Page 12 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“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.

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