Page 53 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

And, truth be told, she was. Despite herself, despite all her caution, Emma found herself wondering about the man beneath that formidable and steely exterior.

What had shaped him? What had wounded him? And why did her heart race whenever he was in the same vicinity as her?

“It doesn’t matter,” she said firmly, willing herself to ignore the nagging feelings in her gut. “This arrangement is for Tristan’s benefit.”

“Hmm, keep telling yourself that,” Annabelle replied with a knowing smile. “But when you finally admit you’re intrigued by the beast, I expect every detail. Especially if there’s another ‘improper’ kiss involved.”

Emma threw a cushion at her friend, and the other woman burst into delighted laughter. That laughter, as though it were a harbinger, seemed to foretell her worst fear—that her carefully constructed defenses were crumbling, one blasted lesson at a time.

CHAPTER16

“Will we really get to use real arrows, Your Grace?” Tristan asked, his voice pitched high with excitement as they followed Victor across the manicured grounds behind his manor.

Emma followed closely behind him, having already been scolded by him about trying to hold his hand. Apparently, it was an endeavor “most embarrassing.”

Her boy was becoming a man, indeed.

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the lawn, highlighting his eager skips and hops as he struggled to keep pace with the Duke’s long strides. A smile tugged at her lips as she watched him.

Well, he would not be a man for a long while yet.

“They are indeed real arrows, boy, though designed for practice rather than hunting,” Victor replied, turning his head to humor her boy, his usually stern demeanor softened slightly by what she could swear was amusement.

The corners of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, a gesture she found she couldn’t quite ignore.

Not as much as she would have loved to, at least.

Emma quickened her pace, her skirts rustling against the trimmed grass as she caught up.

“Arrows? I thought we agreed on chess today.” Her voice carried a note of alarm she couldn’t quite suppress, her maternal instincts flaring immediately.

Victor turned, raising an eyebrow, his gaze direct and unwavering. “I don’t recall making such an agreement, Lady Cuthbert.”

The formality of his address contrasted with the subtle challenge in his eyes.

As they rounded a carefully sculpted hedgerow, the archery range came into view—targets set at various distances, a small pavilion housing equipment, and worst of all, actual weapons.

Emma stopped abruptly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

“Absolutely not,” she said firmly, drawing herself up to her full height. “Tristan will not be handling weapons.”

Tristan’s face fell instantly, his excitement draining away like water through cupped hands. “But Mama! You promised I could learn new things!”

“I promised you could learnappropriatethings,” Emma corrected, placing a protective hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his small frame. “Archery is dangerous.”

Victor regarded her calmly, his expression measured. “With respect, My Lady, every nobleman’s son learns archery. The practice arrows have blunt tips and pose little danger under proper supervision.” His tone was neither confrontational nor placating, simply matter-of-fact.

“Please, Mama,” Tristan implored, looking up at her with pleading eyes that so resembled her own. “Just one try? I’ll be ever so careful!”

Emma felt her resolve wavering under her son’s earnest gaze. She glanced at Victor, whose expression remained impassive yet somehow expectant, as if he already knew what her answer would be.

“Very well,” she conceded, exhaling softly. “One lesson. But I’ll be watching every moment.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Tristan nearly bounded toward the pavilion, his earlier decorum forgotten in a burst of childish enthusiasm.

Emma moved to a nearby bench, smoothing her skirts with hands that weren’t quite steady. Watching her son handle weapons—even practice ones—sent a flutter of anxiety through her chest. The late Lord Cuthbert had been fond of hunting, often returning home with trophies and tales of reckless pursuits that had left his companions injured and her sleepless with worry.

Victor guided Tristan to the closest target. “First, your stance is most important,” he explained, demonstrating by placing his own feet shoulder-width apart. “Like this.”

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