Page 57 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“Correspondence for you, My Lady,” the butler announced, offering the tray with practiced dignity.

Emma recognized the handwriting immediately, and her smile faded. She broke the seal and scanned the contents, a small furrow appearing between her eyebrows.

“Troubling news?” Annabelle inquired, watching her friend’s expression change.

Emma sighed, folding the letter carefully. “It’s from Sidney. He writes that he’s leaving for London on business but will return shortly after. He expresses his intention to visit and ‘ensure his nephew’s welfare.’”

“I truly despise that man,” Annabelle declared, helping herself to another lemon cake. “Something about the way he looks at you—it’s as if he’s weighing you at a meat market.”

“Tristan doesn’t care for him either,” Emma admitted quietly. “He always becomes withdrawn when Sidney visits. But with our lessons with the Duke continuing…” She shook her head. “I can’t have Sidney around. He would disapprove most vehemently.”

“Then don’t have him,” Annabelle said simply. “You are the mistress of your own home now, no matter what high society thinks.”

Emma tapped the letter against her palm thoughtfully. “I’ll tell him we’re doing extensive renovations. The dust and disruption would make a visit most uncomfortable.”

“Perfect.” Annabelle nodded approvingly. “A few strategically placed ladders and some canvas drop cloths when he arrives unexpectedly—which you know he will—and your story is complete.”

Through the open window, they could hear Lady Oakley’s triumphant crow. “Aha! Through the wicket in a single stroke! You see, young man? Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill!”

Tristan’s delighted laughter floated back, and Emma felt a surge of protectiveness. These moments of uncomplicated joy were too precious to risk. Sidney’s cold presence would only cast shadows where light was finally beginning to shine.

“I won’t let him spoil this,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Annabelle. “Tristan deserves better.”

Annabelle reached across to squeeze her hand. “As do you, my dear. As do you.”

CHAPTER17

“You’re getting quite slow in your old age, Westmere,” Nathaniel taunted, circling Victor on the grassy expanse of the private garden of the Knightley estate.

It was mere hours after noon, probably a bit too late in the day for men of their statuses to be tussling in the grass like a pair of feuding apes, but Victor valued these sparring moments—even more so now, as it was moments like these that allowed him the avenue to expel all his pent-up energy through rigorous physical endeavors.

It was either this, or he exerted his body in a far less… noble way.

The only issue was that his body wanted one woman and one woman only.

The exact woman heshouldn’twant.

Sweat glistened on his brow as he feinted left and then right, looking for an opening.

“What’s it been now? Ten years since you last won?” Nathaniel taunted.

Victor narrowed his eyes, his stance solid as oak despite the afternoon heat. “Your memory fails you. It was last month, and you complained of a sprained wrist for a fortnight afterward.”

Nathaniel lunged forward suddenly, attempting to catch Victor off-guard. “Perhaps I was merely being kind to spare your?—”

His words were cut short as Victor sidestepped with surprising agility, catching his arm and using the momentum to flip him neatly onto his back.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs with an audible “oomph,” but he recovered quickly, rolling over and leaping back to his feet.

“Ah, but what of Lady Cuthbert? I hear she visits your estate regularly now. Is that why you’ve suddenly recovered your youthful vigor?”

That momentary distraction was precisely what Nathaniel had hoped for. Victor’s expression flickered—just a fraction of hesitation—but it was enough for Nathaniel to hook a foot behind his knee and attempt to topple him.

Victor, however, had anticipated the move. With practiced ease, he shifted his weight, seized Nathaniel by both shoulders, and in one fluid motion, pinned him firmly to the ground.

“Yield,” he commanded, his voice low but uncompromising.

Nathaniel sighed dramatically, going limp beneath Victor’s grip. “I yield, you unsporting brute. Though I maintain that bringing up a beautiful widow during combat should be considered a legitimate strategy.”

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