Page 8 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

“Then it would be far better to keep him far away from danger in the first place. Leave,” he said sharply, more of a command than a suggestion. “Take your son and go.”

The lady did not need to be told twice. She grabbed her boy’s hand with urgency and turned sharply around, motioning toward the gate with dignity.

But just as they were about to move forward, Argus—that blasted dog—trotted back over to them, nuzzling the boy’s leg in a way that sparked a sense of irrational betrayal in Victor.

Goddamn beast. I should feed him to the foxes.

The boy immediately smiled, his small hand gently stroking the dog’s head with open affection.

“Goodbye, good boy,” he whispered, his tone wistful as they left. “I don’t think I’ll be able to bring you any more chicken.”

“Argus,” Victor ordered, his voice slicing through the moment like a knife. “Come here.”

Argus glanced up at him with sad eyes but did not disobey his command, and made his way back to Victor’s side.

“No more accepting food from strangers and leading them here.”

CHAPTER3

“Iam all right. Everything is all right,” Emma whispered to herself in an almost inaudible voice.

She had learned early in life to wear a mask and pretend that nothing truly moved her. It was, naturally, a necessary skill for anyone in the ton—and especially so for a young widow with a young child to care for and a reputation to maintain.

The afternoon sun cast its long shadows on Lady Pembrooke’s perfectly groomed garden, where society’s elite had gathered for what was, no doubt, supposed to be a celebration of summer.

Emma knew it for what it truly was: just an opportunity for high society to judge and scrutinize one another as usual.

Crystal flutes clinked softly together, and servants meandered between the tables, carrying even more trays laden with wine glasses. Ladies in pastel silks and gentlemen in crisp waistcoats engaged in the familiar dance of polite conversation and subtle character assassination.

Emma quietly took a sip of her wine while she used her other hand to adjust her silk bonnet and make sure the ribbons were still tied in a proper bow underneath her jaw.

She’d put much thought and effort into her dress—the gown was modest enough to honor her status as a widow yet stylish enough to keep her far out of the bad books of the ton’s fashionable ladies. It would not do for her to seem as though she’d completely stepped away from Society—the countryside still boasted a vibrant social life, and it was one she did not intend to be completely isolated from.

And she attended these things not simply for her sake but for the sake of her young son, who was still growing and was quickly gaining an interest in many things she most certainly could not keep up with. If she cut herself off completely from London’s high society, it would only make things terribly difficult for him when he came of age and realized that he was an outcast. She would not ruin him in such a terrible manner.

Still, that did not mean she quite enjoyed having to endure all the curious glances and mocking side talk made at her expense. Even now, she had to use her fan to shield her nearly curdling expression from the barrage of glances and whispers directed her way.

“They’re watching us again,” Annabelle Lytton, her friend and closest confidante, whispered, leaning in so that her words would not carry beyond their small circle.

And indeed, her friend’s blue eyes glimmered with an all-too-familiar mischief that Emma always found herself admiring and envying in equal measure.

“Lady Harwick and her flock of harpies have not stopped staring our way since we arrived.”

Of course, it’s Lady Harwick.

Emma sighed inwardly.

She had been at the mercy of thepryingand unkind noblewoman ever since moving to the countryside, and she was already quite used to the woman’s antics.

Lady Harwick was the type to never let a single piece of gossip about those she considered as even a minor inconvenience go unwielded. Emma had an intuition that if the woman had caught wind of Tristan’s venture into the Duke of Westmere’s property, there was no doubt that she would have been the center of gossip in this gathering—even more so than shealreadywas.

Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Let them stare then,” she replied, even as she felt the familiar tightening in her chest. “I suppose they must find their own lives so terribly dull if they’re so focused on others.”

Beside them, Miss Joanna Dennison—Emma’s aunt and one of her closest companions—let out a soft chuckle, the sound partially muffled by her ivory fan. She was quite a handsome woman, but at six-and-thirty years of age, she had been properly put on the shelf, what with the men of the ton running after the skirts of far younger women.

“They are just envious, my dear,” Miss Joanna said, her gray eyes sharp behind the round spectacles that rested on the bridge of her nose. “Not all of us have the courage to create something as meaningful as your Athena Society. We all know it is quite easier to throw stones than to build something of value.”

Emma could not help the warmth that surged through her at the mention of her book club.

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