Page 87 of A Widow for the Beastly Duke

However, she was now surrounded by a group of young men whose flushed complexions suggested liberal indulgence in the Duchess’s champagne.

“I merely inquired as to the possibility of your remarrying,” Lord Frampton—Victor recognized him instantly, and with no small measure of disdain—was saying, loud enough for every nearby ear to hear. “A natural curiosity, given your… rather precarious circumstances.”

Victor was already moving, cutting through the crowd with the kind of unflinching purpose that had once carried him across the deck of a warship under cannon fire. As he closed the distance, he saw Emma standing stiffly, her face pale but dignified, her hands clasped with deliberate poise.

“If you’ll excuse me, My Lords,” she said, her voice low but firm, laced with urgency, “I must greet an acquaintance.”

“But the question remains unanswered, Lady Cuthbert,” Lord Frampton pressed, swaying slightly, a smug gleam in his eyes. “One does wonder—how long will you cling to your widow’s weeds when your child remains fatherless? Or does that title no longer trouble you, now that a certain duke is rumored to be haunting your estate like a ghost? Perhaps he’s taken to playing papa, among other things.”

A few gasps sounded nearby. But Frampton only smiled, clearly pleased with the stir he’d caused.

“I suggest you watch your tone, Frampton.” Victor’s voice, though quiet, cut through the surrounding chatter with the precision of a blade. “And your consumption of champagne.”

Frampton turned, his expression shifting from malicious amusement to wariness as he recognized Victor.

“Your Grace,” he acknowledged with a nod that fell somewhat short of respectful. “I was merely making conversation.”

“You were making unfounded insinuations about a lady.” Victor stepped closer, noting with grim satisfaction the way the man’s companions inched backward. “An action unworthy of a gentleman.”

A flush spread across Frampton’s features, anger temporarily overriding discretion. “Some might argue that the true gentleman in this scenario would be the one who doesn’t flaunt his liaison with a widow of questionable?—”

Victor’s hand shot out, seizing Frampton by his elegantly tied cravat. With deliberate slowness, he tightened his grip, lifting the man slightly off his feet as his face flushed red from lack of air.

The room fell silent, the guests retreating in horror.

“Apologize. Now,” Victor growled.

Frampton, however, only sneered, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “Ah, theBeastof Westmere,” he drawled, his tone thick with mockery. “I’ve heard of you. You’ve certainly lived up to the name. A duke who beats men bloody for amaid’shonor—howchivalrous.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a taunting whisper. “And now you’re protecting a widow? Trying to keep the poor thing from all the filth you’ve sunk into, hm? Or perhaps, Your Grace, you enjoy the thought of being the only man to touch her. After all, who else would have her?”

Victor’s hand tightened, his rage bubbling over as Frampton’s words cut deeper than any blade.

His fury exploded. His fist connected with Frampton’s nose with a brutal force, and the sickening crack of bone reverberated through the room. Blood splattered across the man’s fine waistcoat as he crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain.

It was then that Victor’s eyes found Emma. She stood rigid, her face bloodless, her eyes flickering with an emotion that struck him with the force of a physical blow.

Not gratitude for his intervention, but fear. Fear of him and what he might have done.

The realization was sickening. He had sought to defend her honor, to protect her and Tristan from cruel gossip, and in doing so he had only confirmed the ton’s assessment of him as a beast barely contained by the veneer of civility.

Before he could take another step, a voice cut through the tension.

“Duke,please.”

The Duchess of Swinton appeared at his side. Her face was a picture of composed shock, but her voice was firm and unwavering.

“This is a ballroom, Duke, not a battlefield.” She gestured toward the bloodied man on the floor, her eyes narrowing. “This act of violence is completely unacceptable.” Her gaze flicked to the stunned guests. “Youmustleave, Duke. Immediately.”

Victor looked at her, his chest heaving, his hands still clenched in fury. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he stood still, his fury still burning. Then, with a sharp exhale, he straightened his back.

“Goodnight, Duchess,” he muttered and turned sharply, ignoring the hushed whispers that rippled through the room as he made his way toward the door.

* * *

“Howdareyou.”

Victor had nearly reached the stables when he heard her voice, sharp with accusation.

He turned to find Emma advancing toward him, her silken skirts gathered in one hand to facilitate her pursuit, her face flushed with anger.

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