Page 42 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“That’s sophistry, boy,” Victor replied sternly, though he felt a twinge of admiration for the boy’s quick thinking.

“What’s sophistry?” Tristan asked, momentarily distracted.

“It’s when one uses clever but misleading arguments. And it’s a poor habit for a gentleman to cultivate.”

Tristan nodded solemnly. “I won’t do it again, Your Grace! But please, may I stay? Just for a little while? I promise to be good as gold, and Argus seems to like me.”

Indeed, his blasted, traitorous dog was now sitting contentedly at the boy’s feet, accepting ear scratches with uncharacteristic docility.

“That’s not possible,” Victor said firmly, ignoring the pang in his chest at the boy’s crestfallen expression. “Your mother will be worried, and I have matters to attend to.”

“She’s visiting Miss Annabelle Lytton today,” Tristan countered swiftly. “She won’t be back for hours. And I can help you with your matters! I’m very good at helping. Mr. Fletcher says I’m the most helpful pupil he’s ever had! He also said I have a remarkable gift for inciting scholastic pandemonium. That must be rare!”

Victor pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache brewing. The last thing he needed was Lady Cuthbert’s child underfoot, a constant reminder of the woman he was trying desperately to forget. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn the boy away.

“Twenty minutes,” he heard himself say. “Not a minute more. And then you will return home directly.”

Tristan’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, thank you, Your Grace! You won’t even notice I’m here! Unless you want to notice me, of course, in which case I shall be very noticeable indeed!”

Victor’s lips twitched, rare amusement slithering in his belly. “Indeed.”

Resolving to maintain his distance—both physically and emotionally—Victor returned to his exercise routine, performing a series of movements adapted from his naval training. He had hoped the boy would be content to play with Argus, but it seemed young Tristan had other ideas.

“Is that fencing, Your Grace?” the boy asked after barely two minutes of blessed silence.

“No,” Victor replied tersely, continuing his movements without breaking the rhythm.

“What is it, then? It looks terribly difficult.”

“Exercise.”

“What sort of exercise? Does it make you strong?”

“Yes.”

“Could you teach me? Mama says I’m too skinny.”

“No.”

“Why not? Is it a secret? Like military training? Papa was in the Cavalry, you know, though I don’t remember him.”

Victor sighed heavily. “It’s not appropriate for children.”

“I’m not a child!” Tristan protested, drawing himself up to his full height, which barely reached Victor’s elbow. “I’m eight years old, nearly nine! My instructor says I’m very big for my age.”

“Nonetheless.”

A blessed thirty seconds of silence followed before Tristan launched into his next barrage.

“Why is your dog named Argus? Is it because of the giant with a hundred eyes from the Greek myths? My aunt Joanna told me about him. His name was Argus, wasn’t it? Hermes killed him, and then Hera put all his eyes on the peacock’s tail! Does your dog have special eyes? They do look very clever.”

Victor, caught off guard by the boy’s surprisingly intelligent question, paused. “Yes, that’s correct. Argus Panoptes, the all-seeing guardian. He seemed an appropriate namesake.”

Tristan instantly brightened at having finally extracted a complete sentence from the Duke. Being so encouraged, he pressed on.

“Have you always lived at Westmere Hall? It’s very grand! Much grander than Cuthbert Hall, though I wouldn’t tell Mama that. She’s very proud of our home.”

Of course, she would be. Victor had glimpsed that pride within her from the onset.

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