Page 105 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Emma sagged against the wall, her legs threatening to give way beneath her as precious air rushed back into her lungs. Through the blur of involuntary tears, she witnessed Victor seize Sidney by his elaborate cravat and hurl him across the summerhouse with a strength born of cold fury.

“Victor,” she managed, her voice a broken whisper that nonetheless stopped him as effectively as a shout might have.

He turned toward her, his expression transforming from murderous rage to a look of anguish and concern in the space of a heartbeat.

“Emma.”

He took a half-step toward her, but then Sidney’s spiteful laughter interrupted the moment. He had regained his feet, blood seeping through the sleeve of his evening coat where Argus’s teeth had found purchase.

“How perfectly romantic,” Sidney sneered. “The beast returns to claim his beauty. Though I fear you are too late, Your Grace. The lady and I had already come to… a certain understanding.”

Victor’s posture shifted subtly, the movement familiar to Emma from her observations of Argus before a hunt—the deceptive stillness that preceded lethal action.

“The only understanding you shall come to, Bickford,” he replied, his voice terrifyingly quiet, “is with your maker.”

Before Sidney could formulate a response, Victor crossed the space between them in two swift strides. Sidney attempted to retreat, his confidence evaporating in the face of Victor’s controlled rage, but the wall of the summerhouse prevented his escape.

“For Tristan,” Victor said simply, his fist connecting with Sidney’s jaw in a single, precise blow that sent the man crumpling to the floor like a discarded marionette.

Emma watched with a curious detachment as Victor knelt beside Sidney’s supine form, one hand gripping the man’s throat with enough force to hold his attention.

“You will leave England,” he stated, each word enunciated with lethal precision. “Tonight. You will relinquish guardianship of Tristan Bickford to trustees of Lady Cuthbert’s choosing. You will never approach either of them by word, deed, or proxy. Should you fail to honor these terms, I shall ensure that your remaining days will be spent in abject misery. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Sidney’s eyes darted frantically between Victor’s implacable expression and the growling hound, who stood poised to resume his attack at his master’s command. Whatever calculation transpired behind his panicked gaze, self-preservation emerged triumphant.

“P-Perfectly,” he managed, the word emerging as a strangled whisper beneath the pressure of Victor’s grip.

“Excellent,” Victor replied, releasing him with a contempt that was somehow more devastating than any physical blow would have been. “Now, leave. And be assured, Bickford—I will be watching.Always.”

Sidney scrambled to his feet, all pretense at dignity abandoned as he stumbled toward the summerhouse entrance. At the threshold, he paused, his habitual malice reasserting itself one final time.

“She’ll never be more than Harold’s leftovers,” he spat, blood staining his usually immaculate cravat. “A soiled widow with a brat of a son.”

Victor moved with a speed that belied his size, closing the distance between them before Sidney could retreat.

“One more word,” he said quietly, “and I shall forget my decision to let you live.”

Sidney blanched, whatever vestigial courage had prompted his final barb evaporating in the face of Victor’s controlled fury.

Without another word, he turned and fled into the darkness of the gardens, his uneven footsteps fading into the night.

CHAPTER33

“You came back,” she said, the simple words emerging unbidden from the tumult of her thoughts.

Emma remained motionless against the wall of the summerhouse, her chest heaving, her dress wrinkled, her mind struggling to process the abrupt reversal of her circumstances.

Victor turned toward her then, the fierce protectiveness that had dominated his demeanor softening into something infinitely more vulnerable.

“Yes. Forgive me,” he said, the words emerging rough with emotion. “For leaving. For not being here when you needed me.”

The distance between them seemed suddenly unbearable. Emma moved forward, propriety and caution alike forgotten as she closed the space that separated them. She did not even realize when she’d moved, only that she’d needed to.

And Victor’s arms enfolded her with careful reverence, as though she were something precious and fragile to be sheltered rather than possessed.

“Tristan,” she murmured against his chest, the memory of the danger her son was in cutting through the momentary safety of his embrace. “He’s alone?—”

“He is safe,” Victor assured her, one hand smoothing her disheveled hair with a tenderness that threatened to undo her hard-won composure. “I encountered him in the gardens. He has gone to secure assistance—Knightley should be arriving shortly.”

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