Page 14 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)

Chapter Nine

“ Y ou’re here for the play,” Gerard muttered to himself, his voice low enough to be drowned by the music.

You are not here for a widow. Not for her.

It was useless. His eyes kept finding her, crossing the gilded gulf of the theater to her box.

There she sat, illuminated by the soft wall lights, effortless in her attention. No artifice, no posture for effect. Just her, fully absorbed in the play.

Gerard tried to look away, tried to focus on the actors, but each subtle shift in her expression drew him back: the flicker of amusement, the arch of an eyebrow at a clever line, the curve of her lips. She wore her emotions openly—rapt attention, delight, occasional shock—and unashamedly.

Focus, he chided himself.

For a moment, he thought he’d succeeded. But then his gaze wandered to a loose tendril escaping her coiffure.

The crowd laughed at some line, but he barely heard it. All he saw was her laughter, her head tipped back, the sound not meant for him but somehow monopolizing his attention.

He could recount her reactions in greater detail than anything on the stage.

His frustration flared. Of all women, why her? A widow, yes, but a dowager countess who was scrutinized. Yet here she was, so alive, so genuine, so unguarded in her delight.

No pretense. No calculation. Just her genuine self.

When the curtain fell, Gerard clapped with the others, mechanically, though his eyes never left her.

Every cheer around him felt hollow; she was the only one who mattered. He waited, hoping she would turn, share the moment, catch his eye.

She did not.

Gerard was bored.

At his own event.

By all accounts, the evening was a success. The drawing room buzzed with conversation deemed clever enough, laughter polished to the right pitch, and the usual parade of gently bred ladies and their ambitious mamas. A perfect specimen of a fashionable night.

And Gerard wanted to flee.

Still, he made an effort not to scowl at everyone. He smiled at the right time, gave polite answers, and even endured a lecture on harp-playing from a debutante who could scarcely disguise her exasperation with the topic.

Another attempted to converse about hunting, no doubt pushed into it by some strategist of a mother who assumed he would perk up at the mention of hounds. The poor girl visibly wilted as she forced out the words.

Gerard, suppressing the urge to apologize for her suffering, responded with immaculate civility.

Lady Silverquill’s handiwork was everywhere. She’d barely written a line about him when she replied to a letter from a debutante seeking advice on what to wear at his event.

Choose a gown that lets you breathe, darling. You’ll want steady lungs when the Duke of Talleystone is in pursuit again.

That single line was enough to stir a frenzy of speculation: that he, at last, was seeking a wife. His past marriage—too young, too brief—was already dissected afresh in corners of the room.

“It’s time,” murmured a matron. “He’s still young enough to be considered greatly eligible.”

“I don’t care how old he is,” came the tart reply, “so long as he chooses my daughter.”

Gerard had learned to let such talk wash over him. His gaze drifted, restless, until it settled.

On her .

Lady Slyham. Impossible to miss, though she never clamored for attention.

She moved among her family like cool water flowing through stone, her gown catching the light in shifting shades of blue. Unlike the others, she wore her smile lightly, knowingly, both a shield and an invitation. While another widow might shrink at the scrutiny, she seemed only steadier beneath it.

“My friend,” Samuel murmured at his side, his lips curling into a smirk. “If you stare any harder, half the room will think you’ve already proposed.”

“I am not staring,” Gerard said flatly.

“No? Observing, then? Like a hawk waiting to pounce on its prey? That’s how it looks. Your favorite widow may appreciate the attention, or she may not. As for everyone else, well…”

Gerard didn’t need the warning. He knew precisely how his guests would feast on it. However, he refused to grant Samuel the satisfaction of agreement.

“Find someone else to pester,” he muttered.

Samuel chuckled, untroubled as ever. He sipped his brandy, his eyes glinting with the promise of more torment to come.

Gerard turned back to Lady Slyham. At first, it seemed she meant to spend the evening anchored to her siblings. But no, she slipped free, drifting toward the terrace doors, alone .

No one noticed. No one but him.

And as quietly as she vanished, so did he. No announcement, no excuse. It was a trickier business for him, with half the room focused on his every move. Yet somehow, he managed to follow her.

Why did she even bother trying to act as though she belonged?

The ton would have been far happier to keep her locked in a cold, dark chamber, forgotten and alone.

Wilhelmina had barely stepped inside the Duke of Talleystone’s grand hall before the weight of scrutiny pressed down on her chest. Perhaps it was her imagination, yet she felt the scrape of every gaze.

Unwelcome. Suspect. Out of place.

