning by the day.”

Emma’s body tensed up even before she turned around, instinctively recognizing the voice before her mind caught up.

And there stood Sidney Bickford, her late husband’s brother and the regent currently serving as the Earl of Cuthbert, dressed in a dark green coat that cloaked his frail, potbellied figure.

His smile, which many found charming and polite, always struck Emma as a bit predatory—a wolf’s grin just before it pounced.

“My Lord,” she greeted, the title a bitter reminder that this man temporarily held her son’s birthright. “What a surprise to see you out in the countryside. I thought your business kept you firmly rooted in London.”

The slimy man’s smile did not falter. “Even the most dedicated businessman needs a breath of fresh air now and then. Besides, I have recently taken on some local interests that require my attention.” His lecherous gaze roamed over her figure subtly. “Among other… attractions.”

Beside her, Emma could feel Annabelle bristle, even if she didn’t see it. Joanna’s greeting was just as icy, a slight nod of her head that spoke volumes about what she thought of the current acting Earl of Cuthbert.

It was a great smear on her reputation as the Dowager Countess that she had to concede the running of the estate to this man, even though he was her husband’s brother and, by law, had the right to do so in trust for her son, who was the true heir to the earldom.

And that was simply because Sidney was nothing but a self-serving dandy who cared for nothing more than climbing the social ladder and spending her son’s wealth.

Many of the ton smiled and laughed with him, but she was certain he was not aware of the way they gossiped about him behind his back, even going so far as insinuating that he was a smear on the House of Cuthbert and, by extension, her reputation.

“How delightful for us all,” Annabelle said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I am sure Lady Pembrooke is thrilled to have you at her little gathering.”

He barely glanced her way. “Lady Cuthbert, may I have a word in private? We need to discuss some matters regarding young Tristan.”

Emma felt a chill creep into her stomach at the sound of her son’s name on his lips.

Before she could respond, Annabelle smoothly cut in, “I’m afraid we’ve just promised to join Mrs. Halloway for tea. Perhaps another time would be better?”

His expression turned steely then, though his smile stayed plastered on his face. His eyes, reminiscent of the cold, distant brown of his late brother’s, locked onto Emma with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“I insist,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Unless you want to cause a scene, my dear sister-in-law? I’m sure Lady Pembrooke wouldn’t appreciate her carefully planned afternoon being disrupted by such… unpleasantness. From a widow, no less.”

Emma recognized the threat for what it was. With a resigned sigh, she turned to her friends.

“Please send my apologies to Mrs. Halloway. I’ll join you shortly,” she said.

Annabelle opened her mouth to protest, but Emma silenced her with a look that promised an explanation later.

With visible reluctance, Annabelle and Joanna moved away, both casting worried glances back at her.

Sidney offered his arm, and Emma placed her gloved hand on it with the same enthusiasm she might have shown for touching a viper—which was none at all .

But she could make no bones about it, especially not here amid other nobles who were quick to spin such lurid tales from the blandest of altercations.

So she let him guide her to a quiet spot in the garden where a small stone bench nestled under the dappled shade of an old oak tree. It was a private, little nook yet still close enough to the party that Emma felt a flicker of gratitude for that small mercy.

“You look well, Emma,” he started, his gaze lingering rather uncomfortably on the graceful curve of her neck that disappeared beneath her modest collar. “Widowhood seems to agree with you.”

Excuse me?

The thought was a whip across the expanse of her mind, but she managed to keep her composure even as his words echoed in her head.

She knew he was being deliberately uncouth and antagonizing, trying to get a rise out of her, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of seeing her react. Still, that did not change the fact that his words made her skin crawl.

“Is there more to this conversation than just inappropriate remarks?” she asked calmly, keeping a careful distance between them on the bench. “You mentioned Tristan.”

His smile tightened a bit. “Always so straightforward. It’s one of your more…

challenging traits.” He leaned back, appearing relaxed, though his eyes remained sharp.

“As I said, I have made a business investment that will keep me around for a while. It seems only natural to take this chance to get to know my nephew better.”

“Natural?” Emma echoed, unable to hide the bite in her voice now. “You’ve shown hardly any interest in Tristan for the last eight years.”

A respite she did not take for granted at all.

“A regrettable oversight I plan to fix,” he replied smoothly. “After all, he is the Earl. He should learn from me what responsibilities lie ahead.” His expression turned serious. “He ought to see me as a father figure, Emma. A boy needs that kind of guidance.”

Emma knew he was right. Tristan was a growing boy, and his interests were becoming increasingly more masculine and more than she could handle, but she also did not think that a man like Sidney was the best mentor for her son.

No . She would rather die than see that happen.

Emma felt her hands clench in her lap, thankful for the gloves that concealed her white-knuckled grip.

“Tristan has done just fine without that kind of guidance so far,” she said, her tone thankfully steady.

“Has he?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard rumors that he’s become quite the wild child, roaming the countryside without supervision. Doesn’t seem fitting for the heir to an earldom, does it?”

The barely concealed jab at her parenting ignited a wave of anger in her chest.

She turned to face her brother-in-law; her anger was simply too great to swallow this time.

“My son is spirited, curious, and kind—qualities I cherish far more than the strict conformity you seem to hold dear.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You’ve got it all wrong, Emma. I have always admired your independent spirit. It’s one of the many things that make you so… intriguing.”

His hand found hers, his thumb gently tracing circles on her wrist just above her glove. The unwelcome contact sent a shiver of disgust through her, and she quickly pulled her hand away, rising to her feet in one smooth motion.

