Page 17 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)

Chapter Eleven

A nother evening. Another townhouse .

Wilhelmina let out a quiet sigh as she adjusted her shawl, steeling herself for what promised to be another interminable round of social performances.

The house belonged to one of Robert’s former business partners, a man of means and ambition, but with little taste.

The gathering was neither refined enough to be called a ball nor intimate enough to be considered a musicale.

Instead, it was an ungainly mix of both, with too many people crammed into the gilt-draped rooms, milling about with glasses of wine, fanning themselves, and trading tidbits of gossip like seasoned merchants at a market.

It was precisely the sort of evening Wilhelmina dreaded. She disliked scrutiny at the best of times, and tonight, she felt it heavy upon her, pricking her skin like nettles.

Widows like her were curiosities, nuisances, or prey, never equals. They were pitied and whispered about, their every movement dissected and weighed for impropriety.

“My dear Lady Slyham,” Lady Grisham crooned, slicing through the hum of conversation.

She glided toward Wilhelmina with her habitual grace, her fan snapping open and closed with pointed emphasis. At her side was a tall gentleman whose shoulders seemed to bear loads of self-conceit.

“The Earl of Harlington is here to make your acquaintance.”

Wilhelmina suppressed the urge to groan. She could almost hear her mother’s thoughts.

An earl for the widow of an earl. How neat, how proper, how convenient.

“Lady Slyham,” Lord Harlington greeted, bowing with practiced polish.

The beginning, at least, was promising enough. They spoke of art—his choice of topic, to which Wilhelmina readily responded. He praised painting, and she mentioned sculpture. He quoted a poet, and she, to her faint amusement, corrected his misattribution.

For a moment, Wilhelmina thought the conversation might hold, until the subject veered toward women’s access to education.

“The problem with educating women,” Lord Harlington declared, stepping closer than decorum warranted, “is that it fills their heads with impractical notions. Far better that they devote themselves to embroidery or pursuits that enhance beauty. A lady might take to the pianoforte, certainly, but politics and trade? Those are quite beyond her. Women are, alas, too emotional for such serious matters.”

Wilhelmina went still, the wine in her glass rippling slightly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another lady bristle, only to scuttle away moments later as if she had heard nothing at all.

That, more than Lord Harlington’s insufferable smugness, stoked her fury.

How many women still swallowed their indignation and chose pretense over defiance?

“Indeed, My Lord?” she said coolly, tilting her head to regard him as one might a bruised fruit at the market. “Do you think a woman’s skill with a needle qualifies her to oversee an estate?”

His eyes narrowed, calculating, as though he could peel away her thoughts. She rewarded him with a syrupy-sweet smile. He chuckled, clearly misreading her mockery as encouragement.

“Good heavens, no,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “That is a man’s duty. I would never trouble my wife’s pretty head with such matters. I manage my holdings quite capably, as you may have heard. My ventures in Liverpool, my investments in West Indian sugar… all well in hand.”

“Then it seems that you are preoccupied with beauty over substance,” Wilhelmina murmured, letting her eyes sweep him up and down with deliberate disdain.

“Not long ago, I saw you in raptures with a trio of giggling debutantes. Bright-eyed, yes. Empty-headed, perhaps not. Do you realize, My Lord, that some of those women could manage estates better than you, had they not been taught to feign helplessness for men’s approval? ”

Somewhere nearby, someone coughed to hide their laughter.

Wilhelmina’s eyes flicked to a maid balancing a tray of champagne flutes, who tried and failed to smother her grin.

“I am not saying women are simpering fools,” Lord Harlington protested, affecting an air of wounded innocence.

“But the fact remains: trade is perilous. Shipping and sugar require boldness, the strength to weather losses. Women cannot— will not—bear such strain. They are better suited to softer occupations.”

Wilhelmina took her time before replying.

She raised her glass and drank slowly, letting silence stretch between them like a drawn bowstring.

She cocked her head, deliberately drawing out each sip until his smug composure began to crack.

Only when the dregs remained did she set her glass on a waiting tray.

“It fascinates me, My Lord,” she said, her voice honeyed and sharp as glass, “how thoroughly you confuse rigidity with wisdom. You dress stale ideas as conversation, but there is no freedom in them. Only the echo of the same patriarchal refrain we have heard for generations.”

The words landed like a slap. Two matrons standing within earshot froze, their fans fluttering like startled birds. Their eyes widened in horror, though neither looked away.

“I—well—” Lord Harlington sputtered, his practiced charm morphing into panic.

His eyes darted around wildly, as if seeking a savior in the crowded room.

“Perhaps you… ah… misunderstood me, My Lady. Another time, then, when your feelings are not quite so delicate . I believe I see a friend—yes, yes, I promised him a round of cards.”

“There will be no next time, My Lord,” Wilhelmina declared, her voice cold as frost.

Lord Harlington mumbled a hasty farewell, already backing away like a chastened schoolboy.

The whispers began at once, rippling through the crowd, and Wilhelmina caught more than one grin aimed in her direction.

It was indeed rare to see Lord Harlington flounder. She could not muster an ounce of regret.

Lady Grisham was at her side in an instant. She snapped her fan shut, disapproval etched on her face. “Did you truly need to do that, Wilhelmina? Such words were hardly necessary.”