To slip onto the terrace was, if anything, a courtesy.

Cool air wrapped around her, sharp and bracing. It revived her, chased away the staleness of the drawing room.

Once, as a debutante, she had been able to laugh at unsuitable proposals, to turn away men who bored her, and suffer only her mother’s cutting remarks, and nothing worse than faint amusement from the ton. As a widow, she knew the price of such boldness—her own ruin, along with her sisters’.

The gardens stretched into shadow, softened by the moonlight and the glow of candles burning in the windows above. The house seemed to shimmer like a lantern in the night.

She closed her eyes and drew in the scented air, willing herself to feel alive again.

“Perhaps I should take offense,” a voice murmured from behind her.

Deep. Controlled. So familiar.

He spoke softly, careful not to draw the notice of others. “That you have deserted my guests so swiftly. Another host might not be so forgiving.”

Wilhelmina turned around. She wasn’t the least surprised to see the Duke of Talleystone standing in the shadow of the terrace.

Moonlight caught the hard line of his jaw, the dark gleam of his hair, and the breadth of his shoulders beneath his pristine black jacket. He looked every inch the man whose presence made ballrooms hush and hearts flutter.

“I didn’t know you expected to have a chat with me tonight, Your Grace,” she said lightly. “Would you have preferred I wait in a corner, or fall in line with the debutantes clamoring to speak with you?”

“No, of course not, My Lady,” the Duke replied coolly, as though reminding himself they were only a few paces from prying ears. “I merely noticed that you’ve slipped away from your family.”

“I’m surprised you noticed. You had admirers surrounding you. I am but a guest,” she said with a practiced smile that never reached her eyes.

“Jealous?” he asked.

She clenched her fists, trying to push down the feeling of getting caught.

“I am not in the habit of being jealous, Your Grace,” she said, though her voice cracked faintly.

His gaze unsettled her, stirred things she would rather not name.

“Mhm. Then perhaps you ought to develop the habit of being cautious. Why are you outside, alone?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I am a widow, Mother. I do not need a chaperone. And your presence here hardly helps, Your Grace.”

Her voice cracked again. She loathed it, yet she could not resist the effect his proximity had on her.

He took another deliberate step closer, the air between them charged.

“Then send me away,” he murmured, his voice low. “Say the word, and I will leave you to the safety of the dark.”

She swallowed, but no words came out. Her lips parted, her breath unsteady, her pulse a wild thing at her throat. She wanted to dismiss him— ought to dismiss him—but she could not summon the will.

“You see?” His gaze held hers, steady, relentless. “You do not want me to go.”

Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown, as though she might anchor herself against the truth of it. “I?—”

The terrace door swung open.

“Lady Slyham! It’s you!”

Relief and disappointment tangled inside her as Hector bounded toward her, his cheeks flushed with excitement. He wore a dressing gown that indicated he ought to be in bed, but he showed no intention of retiring.

With childlike eagerness, he flung his arms around her waist, and warmth spread through her chest despite the interruption.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured, clinging to her tightly.

Wilhelmina gently pulled back, then bent low until her eyes met his. A genuine smile curved her lips. “Lord Hector. You should be in bed, preferably fast asleep, should you not?” she chided softly.

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see the guests! Father never lets me wander about during events!” he protested, casting a hopeful glance at the Duke.

The Duke folded his arms, exhaling with controlled exasperation. “Hector, you know the rules. You should have been in bed an hour ago.”

“But Papa, it’s so dreary upstairs. And Lady Slyham is here!”

“Dreary or not, you are expected to obey,” the Duke insisted.

His tone suggested that he had more to say, but before he could continue, the governess appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathless.

“Your Grace, forgive me! He was too quick for me. I only turned my back, and he was gone. Lord Hector,” she said briskly, her hand extended toward Hector, “it is long past your bedtime. Come, at once.”

The boy’s shoulders slumped. Yet, even as he shuffled toward her, he cast Wilhelmina one last look, bright with stubborn affection.

“Goodnight!” he called, waving a hand.

She lifted her hand in answer, her smile lingering until he disappeared through the door. Then, it faded, and a heavy silence ensued.

The awkwardness swept back at once, sharper now for having been briefly lifted.

“I should go back inside,” she said, striving for composure.

The Duke opened his mouth to speak, but she did not give him the chance. She turned swiftly, reentering the glow and noise of the house.

The cool night air, the stolen proximity, the unsettling warmth of his gaze—all of it, she left behind.

Because between them, she was the one with far too much to lose.