Page 35 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Her hands, which had been pressed against his chest in what might have been an attempt to resist, curled into the damp fabric of his shirt. Her lips parted beneath his, inviting him to explore deeper—a temptation Victor found impossible to resist.

So he simply did not.

He savored her with careful attention, noting every gasp and subtle shift and the way she leaned into him as if drawn by an invisible force.

What had started as a battle of wills transformed into something far more mutual—and infinitely more dangerous. A shared longing neither had expected and both were powerless to deny.

Victor felt her tremble against him, the delicate shiver of a woman awakening to desires long buried, and the realization that he had elicited this response from the proper yet feisty Dowager Countess was more intoxicating than the finest brandy.

One hand moved to cradle her face, his thumb tracing the gentle curve of her cheekbone as he adjusted the angle of the kiss, silently urging her to let him in deeper.

When she let out a soft, breathy sound that seemed to resonate within him, almost like a physical touch, Victor growled low in his throat.

“Do you want more, little temptress?”

“Y-yes,” she gasped against his mouth, obviously out of her mind with passion.

Her eager—yet inexperienced—response hinted that she, too, was taken aback by the intensity of whatever this was that was happening at this moment.

Victor realized, albeit dimly, that he had completely lost control of the situation. Even more troubling was the realization that he didn’t want to regain that control; he would gladly embrace this unexpected vault of unruly emotions that threatened to completely shatter him if it meant savoring the sweetness of this woman’s surrender.

“Your Grace—Oh!”

The voice was uncertain, a bit embarrassed, and unmistakably belonged to his head gardener.

Victor felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over his head, cooling his passion in an instant.

He let go of her right away, stepping back as if he’d been burned, even though his body protested the sudden distance with a force that nearly drowned out his sense of decorum.

“What in the world…” he mumbled, as though his arms had not pulled her to him.

When the Dowager Countess’s eyes met his, they were wide with shock—whether from his actions or her reaction to them, he couldn’t quite tell.

Her lips, still swollen from his kiss, parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead, a deeper blush crept across her face as the reality of their situation came crashing down.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” the gardener said, his gaze fixed firmly on a spot above their heads. “I didn’t realize you had… company. The butler asked me to let you know about an important matter that needs your attention.”

Victor nodded, not trusting himself to speak without faltering. While the interruption was unwelcome, it might have been a blessing in disguise—a stark reminder of the boundaries he had just recklessly crossed.

Lady Cuthbert was already moving, gathering her skirts and her dignity with trembling hands as she stepped back.

“I should go,” she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. “This was—I must?—”

She didn’t finish her thought, instead turning to bolt across the garden with a speed that revealed just how rattled she was. He couldn’t blame her; his own mind was in complete turmoil.

Victor watched her retreating figure, knowing he should call out to her, offer some sort of apology or explanation for his outrageous behavior.

But what could he possibly say? That he had been swept away by a desire so unexpected and intense that it had shattered his careful restraint? That for a fleeting, impossible moment, he had forgotten the broken man he had become and remembered what it felt like to want something—someone—with every fiber of his being?

No, it was better to let her go. The Beast of Westmere had no right to claim a woman like the Dowager Countess, regardless of the surprising alchemy that seemed to occur whenever they were in one another’s presence.

As she faded from sight, Victor found himself returning to the memory of her kiss—a feeling he knew would linger in his dreams for many nights ahead.

* * *

“For a man who spent the day basking in such beautiful weather, you look surprisingly like a storm cloud on legs,” Nathaniel remarked, sliding a tankard of ale across the battered wooden table. “One might almost think you’re not enjoying my charming company.”

The tavern—a rundown place three villages away from the prying eyes of Society—buzzed with the kind of energy that comes from men of all walks of life letting go of their daily burdens.

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