Page 95 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

Victor’s expression hardened, but he said nothing.

Nathaniel paused at the door. “You walk away thinking it’s the noble choice. That absence will shield them. But people don’t remember absence kindly. They remember who stayed.”

He gave Victor one last look—measured, not unkind, but heavy with disappointment—then turned and left, the quiet snick of the closing door louder than any rebuke.

CHAPTER28

“Imust say, my dear Emma, your continued reluctance wounds me deeply. After all, we are family, are we not?”

Sidney regarded her across the morning room with that practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes.

Emma suppressed a shudder as she noted the way his gaze lingered on the modest décolletage of her morning dress.

Three weeks had passed since Victor’s abrupt departure, and in that time, Sidney had inserted himself into the vacant spaces of her life with the persistence of an invasive vine, finding purchase in every social obligation and familial responsibility.

“A connection through marriage only, My Lord,” Emma replied, maintaining the veneer of civility that her position demanded. “And one that grows increasingly tenuous with each passing day.”

“Ah, but the bond between guardian and ward remains unbreakable, does it not?” He moved closer, his cologne—too strong, too sweet—enveloping her in a cloying cloud. “And I take my responsibilities to young Tristan most seriously.”

Emma took a measured step backward, busying herself with arranging the cut flowers that the housekeeper had placed on the side table. “Your sudden devotion to your guardianship is remarkable, considering you showed scant interest in Tristan’s welfare for the first eight years of his life.”

“People change, my dear,” he murmured, watching her hands as she trimmed a stem with perhaps more force than necessary. “Priorities… shift. Speaking of which, I have secured an invitation to Lady Harrington’s musical evening next Thursday. You shall accompany me, naturally.”

It was not a request. Emma had discovered, to her mounting dismay, that Sidney’s invitations were pronouncements disguised as courtesies—refusals met with subtle reminders of his legal authority over Tristan’s inheritance and education.

“The Athena Society meets that evening,” she demurred, though she knew the excuse was futile before the words left her lips.

“Your little collection of bluestockings can surely manage without you for one evening.” His tone remained pleasant, though a flicker of irritation crossed his features. “I have already informed Lady Harrington of our attendance. It would be most improper to disappoint her now.”

The implication hung in the air between them. And as with all of his implications, it carried the weight of threat beneath its veneer of social nicety. Emma understood, with the clarity born of increasing desperation, that each public appearance with her brother-in-law further cemented the impression that she welcomed his attentions.

“Very well,” she conceded, the words tasting like ash. “Though I must bring Tristan. He has been curious about Society’s events, and would very much like to attend.”

His smile thinned perceptibly. “The child would be bored to distraction. Surely, he would prefer to remain at home with his books and wooden soldiers.”

“I insist,” Emma said, infusing her voice with a firmness she did not entirely feel. “As you have so recently reminded me, your guardianship extends to his social development as well as his welfare.”

Before he could formulate a response, the door opened to admit Tristan himself, freshly returned from his morning ride with Mr. Jenkins. The boy halted abruptly at the threshold, his expression souring at the sight of his uncle.

“Good morning, Mama,” he said pointedly, crossing to Emma and pressing a dutiful kiss to her cheek before acknowledging Sidney with the barest inclination of his head. “Uncle.”

Emma’s heart broke at his childlike attempt to appear all grown up.

“Ah, the young lordling returns,” Sidney said, his voice assuming the condescending tone he reserved exclusively for Tristan. “How was your ride? Jenkins tells me you’ve shown little improvement since our last discussion.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened in a manner so reminiscent of Victor that Emma felt a pang of mingled pride and sorrow.

“Mr. Jenkins is mistaken. What does he know?” the boy replied with careful formality. “The Duke of Westmere remarked that my horsemanship was advancing admirably.”

The mention of Victor caused a momentary stillness in the room, as though the very air had crystallized around his name. Sidney’s expression sharpened with interest, the calculating glint in his eyes setting Emma’s nerves on edge.

“The Duke of Westmere,” he repeated, lingering over each syllable with obvious relish. “How fascinating that you should invoke the opinion of a man who has not been seen in the countryside for nearly a month. One might almost think his disappearance coincided rather… conveniently with certain whispers.”

Emma’s heart stuttered. “Tristan, please inform Mrs. Peabody that you’ll take luncheon in your quarters today. I believe Cook has prepared your favorite tarts.”

The boy’s gaze darted between his mother and uncle, his intuitive grasp of adult tensions far exceeding his years. “But Mama?—”

“Now, Tristan,” Emma said, her tone brooking no argument despite its gentleness.

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