Page 73 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

The little imp!

“Tristan,” Emma admonished gently, “His Grace undoubtedly has more pressing engagements. You mustn’t impose.”

“On the contrary,” the Duke replied, his gaze never leaving her face, “I find myself with an unexpected vacancy in my calendar tomorrow. If the invitation is genuine, I would be delighted to join you.”

Tristan whooped with undisguised glee, while Emma struggled to maintain her composure.

“Perhaps it would be best if we traveled separately,” she suggested. “My lady’s maid will accompany us, of course, for propriety’s sake.”

“A sensible arrangement,” Victor agreed, though a subtle gleam in his eyes suggested he found her adherence to propriety somewhat amusing, considering the lines they’d already crossed. “Shall we meet at the village green at two o’clock?”

“That would be perfect,” Tristan answered, before Emma could respond. “Thank you, Your Grace! I shall show you all the best attractions!”

“I look forward to your expert guidance,” Victor assured him, the genuine warmth in his voice causing something to unfurl in Emma’s chest—a dangerous tendril of hope she hastily suppressed.

“We shall endeavor not to keep you overlong,” Emma added, wishing to establish some boundaries to the excursion before her son’s enthusiasm committed them to an entire day in the Duke’s company.

She wasn’t quite sure her heart could take it.

“I have cleared the entire afternoon for this adventure,” Victor countered smoothly. “Time in such agreeable company is never wasted.”

Emma busied herself with arranging the chess set in its velvet-lined box, avoiding his gaze. “Then we shall see you tomorrow afternoon, Your Grace.”

As she watched him take his leave, bowing over her hand with impeccable courtesy that nevertheless conveyed something far more intimate, Emma wondered if she had made a grave error in sanctioning this outing.

The walls she had carefully constructed around her heart seemed increasingly fragile in this man’s presence, and tomorrow would test their strength to the fullest.

* * *

The village fair bustled with activity. Colorful bunting stretched between ancient oak trees, and the tantalizing aroma of roasted chestnuts permeated the air.

Emma watched as the Duke of Westmere patiently helped Tristan aim at the shooting gallery, his large hands adjusting the boy’s grip on the rifle with gentle authority.

“Steady now,” Victor murmured, “and remember to breathe as you pull the trigger.”

The shot rang out, and a ceramic figurine toppled from its perch. Tristan’s triumphant exclamation drew cheers from onlookers and a proud smile from Victor that made Emma’s eyes widen and heart constrict with unexpected longing.

“Did you see that, Mama?” Tristan called, waving the small wooden toy he had won. “His Grace says I have a natural eye!”

Yes, she did see it, and now she wanted to see more of it. More of that smile.

“Splendid shooting,” Emma praised, approaching the pair. “Though I suspect your success owes much to your instructor’s guidance.”

“Lady Cuthbert underestimates her son’s natural talents,” Victor remarked, his shoulder brushing hers as they watched Tristan dash to examine the other prizes on display. “Just as much as she underestimates her own.”

Emma’s breath caught at his proximity. Where their shoulders touched, her skin warmed. “You speak in riddles, Your Grace.”

“Do I?” His voice was low, meant for her ears only. “I thought I was being uncommonly direct, My Lady. Need I drop all courtesy, then? I doubt you will misunderstand me then.”

Before Emma could formulate a response to the innuendo, Tristan had returned, tugging at Victor’s sleeve to pull him toward the next attraction.

Throughout the afternoon, as Tristan darted between booths with boundless energy, Emma found her eyes drawn to the Duke’s broad shoulders, his expression pleasant, despite the scar on his face. And of course, he caught many of those glances, his lips curling into that rare ghost of a smile that made her want to coax much more out of him.

When their fingers brushed as he handed her a cup of mulled cider, the contact sent sparks through her veins.

“Your hands are cold,” he observed, his thumb lingering against her wrist, where her pulse betrayed her reaction to his touch.

“The wind has a bite to it today,” she managed, withdrawing her hand a little too quickly, her cheeks flushing.

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