Page 38 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

It left little room for her thoughts to wander down dangerous paths—paths that inevitably led to a pair of stormy blue eyes and a voice that seemed to reverberate in her very bones.

“Do you think I could be? A prince, I mean,” Tristan asked, his expression suddenly serious as he considered the possibility. “Perhaps Father was secretly royalty, and no one ever told us!”

Emma laughed despite herself, the sound carrying across the meadow they were passing. “You’re certainly regal enough to be one. And stubborn enough too. But I’m afraid your father was simply Lord Cuthbert—a respectable earl but no royal.”

“Well, I think having a manor is nearly as good as being royalty,” Tristan declared after a moment’s consideration. “And we have Mrs. Higgins, who makes the best apple tarts in all of England! I don’t suppose princes get apple tarts as good as hers.”

“A very astute observation,” Emma agreed solemnly, though her eyes danced with amusement. “We are fortunate, indeed.”

They arrived at the village square, which was bustling with late-morning activity. Tristan dismounted with newfound grace, and they walked their horses to the hitching post by the fountain.

“Lady Cuthbert! Young Master Tristan!” called a familiar voice.

Emma turned to see Lady Oakley approaching with her maid, who was carrying a basket of fresh bread. The scent wafted toward them, making her stomach rumble appreciatively.

“Good morning, Lady Oakley,” she greeted with genuine warmth. “How is Annabelle today?”

“Abed with a summer cold, poor dear. But she’ll rally soon enough—youth has its advantages.” The older woman smiled kindly at Tristan. “And speaking of youth, I was just heading to Mr. Porter’s shop. He’s received a new shipment of honey candies from London. Perhaps Master Tristan would care to accompany an old woman and help her choose the best ones?”

Tristan’s eyes grew round. “May I, Mama? Please?”

Emma hesitated only briefly. Lady Oakley was a trusted friend of the family, and the confectioner’s was just across the square. “Very well, but mind your manners, and don’t impose upon Lady Oakley’s generosity.”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman,” Tristan promised solemnly, before his face split into a grin. He offered his arm to Lady Oakley with exaggerated gallantry. “My Lady, shall we?”

Lady Oakley chuckled and accepted his escort. “What a charming young man you’re raising, Lady Cuthbert. We shan’t be long.”

As they departed, Emma found herself momentarily alone—a rare occurrence in her busy life as a mother.

She took a deep breath, savoring the relative quiet. The village square hummed with the gentle bustle of daily life: a farmer haggling good-naturedly with the butcher, two women comparing fabric swatches outside the draper’s shop, the blacksmith’s rhythmic hammering providing a steady backbeat to it all.

It was ordinary. Safe. Predictable. Everything her thoughts had not been these past days.

A flash of familiar blue caught her eye, and she spotted Joanna emerging from the bookshop across the street. Her arms were laden with packages, and she wore the satisfied expression of a woman who had found literary treasures.

With a wave, Emma crossed to meet her.

“Emma! What a lovely surprise,” Joanna greeted, adjusting her spectacles, which had slipped slightly down her nose—a habitual gesture Emma had known since childhood. “I’ve just found the most fascinating new volume on Greek mythology. Mr. Pembroke ordered it for me weeks ago, and it finally arrived from London yesterday. The illustrations alone are worth the cost—they’re done in the classical style but with such vibrant colors! You’d appreciate them, I think, with your artist’s eye.”

“Show me,” Emma said eagerly, following her aunt back into the shop, grateful not only for the distraction but also for the genuine interest that sparked within her.

Art had always been her sanctuary, the place where her mind found peace—at least until recently, when even her paintbrush seemed determined to betray her by creating endless variations of a certain lake.

The interior was cool and quiet, a respite from the summer warmth outside. Shelves of leather-bound books stretched from floor to ceiling, creating intimate alcoves where one could get lost in other worlds, other lives. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams that streamed through the tall windows, and the familiar scent of paper, binding glue, and the faint hint of pipe tobacco from Mr. Pembroke’s occasional indulgence calmed Emma’s restless mind.

The shop was her favorite in the village. How many rainy afternoons had she spent curled up in the window seat, devouring tales of adventure, while Joanna discussed literary merits with Mr. Pembroke? The memory brought a smile to her face.

“There!” Joanna exclaimed softly, setting her parcels on a reading table by the window and untying the string from one.

She opened the large volume with reverent hands, turning to a particularly vivid illustration of Athena emerging from Zeus’s head, fully armored.

“Isn’t it magnificent? The artist has captured her expression perfectly—wisdom and strength in equal measure.”

Emma leaned closer, admiring the fine brushwork. “It’s extraordinary,” she agreed, her fingers hovering just above the page, not quite touching it. “The attention to detail in her armor—see how the light catches on the silver? And that determined set to her jaw… she knows her worth.”

Joanna smiled, pleased by Emma’s appreciation. Then, her expression shifted subtly as she studied her niece’s face.

“You seem a bit out of sorts today,” she observed, closing the book carefully. “Dark circles under your eyes. Is all well?”

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