Page 32 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

A flicker of surprise crossed the butler’s weathered face. Clearly, he wasn’t used to such direct challenges to his authority.

“His Grace is indeed on the premises, My Lady,” he admitted after a brief pause. “However, I’ve been instructed not to disturb him during his morning constitutional.”

“I’ll disturb him myself, then,” Emma declared, seizing his momentary confusion to step past him into the marble-floored entrance hall. “Where can I find him?”

The butler blinked, clearly torn between his duty to protect his master’s privacy and his ingrained respect for a genteel lady.

“His Grace is taking the air in the gardens, My Lady,” he finally said, his tone hinting that he was already crafting a mental apology for his employer. “I must advise?—”

“Thank you,” Emma interrupted, already making her way toward what she figured was the back of the house. “I can find my way.”

She brushed past the butler, ignoring his warnings as she navigated the grand residence, her resolve pushing her forward despite the occasional flicker of doubt about whether her impulsive visit was appropriate—or even wise. She was aware that she was being a bit of a burden, but she also knew she wouldn’t find peace until she confronted the Duke.

Her son’s constant chatter about him since they got back from Lord Griggs’ estate only made her more determined. She couldn’t let her son’s obsession with the Duke of Westmere—a man known for his violent and unpredictable nature—grow any stronger.

To her surprise, the house was nothing like the dark, foreboding place she had imagined after looking at it from the outside. Instead, the rooms she caught glimpses of were spacious and filled with warm morning light, the decor tasteful, without being flashy.

At the end of a long hallway, a set of French doors stood ajar, letting in a soft breeze that carried the sweet scent of roses and freshly mowed grass. Emma headed toward this clear exit to the gardens, quickening her pace as she neared her goal.

The corridor led out to a lovely stone terrace, and just beyond it sprawled the southern gardens of Westmere Hall.

She stopped for a moment, taken aback by the stunning beauty that greeted her.

Unlike the perfectly trimmed gardens typical of aristocratic estates, the Duke’s gardens had a more untamed charm—nature seemed to be in charge here. Vibrant flowers flourished alongside fragrant herbs and even a few vegetables, while towering ancient trees cast playful shadows over the winding paths.

What beauty.Such a shame that all of this is wasted on the Duke. I doubt he even cares for it.

In the distance, she spotted the shimmer of water—a small lake whose surface danced gently in the morning wind. With determination burning in her chest, she made her way toward it.

As she reached the lake’s edge, she took a moment to soak in the view—the way the sunlight sparkled on the water, the graceful willow branches dipping toward the surface, and the cheerful calls of birds from a tiny island in the middle of the lake. It was, she had to admit, a scene of remarkable peace.

But that tranquility was abruptly shattered when something disturbed the water’s surface, breaking the calm like a stone through glass.

Emma stood in stunned silence as a figure emerged from the depths, water cascading off broad shoulders as the man waded toward the shore.

The Duke of Westmere surfaced from his morning swim with the effortless grace of a predator in his element—like a mythical water god, completely and utterly… unclothed.

Emma knew she should turn away immediately. Propriety, decency, and her very purpose in coming here all demanded she retreat and await a more appropriate moment to deliver her warnings.

Yet she found herself frozen in place, her mouth falling open in a most unladylike display of shock.

The morning light played across the planes and angles of his body, illuminating a physique unlike any she had ever seen or imagined.

Her late husband, like most gentlemen of his class, had possessed the soft contours of a man whose physical exertions were limited to the occasional riding and lifting of wine glasses. However, she had, of course, seen classical statuary during her limited time in London, so she could say she was no stranger to excellent examples of the male anatomy.

But nothing in her sheltered existence had prepared her for the living reality before her—of a man who appeared to have been carved from marble by a sculptor with an appreciation for classical ideals—the way the powerful breadth of his shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the defined musculature of his chest and abdomen, the?—

She wrenched her gaze upward with a gasp, her cheeks burning with mortification.

Even then, she could not help but notice the network of scars that marred his torso—evidence of wounds that would have killed a lesser man. Yet, somehow, these imperfections did not diminish the overwhelming impression of physical power. If anything, they enhanced it, speaking to a capacity for survival that was as intimidating as it was impressive.

“Trespassing again, My Lady?” The Duke’s deep voice held a note of sardonic amusement as he reached the shore, making no move to cover himself. “It appears to run in the family.”

Emma whirled around, presenting her back to him with such haste that she nearly lost her balance.

“Your Grace,” she managed, her voice strangled by embarrassment. “I—that is, I came to discuss an important matter with you.”

“By all means,” he replied, his tone suggesting that he found her discomfort far less catastrophic than she did. “Discuss away.”

---