“Necessary?” Wilhelmina scoffed, her gaze fixed on Lord Harlington’s retreating figure. “I was merciful , Mother. Believe me, I said less than he deserved. The man is drowning in his own ignorance. It is hardly my duty to provide him with a lifeboat.”

From somewhere behind them came the unmistakable sound of a muffled giggle. A woman ducked her head and slipped away before Wilhelmina could catch her eye.

Perhaps she imagined it. But no, the ripple of amusement felt real enough.

Could it be that some in the ton were beginning to side with her at last?

Not her mother, of course. Lady Grisham’s narrowed eyes suggested that she had tasted something sour and would not recover anytime soon.

Wilhelmina had long since grown accustomed to that look. Marriage to Robert had spared her from it for a while, and widowhood had given her a reprieve. But reprieve was not freedom.

“Have you seen the Duke of Talleystone as of late?” Lady Grisham asked suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.

The question startled Wilhelmina, though her mother’s expression betrayed nothing except calculation.

Wilhelmina turned her head away, drawing in a steadying breath and letting it out slowly before she turned back again.

Her spine stiffened. “I do not need your scrutiny, Mother.”

Lady Grisham’s fan twitched once before she replied in her usual honeyed tone, “You know that I only want the best for you.”

Wilhelmina’s lips curved in bitter recognition. “Do you? Truly? I think you want the best for our reputations. For us as the Grishams, not as a family. Not for me as your daughter.”

The words hung between them, sharp as cut glass. She could not stop herself; her mother’s relentless maneuvering pressed upon her like a vise.

Lady Grisham leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Look around you, Wilhelmina. Do you honestly believe that the current Earl of Slyham will provide for you forever? He cannot even give you a proper allowance.”

Wilhelmina pursed her lips and cut her a glare.

“Oh, do not look at me like that. I can see it plain as day. You have been penny-pinching more than usual. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? At the rate things are going, you will end up in the countryside, living on the charity of Marianne and Elizabeth.”

The mention of her sisters struck like a blow to the chest. Wilhelmina’s breath caught, her resolve faltering for a heartbeat.

Marianne, with her tireless kindness. Elizabeth, with her restless energy. She could not—she would not—become their burden.

And yet her mother’s words, however cruelly delivered, were not without truth. With her pitiful allowance, her meager income from the column, and her lack of desire to remarry, the path ahead narrowed into something bleak.

She could almost see it: the lonely cottage, the genteel poverty, the whispered pity of the ton when they spoke of the poor sister .

Her jaw tightened.

No, she would not let that be her future.

The night’s struggles were far from over. No sooner had Wilhelmina regained her composure than a cluster of married ladies swept toward her, as though drawn by a silent signal.

She wondered, with a wry twist of her lips, why they had not descended earlier. Then, she saw it clearly: they had been waiting . Waiting for her to be without protection, without the buffer of another conversation to shield her.

They came in a flurry of silks and perfumes, their voices lilting with false sweetness.

Each was comfortably married to a minor lord, their positions secure enough to embolden them.

They were about her age—still young, still fresh-faced, still smug in their belief that her fate could never touch theirs.

The sight of them felt like looking at her younger self in a distorted mirror. The innocence of it, the assurance, the cruel ignorance of thinking fortune and favor were permanent.

“We’ve been wondering, Lady Slyham, whether your choices of late are still considered proper,” the Viscountess Forrest drawled.

“Are you talking about me speaking my mind, Lady Forrest?” Wilhelmina asked evenly. “If that was what you were referring to, then I must say I am guilty.”

Some of the ladies gasped. A few were truly shocked, while the others seemed happy to be scandalized.

“Really, Lady Slyham—” Lady Forrest protested.

But Wilhelmina could see that the woman’s eyes were twinkling; Lady Forrest had been hoping for such a reaction.

“No,” Wilhelmina cut in, her voice cool but edged, clinging to the last threads of her patience.

“Let us not pretend, shall we? We all know what this is about. At least be honest if you mean to stand above the same rules that bind us all. Do not cloak your curiosity in concern for my well-being. I see it clearly enough. There is a certain satisfaction in watching another woman stumble under the weight of the ton’s rigid expectations.

Especially when, for once, it is not you. ”

Most of the ladies recoiled, as though she had struck them outright. Her stomach turned at the sight of their practiced expressions—injured innocence painted across faces far too skilled in the art of feigned delicacy.

“Y-You needn’t be quite so harsh, Lady Slyham,” Lady Bertram stammered, her voice trembling.

The stir drew the attention of Lord Elwood, an acquaintance of Robert’s. He approached them, visibly ill at ease, shifting from one foot to the other as if the floor itself was treacherous.

“Lady Slyham,” he began, “perhaps you might accompany me to, ah?—”

“Please, Lord Elwood. No need; I understand,” Wilhelmina said with finality.

Her cheeks burned, shame warring with something fiercer. She would not let Elwood usher her into a corner for empty apologies or hollow laughter.

With steely resolve, she gathered her skirts, turned around, and strode out of the room.

The night air hit her like a stone wall. It was bitterly cold, sharp, and punishing. But to her, it felt almost merciful.

The wind did not pretend. It did not wound with smiles. Yes, it was harsh, but far less cruel than the warmth she had just abandoned.