Page 96 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

With visible reluctance, Tristan withdrew, though not without a parting glance of undisguised suspicion at his uncle.

Once the door closed behind him, Emma turned to face her brother-in-law, steeling herself for the confrontation she had sensed brewing since his arrival in the quiet countryside.

“And what whispers might those be, My Lord?”

Sidney’s smile widened, revealing teeth too small for his mouth—a detail that had always disturbed Emma for its suggestion of something predatory lurking beneath his polished exterior.

“Oh, merely idle speculation regarding the nature of the Duke’s regular visits to Cuthbert Hall. Such intimate instruction in… horsemanship, was it? Most generous of him,” he said, his tone dripping with innuendo.

Ice formed in Emma’s veins. “You forget yourself, Sir.”

“Do I?” He moved closer now, close enough that she could see the fine network of broken vessels mapping his nose and cheeks—a testament to years of overindulgence. “I wonder what Society might make of such generosity, particularly when extended to a widow of childbearing years. I wonder what they might conclude regarding the propriety of such arrangements.”

Emma lifted her chin, summoning the dignity that had sustained her through years of her husband’s public humiliations. “You will find, My Lord, that I care precious little for Society’s conclusions.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “But I imagine you care a great deal for your son’s standing within that society. For his prospects. For his future.”

The threat was no longer veiled, and Emma felt her carefully constructed composure begin to fracture. “What do you want?”

His hand reached out, his fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve with a familiarity that made her skin crawl. “I think you know precisely what I want, my dear Emma. What I have wanted since I first saw you on my brother’s arm at your wedding breakfast. What he was too blind or too indifferent to properly appreciate.”

Emma stepped back sharply, feeling the edge of the side table press against her spine. “I am your brother’s widow.”

“A technicality.” Sidney waved a dismissive hand. “My brother has been gone for years, leaving you in a most… lonely position. A position I could help rectify with the right… arrangement between us.”

The suggestion was so baldly stated that Emma momentarily lost the power of speech, staring at the man before her with undisguised revulsion.

But he continued, seemingly encouraged by her silence. “The ton already whispers of your connection to Westmere. I merely have to confirm what they suspect, to transform whispers into open discussion. Your reputation would not survive it—nor would the boy’s prospects.” He stepped closer still, his voice honeyed with false concern. “But there is an alternative. Discretion can be maintained… for a price.”

“You would blackmail me,” Emma said, the words emerging as a statement rather than a question.

“Such an ugly term,” Sidney chided, his fingers reaching out to brush a stray curl from her forehead. Emma forced herself not to recoil from his touch. “I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your reputation preserved, your son’s future secured… in exchange for what you have already given so freely to the Beast of Westmere.”

Emma’s hand moved before conscious thought intervened, the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek echoing in the still morning room.

Sidney’s head snapped to the side, more from surprise than force, and when he turned back to her, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“That,” he said softly, “was a grave miscalculation, my dear.”

Emma’s momentary satisfaction dissolved into cold dread as he straightened his waistcoat with deliberate precision.

“I am hosting a small gathering at my newly acquired property next Saturday evening,” he continued, as though nothing had happened. “You will attend. You will smile. You will be gracious. And afterward, you will demonstrate the proper gratitude for my continued discretion.” He paused, his gaze sliding over her figure with insulting deliberation. “Unless, of course, you prefer to explain to young Tristan why the doors of every respectable household in England have been closed to him.”

Emma remained silent, her mind racing through alternatives, escape routes, and strategies, finding each path blocked by the immovable fact of her brother-in-law’s legal and social authority over her son’s future.

“I shall send my carriage at eight,” he said, interpreting her silence as acquiescence. “Do wear the blue silk dress. It becomes you.”

He bowed with mocking formality and took his leave, the scent of his cologne lingering like a miasma in the suddenly airless room.

Emma waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before allowing her knees to buckle, sinking into the nearest chair as the full implications of her position crashed over her. Sidney currently held all the power—legal, social, financial—while she possessed only her wits and the fierce, unyielding love for her son that had sustained her through every trial.

But as she stared unseeingly at the light filtering through the curtains, she confronted the chilling possibility that this time, love alone might not be enough to protect what she held most dear.

* * *

“Emma, dearest, you have turned the same page for the past quarter-hour,” Annabelle observed, her voice pitched low enough not to disturb the animated discussion unfolding among the other Athena Society members. “Either Mrs. Radcliffe’s prose has suddenly achieved unprecedented depths, or your mind wanders far from gothic castles and mysterious noblemen.”

Emma blinked, the words on the page before her resolving into coherent sentences for the first time since she had opened the volume. The familiar comforts of Lady Oakley’s drawing room—the muted conversations, the gentle clink of teacups, the shared communion of literary appreciation—seemed to be occurring at a great distance, as though viewed through the wrong end of a telescope.

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