Page 18 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

The sadness in his last question hit Emma hard. She could see the loneliness hiding behind his complaints—a loneliness that seemed to grow alongside him like a shadow that just wouldn’t go away.

The countryside, despite its beauty and the safe escape it offered from the judgmental eyes of London society, didn’t provide many friends for a young boy on the brink of adolescence, and she certainly couldn’t be a playmate for a growing boy either.

It seemed that her son was beginning to seek independence. She did not know if it was too early, but she had to deal with it now, unfortunately.

And she was going to have to come up with something.

“Maybe,” she suggested, a spark of inspiration lighting up her mind, “we could get a dog of our own? One that would be all yours to train and take care of however you like.”

The idea felt so right that she wondered why it hadn’t come to her sooner. A friend for Tristan and a way to channel his restless energy.

But Tristan’s response was immediate and firm.

“No,” he said with a passion that surprised her. “I don’t want just any dog. I want to play with Argus! He’s the most amazing creature I’ve ever seen, and he really likes me, Mama! He does!”

Emma held back a sigh, recognizing the stubbornness in his stance—something she sometimes thought he inherited from his late father, though she would never tell Tristan that the trait he shared with the Earl was one of his least charming qualities.

Before she could say anything, Tristan sat up.

“Why can’t we just ask him?” he said suddenly, leaning in with an intensity that caught Emma off guard.

The gleam in his eyes was desperate, and she hated to quench it.

“Why can’t we just persuade the Duke to let me visit Argus every now and then?” he continued, his eyes bright. “If he agrees, everything will be fine.”

Emma felt her cheeks flush at the thought of approaching the Duke of Westmere with such a request.

The memory of their last meeting—his piercing gaze, his aloof demeanor, their heated back and forth, and the tension that had crackled between them—sent an unwelcome flutter through her chest.

“We simply can’t, Tristan dear,” she replied, knowing her answer lacked the solid reasoning that Tristan was obviously looking for this time. “The Duke values his privacy, and we have to respect that.”

Tristan pushed his chair back with a scrape that echoed his frustration. He stood up, his slender frame vibrating with a kind of helpless indignation that only a small child with limited knowledge could express.

“So, I’m not allowed near Argus,” he said, his voice rising slightly despite his efforts to keep it steady within his small chest. “And there are no other children to play with. What am I to do, Mama? What am I to do all day while you go to your gatherings and read your books?”

Emma felt each word hit her like a dart. “We can paint together,” she reminded him gently. “And… you can… you can read, too. You can read with me. You do enjoy our reading, don’t you?”

Her son’s face flushed red as he stomped his foot. “I’m not going to read with you and all the other old ladies!” he said with pre-teen indignation. “I’ll be laughed at if people find out!”

Oh dear.

How was she going to handle this? Her reasonable son had never thrown tantrums quite like this before. What was this?

“I want to do more! Many other things. Like horse riding. Or fishing. Or… or…” he trailed off, but Emma knew what her frustrated son was trying to say to her.

That those were things a father might teach him, but his father was long since dead. And so he should have a male figure, at least. But even that was non-existent.

She couldn’t help but remember the words of her brother-in-law when he demanded to see Tristan. He was, unfortunately, the only male figure Tristan had in his family to look up to, but Emma had absolutely no intentions of letting that man near her son. Not at all.

And so they were at an impasse. An impasse that she had to break as quickly as possible.

But before she could come up with a response that might bridge the growing gap between them, her agitated son turned sharply.

“Come back here, young man!” Emma put one hand on her hip, her tone sharp.

“No! Leave me alone!” he yelled back and marched out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving her standing there, chest heaving and eyes stinging with tears.

The silence that followed felt like a physical weight pressing down on her. She stayed at the table, surrounded by the trappings of a genteel home that suddenly felt like a poor substitute for the companionship her son so desperately needed.

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