Page 52 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

The English Setter perked up at his name.

Tristan needed no further encouragement—he raced off, the dog bounding at his heels.

Silence fell between them, thick with unspoken thoughts. Emma adjusted her gloves, suddenly feeling awkward under the Duke’s steady gaze.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said finally. “He enjoyed himself immensely.”

“He has natural talent. With proper instruction, he could become exceptional.”

Emma nodded stiffly. “I am happy to hear that. Good day, Your Grace.”

As she turned to follow her son, the Duke spoke, “I’ll send word about our next session. Perhaps Thursday?”

“Thursday,” she agreed, feeling his eyes on her as she walked away, her composure intact but her emotions in turmoil.

* * *

“And then he had the audacity to suggestItry riding myself!” Emma exclaimed, pacing the length of the Oakley sitting room.

The Athena Society meeting had concluded an hour ago, the other ladies departing with knowing smiles and thinly veiled curiosity about her frequent mentions of the Duke of Westmere.

Only Annabelle remained, reclined on a chaise, watching Emma’s agitation with poorly concealed delight.

“How terribly presumptuous of him. And did you? Ride, I mean?”

Emma scoffed. “I mean, of course, I did! I had little choice. Tristan was looking at me with those expectant eyes of his.”

“Mmm. Of course. It was for Tristan’s benefit entirely.” Annabelle’s tone dripped with skepticism. “Tell me this, though…” She leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “The Duke—did he lift you onto your mount?”

Emma felt heat rise to her cheeks. “That’s hardly relevant.”

Annabelle looked like a cat who’d gotten the cream. “Oh, but it is! Strong hands on your waist, lifting you as if you weigh nothing?—”

“Annabelle!”

“Oh, what? I’m merely exploring the narrative tension.” She grinned wickedly. “Speaking of tension, when are you going to acknowledge the attraction you feel for him? I can imagine how much you would want to… touch him and?—”

Emma must have been instantly possessed by a demon of some sort because she blurted, “We kissed.”

She immediately covered her face with her hands, realizing what she’d just admitted.

Annabelle gasped, sounding completely scandalized. “Emma Bickford!” she screeched, her excitement palpable. “You kissed the Beast of Westmere and didn’t tell me immediately? I’m wounded!”

“I-I mean, it… It wasn’t a proper kiss,” Emma said.

It wasn’t a lie. It was amore than properkiss in form.

She peeked at her friend from between her fingers. “It was a moment of… confusion. And he called it a mistake, too.”

“Did he, indeed?” Annabelle leaned forward eagerly. “Yet he’s offering free lessons to your son and lifting you onto horses with his supposedly fearsome hands. How very… mistaken of him.”

“It’s not like that,” Emma protested again, but even she wasn’t quite sure what it was like either.

“Then what is it like? Because from where I sit, it appears our mysterious duke has developed a particular interest in the Dowager Countess of Cuthbert.”

Emma shook her head, immediately shutting down the idea. “He’s merely being kind to Tristan.”

“Emma, dear, men like the Duke don’t offer riding lessons out of charity. There is a story here. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

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