Page 23 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

The Duke of Westmere.

He stood a bit apart from the other gentlemen, his strong build visible even from afar. While the other men flaunted their meticulously chosen outfits that balanced style with the realities of the hunt, the Duke wore his tweed with relaxed confidence, as if the sturdy fabric was made just for his broad shoulders.

His collar was casually open at the throat, showcasing a robust neck that had been tanned by the sun—quite a contrast to the neatly tied cravats of his peers.

Emma realized that her pulse had started to pound at the base of her throat.

Oh, dear God, stop it. Stop it right now!

Yet, as if sensing her gaze on him, the aloof Duke turned his head at that moment, and their eyes met.

CHAPTER7

“Isee the Beast of Westmere has decided to grace us with his presence,” came a barely hushed comment from somewhere to Victor’s left, clearly meant to reach his ears while pretending to be discreet. “One wonders if Lord Griggs invited him out of genuine friendliness or just out of morbid curiosity.”

Victor kept his expression neutral as the whispers flowed through the hunting party like a breeze through summer wheat.

Such murmurs had long since failed to penetrate the protective shell he had built since returning from the war—a shield that was as effective as it was isolating. The opinions of the ton mattered to him as much as the buzzing of insects on a warm afternoon: persistent, sometimes annoying, but ultimately trivial.

In fact, at that moment, he couldn’t care less about those words, for he locked eyes with the very woman who was beginning to prove herself to be a siren who haunted his mind at every given opportunity.

Emma Bickford, the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert.

There she stood, draped in a soft blue dress that hugged her curves in ways he wished he did not notice.

But he did. Oh, he did. Even now, holding her gaze from afar, it was as though she’d become the only thing in his field of vision.

This is madness, Westmere, he told himself, and yet he still could not find the will to break eye contact first.

And so she did it for him. Those honey-brown eyes darted away from his just as easily as they had locked him in their thrall, and Victor realized that he’d been barely breathing.

Letting out a breath, he shook his head, his scowl deepening even more, making his face all the more forbidding.

He adjusted his leather gloves with careful precision, now acutely aware of the cautious glances directed his way—the slight movements of gentlemen with impeccable lineage and questionable bravery as they found reasons to distance themselves from the scarred Duke.

Their wives, elegantly dressed on the terrace, watched him with apprehension and fascination, as though he was an exotic animal kept safely behind the bars of a zoo and they were the spectators who’d paid money to watch him do a trick.

How dull, he thought, determined to ignore the way his pulse had yet to calm from that brief moment with the Dowager Countess—if one could even count it as a ‘moment.’

It was the weather that elicited this reaction, he decided. That would make it less complicated to deal with.

But then again, ever since meeting the Dowager Countess, he’d found himself making way too many excuses like this one—too many for comfort, in fact.

“You might want to try smiling,” suggested Nathaniel, appearing at his side with the ease that came from a long friendship. “Just a little one, mind you. We wouldn’t want to scare the crowd with too much friendliness. They might faint right on the spot.”

Victor shot his friend a sidelong look that would have silenced anyone else. “I am here because you insisted, Knightley. Just because I am participating in the hunt doesn’t mean I have to perform like a trained bear for the entertainment of idle gossipers.”

“How badly you misjudge your charm,” Nathaniel said, still in good spirits. “A trained bear would be welcomed with far less fear and a lot more joy. I think you’ve earned the title of the only man in England whose mere presence can make a dowager clutch her pearls from fifty feet away.”

“Your humor is commendable, but I don’t see the point in pretending to be friendly for the sake of those who have already made up their minds,” Victor drawled.

“The point, my gloomy friend, is to shake up their expectations,” Nathaniel replied, his voice light, though his eyes sparkled with a cleverness that contradicted his reputation as a mingler. “When people expect a growl, a kind word can be far more disarming than the fiercest outburst.”

Before Victor could come up with a suitably sharp retort, their chat was interrupted by a small group of gentlemen, led by the stout figure of Lord Harrington, whose family’s long history had made up for generations of dwindling intelligence.

“Westmere,” Lord Harrington greeted with a stiff nod that couldn’t quite hide his discomfort. “Knightley.” His tone brightened on that word. “Lovely day for a hunt, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely, Harrington,” Nathaniel replied with effortless charm. “Though let’s hope the pheasants are a bit more challenging than your grouse last season. I heard they practically flew into your gun barrels out of sheer boredom.”

---