Page 71 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“Mama! You’ve returned!” Tristan cried as Emma entered the drawing room at Cuthbert Hall.

To her surprise, her son was seated in the window alcove, a leather-bound volume balanced on his knees. While it was not completely unusual to see him with his books, she knew he much preferred his adventure books to thick tomes.

Emma removed her gloves, approaching him with curious interest. “What’s this? My son voluntarily reading a bigger book? That must be over three hundred pages. Oh dear, I fear I must check for signs of fever.”

Tristan giggled heartily at her teasing, his excitement big and open. “It’s a book on military strategy that the Duke mentioned during our last riding lesson. He said it helped him understand chess better and that chess helps with battle planning.”

Oh?

She was not privy to this conversation. Of course, she could not possibly hear everything the Duke told her son during their lessons, but this was intriguing, nonetheless.

“Did he, indeed?” Emma sat beside him, peering at the dense text filled with diagrams of troop formations. “And are you finding it illuminating?”

“Some parts,” Tristan admitted, his finger tracing a particularly complex illustration. “Though I suspect I need to understand chess first to truly comprehend what His Grace described.”

Emma’s heart swelled at his scholarly determination—a quality he had almost lost. “Perhaps we might prevail upon the Duke to provide instruction in chess during his next visit,” she suggested, attempting to ignore the flutter in her stomach at the prospect of seeing the Duke again so soon.

“Do you think he would?” Tristan’s expression brightened considerably. “He told me chess was vital to a gentleman’s education. He learned when he was younger than me!”

“One never knows unless one asks,” Emma replied, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “Though I daresay His Grace is a very busy man with many social obligations.”

“But he always makes time for us,” Tristan pointed out with the straightforward logic of a child. “He said I remind him of himself as a boy.”

The fact that he made time for them did not shock Emma as much as her son’s last words. Truly, she barely concealed her surprise at this revelation. The Duke had never struck her as a man who formed easy connections, particularly with children. The idea that he saw something of himself in her spirited son was both touching and slightly alarming, given the complex feelings he stirred within her.

“Did he elaborate on this comparison?” she inquired, striving for a casual tone.

Tristan shrugged. “He said I asked the same questions he used to ask—the kind that made his tutors throw up their hands in despair.” He grinned with evident pride at this association. “And he said we shared an inability to sit still during tedious social occasions!”

Emma laughed despite herself. “On that count, I can hardly dispute the similarity. But first, I believe this occasion calls for celebration. Wait here.”

She disappeared into her small library, returning moments later with a volume of illustrated myths that had been a favorite during her childhood.

“Shall we read together for a while?”

Tristan nodded eagerly, setting aside his military treatise.

As they settled into the comfortable ritual of shared reading, Emma realized how long it had been since they had enjoyed such simple companionship—a casualty of her efforts to establish them in Society and Tristan’s growing independence.

“Mama,” Tristan said, after they had read several tales, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “do you think the Duke would call again soon?”

Emma marked the page with a ribbon before closing the volume. “I couldn’t say with any certainty. Why do you ask?”

“I like him,” Tristan replied simply. “He doesn’t treat me as though I’m still in short coats, and he answers my questions properly instead of saying I’ll understand when I’m older.”

“Those are indeed admirable qualities,” Emma conceded, her appreciation for Victor’s straightforward manner with her son adding to her already complicated feelings for the man. “We shall send him a note tomorrow inviting him to provide chess instruction if his schedule permits it.”

Tristan beamed, his enthusiasm cutting through Emma’s reservations like sunlight through the morning mist.

For her son’s sake, she would endure the dangerous proximity to Victor—though she silently vowed to maintain strict control over her wayward emotions in his presence.

* * *

“Check,” Victor declared, his bishop sliding diagonally across the board to threaten Tristan’s king.

Emma glanced up from her novel, noting the furrow on her son’s brow as he contemplated his next move.

They had settled into the routine of chess lessons with surprising ease, Victor appearing each Tuesday and Thursday afternoon on their doorstep with unfailing punctuality.

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