Page 1 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

CHAPTER1

“Tristan? Oh, where on earth is that blasted boy?” Emma Bickford—née Thornton—huffed, hands bunched in her skirts as she scurried along the corridors of the great house.

There were plenty of things the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert couldn’t do, and cursing a child was probably at the top of the list.

Yet, even Mr. Frederick, her ever-reliable butler, who always kept pace beside her, didn’t comment on her outburst as he caught up with her.

“We have the stable boys searching the grounds, My Lady,” Mr. Frederick assured her, his voice steady, though his eyebrows were furrowed in a tight pinch that belied his worry.

Emma turned to him again, her heart racing with a mother’s dread. Evening shadows sprawled across the marble floors of Cuthbert Hall, and with each passing minute without her son in her arms, it felt like she was sinking into quicksand.

She really did not like that feeling. Not one bit.

“Have you checked the library? The boy does love his adventure books.”

At first, she had hoped the books would soothe the boy’s overactive imagination, but it looked like all her hopes had been for naught.

“Yes, My Lady. Martha has checked twice now. We have also searched all of Master Tristan’s favorite hiding spots, but there’s still no sign of him.”

And so, they were growing even more desperate.

Emma pressed her handkerchief to her lips.

Eight years old. Just eight years old and already such a little rascal. At this rate, she’d be gray before thirty—which, really, was a mere three years away, but she knew what kind of devilry her son could get up to. If he continued exactly like this, she would probably die of a heart attack before she even turned twenty-nine.

Blasted boy, she thought, her affection for him slowly evaporating under the weight of the overwhelming fear that gripped her heart in a stone-cold hold.

“How can he be off gallivanting after such a hearty supper?” she murmured, more to herself than to Mr. Frederick, not minding if she came off as a bit loony—this was enough to drive any mother mad. “He should be in bed right now!”

As if to emphasize her words, the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight, each toll reverberating through her like the somber toll of funeral bells.

Outside, darkness had fully enveloped the grounds of Cuthbert Hall, cloaked in the eerie blackness that only a moonless night could bring.

Now, she was beginning to feel the familiar stirrings of anger. Of all the nights he could have pulled such a trick, it had to be on the one without the moon’s light!

What if he fell down in the darkness? What if he got lost?

“I am going to tan his hide. I swear I am!” She found herself holding on to the thought tighter and tighter with each second that passed.

“My Lady, perhaps we should—” the well-meaning butler began to speak, but his suggestion was unceremoniously cut short by the sound of hurried footsteps.

Emma swiveled with urgency, her eyes shaking in her skull as she sought the one who approached, hoping to the high heavens that it was her unruly son jumping out of the dark to reveal himself. But she hoped too soon.

Mrs. Peabody, the housekeeper—a buxom woman with a pitiless disposition—appeared at the end of the corridor, her normally severe expression even more pinched than usual.

Emma’s heart sank at once.

“We have searched everywhere, My Lady. Every nook and cranny. The boy isn’t in the house,” she said, her tone curt—the only tell of her mounting anxiety.

Well, that left only one other option: they were just going to have to search outside.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath, doing her best to keep her wits about her, even as fear threatened to unravel her.

Be calm. Be calm, she told herself.

“Then we must search the grounds more thoroughly.” She was ever so grateful about the fact that her voice did not waver. “Have the lanterns been lit?”

“Yes, My Lady. The footmen have taken them out. The gardener is checking the old well, though it’s been boarded over for years.” Mrs. Peabody hesitated, her expression tight, but then she must have decided to hell with it, because she added, “And Mr. Jones has gone to fetch the constable from the village.”

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