Page 49 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Emma’s certainty wavered. She supposed her prejudices against him might be unfair, but she just couldn’t shake off the feeling in her gut.

“He’s my son. And I do not know you,” she insisted, though her voice had lost its edge. “I just…”

“You will be with him at every moment,” Victor stated firmly. “The instant you feel uncomfortable—the instant you sense your son is uncomfortable—we stop. Immediately.”

Emma studied his face, searching for deception and finding only an intensity that made her heart pound. “And what do you expect in return?”

“Nothing.”

“Now, that is hard to believe.”

The Duke took a step forward, and Emma scuttled two steps back. She’d done it before her mind could even catch up to the action, and her cheeks flushed red.

In front of her, the Duke chuckled, the sound rough, skittering across her skin like sandpaper. It was not an altogether unpleasant sensation, however.

“One would think a wild beast was stalking you, Lady Cuthbert,” he said.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath. She did not know whether or not he meant that as a joke, or if he really was trying to warn her of his true nature, but she was certainly not amused.

“Well, it is not as though you are giving me any assurances as to keeping to civility, Your Grace,” she said, lifting her chin.

The Duke’s eyebrow arched, his amused expression stark against his scarred face. “Oh, are you worried about… that?”

Emma wanted to strangle him for how nonchalant he sounded.

“Rest assured, My Lady, our indiscretion by the lake was a mistake. Don’t allow it to cloud your judgment regarding what’s best for your son,” he said.

The reference to their kiss sent heat through Emma that had nothing to do with the summer sun. She dropped her gaze, considering his offer.

Tristan’s education had been a constant worry—she couldn’t afford the best tutors, and his enthusiasm for learning deserved more than she could provide.

“Three days a week,” she said finally. “Morning sessions only.”

The Duke nodded once decisively. “Come to Westmere Hall tomorrow after breakfast. Bring clothes suitable for riding.”

He turned to leave, but then he paused, looking back at her. Before Emma could react, he reached out. She froze, her breath catching in her throat, uncertain of his intention.

His thumb brushed her cheek—soft, unhurried. She stilled. The touch was warm, far gentler than she’d expected from a man like him. He lingered, his thumb stroking slowly along her skin, just beneath her eye, as though memorizing the shape of her face.

A curious heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward, muddling her thoughts. The world around her narrowed to that single point of contact, to the quiet drag of his skin against hers.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back.

She blinked, her gaze dropping to his hand, and only then did she see the faint smear of blue paint on his thumb.

“Oh,” she murmured, the flush already rising in her cheeks.

He’d only meant to wipe it away. Hadn’t he?

“You,” he said softly, “must really love the lake on my estate. You can see it when you come over.”

Emma’s entire face bloomed a deep scarlet, her eyes going wide. “You! How… how dare…”

She must have looked amusing because his lips curved, the ghost of a smile transforming his handsome yet severe features for the briefest moment.

Then, with a formal bow, he was gone, leaving her standing amid her paintings, her heart racing as if she’d run up the manor’s grand staircase.

CHAPTER15

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