“I think we’ve quite finished talking about my son ,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart. “If you’ll excuse me?—”

He stood up as well, looming over her in a way that felt intentionally menacing.

“We have barely scratched the surface of our conversation, Emma. I haven’t seen you in months, and there’s so much I want to discuss.”

Before Emma could come up with a reply that would not escalate the situation he had warned her about, she caught a welcome sight—the women of the Athena Society, striding toward them with purpose.

Annabelle led the way, flanked by Mrs. Halloway, Mrs. Greene, and the elderly yet formidable Mrs. Witherspoon.

“Lady Cuthbert!” Annabelle called out, her voice ringing across the garden. “We absolutely need your thoughts on the matter we were just discussing! You know how much we value your literary insights.”

A wave of relief washed over Emma like a refreshing breeze.

Sidney’s expression darkened for a moment before he quickly masked it with a charming smile as the ladies drew near.

“Ladies,” he greeted, bowing with practiced grace. “How fortunate Lady Cuthbert is to have such loyal friends.”

“Indeed, she is,” Mrs. Witherspoon replied, her sharp, rheumy eyes sizing him up. “And we are equally fortunate to have her brilliant mind to steer our discussions.”

Sidney nodded once in acknowledgment, recognizing his defeat—at least for now. Before he took his leave, however, he leaned in close to Emma, his lips almost brushing her ear.

“This conversation isn’t over, my dear. I am indeed a patient man, but not indefinitely so. We will talk again. Soon.”

And with those words, which Emma decided to consider as a threat, he slipped away with the confidence of a man used to stealing his way to power.

“Are you all right?” Annabelle asked softly, taking Emma’s arm as the other ladies formed a protective circle around them. “You look as pale as the moon.”

“I’m fine,” Emma replied, though the words sounded empty even to her own ears. “Just tired of the same old dance.”

Mrs. Halloway, a plump widow with kind eyes and a sharp mind, gave her hand a comforting pat. “That man makes my skin crawl, even on a warm day. He looks at you like… Well, it’s not polite to say.”

“Let us talk about something more pleasant,” Emma suggested, eager to push thoughts of Sidney aside. “Have you all decided on our next read?”

The tension eased as they shifted their conversation to literature, the familiar topic offering her the comfort she so desperately craved.

This was her true circle—women who cherished ideas over idle chatter, depth over appearances, and genuine connections over social climbing.

“I say we pick something scandalous next time,” Annabelle proposed with a cheeky grin that made several of the older ladies blush.

“You never give up, do you, Miss Lytton.” Mrs. Witherspoon shook her head, even as her round cheeks bloomed bright red.

Emma smiled softly, willing her mind to absorb the warmth of these women surrounding her instead of replaying the conversation with her brother-in-law.

“Emma?” Annabelle gently nudged her, her perceptive blue eyes bright with concern. “You’re woolgathering again. Where has that mind of yours wandered off to?”

“Nowhere important,” Emma replied, plastering a smile on her face again.

And she was grateful for Mrs. Greene, who soon launched into an animated discussion about their last read.

The rest of the afternoon flew by in a blur of chatter and carefully crafted smiles.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Emma found herself longing to head home—to take off the mask she wore in public and just be herself, if only for a few precious hours before sleep took her.

The solitude of her bedchamber was a welcome reprieve after the social demands of the afternoon.

Emma settled at her dressing table, watching in the mirror as her lady’s maid, Martha, gently removed the pins from her hair, letting her chestnut-brown waves tumble down her back. With each pin that came out, Emma felt a little more of the day’s tension slip away.

“Is there anything else you need, My Lady?” Martha asked, placing the last hairpin in a delicate porcelain dish.

“No, thank you, Martha. It is almost dinner time,” Emma said, a small smile on her face. “There’s not much else to do for me. Just get Tristan ready for dinner.”

She looked forward to seeing her son again—it was the only thing that could assuage the fear that had been fluttering in her chest like a trapped bird.

“Yes, My Lady.” Martha bowed her head and promptly left the room.

Once she was alone, Emma made her way to the window, pulling back the curtain to take in the twilight sky.

Stars were starting to twinkle, tiny dots of light against the deepening blue. Beyond the trees that framed her modest estate lay Westmere Hall and its elusive master, the Duke of Westmere.

His name echoed in her mind, disturbing and intriguing her all the same.

Their meeting had been brief and tense, yet she couldn’t shake the image of him from her thoughts. That fleeting softness when he had petted his dog revealed a gentleness that seemed at odds with his fearsome reputation.

Logically, she knew she should be afraid of him. After all, the scarred Duke was known for his thunderous scowl and violence.

And yet…

There was something in his eyes when he’d spoken of danger, of protecting one’s child—a flicker of pain she’d thought she’d imagined at first. But now, she was not so sure.

Emma pressed her fingers against the cool glass of the window, tracing the outline of the distant trees.

Was he there now in that shadowy cottage, alone with his loyal dog? Did the thought of her cross his mind as well, or had their brief encounter faded from his memory like the fleeting annoyance she had no doubt he considered it to be?

A sudden knock on her door jolted her out of her thoughts. Before she could respond, it swung open to reveal Mrs. Peabody, the housekeeper, her usually calm expression twisted with worry.

“My Lady!” she gasped, her hand clutching her chest. “It’s young master Tristan!”

Emma’s heart thudded painfully as she stood up. “What’s happened? Is he hurt?”

“He’s gone, My Lady,” Mrs. Peabody replied, her voice shaking. “His bed is empty, and young Tommy says he saw the boy slip out through the kitchen garden not half an hour ago.”

Emma gasped. “Not again.”