Page 18 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)
Chapter Twelve
“ A nd of course, Your Grace,” Lord Ashford— viscount of turnips , as Gerard had long since dubbed him—droned on, his chin jutted with self-importance.
“We found solutions to our earlier difficulties. So simple! Soil rotation was all we needed. My tenants, alas, are too dense to grasp such concepts.”
Gerard counted silently before stepping into Lord Elwood’s hall, already aware he was late. Some excused his tardiness as fashionably late, as though it were a cultivated affectation.
He hated the phrase. He wasn’t fashionably anything; he simply put off these gatherings until duty left him no choice.
And duty was precisely what brought him here.
He had Mr. Fairchild’s reports to prove the health of his ledgers, but vigilance remained his watchword. He would not be the duke who let his people down. Still, he would rather pore over paperwork with his steward than endure another lecture on turnip yields.
“Indeed,” he said politely, though Ashford’s tone grated on his nerves. “One wonders how England has survived this long without such wisdom on soil rotation.”
“I am glad you understand, Your Grace!” Ashford beamed, as though they were bound for lifelong friendship. Gerard fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I left my notes in Lord Elwood’s study. I could show you?—”
Whatever torment lay ahead was cut short by a ripple of laughter from the far side of the room.
Feminine laughter, sharp with malice, rose near the entrance.
Gerard turned around, as did Ashford, and saw heads tilting and fans fluttering.
“You must excuse me,” he said quickly.
“Of course, Your Grace. Agriculture can wait.”
Gerard nearly laughed at that. For one merciful instant, he almost liked the baronet.
He weaved through the crowd until a familiar figure caught his eye: a woman retreating through the double doors, her posture proud, her chin jutted.
Lady Slyham.
Clusters of matrons still whispered in her wake, their eyes wide, their fans snapping with self-righteousness.
“What happened?” Gerard asked curtly.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” a lady replied too eagerly. “Merely a difference of opinion between ladies.”
Her relish of the scandal betrayed her words.
Gerard needed no further detail. The sound of their laughter, the way Lady Slyham carried herself as she fled, told him enough.
He slipped through the same doors, following the echo of her footsteps into the night air. The cold nipped his skin, but he hardly noticed.
He found her standing at the edge of the house’s entrance, closer to the street, her shoulders rising and falling, not from the chill, but from something more cutting.
“Lady Slyham,” he called, quickening his steps.
“Go back inside, Your Grace. They’ll look for you,” she said, her voice muffled as though she were gritting her teeth.
She did not turn around; her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on a distant point, invisible to him.
“I may have to,” he allowed. “But before I do, I would like to know what that was about. Why are you here, alone, in the cold?”
“It was nothing, Your Grace.” The words came out in the same clipped, half-choked voice.
“Nothing?” His eyebrows drew together. “If it were nothing, you would still be in that drawing room, enduring their chatter.”
Her slight flinch struck him instantly.
He softened, though the question still hovered on the tip of his tongue. “Forgive me, but I saw the women there. I saw enough to know that it was not nothing .”
“You don’t know what happened. You weren’t there.”
“Precisely,” he replied firmly. “That is why I am asking. I would know if one of them insulted you.”
“They didn’t.” The denial was too quick, too brittle. “And if they had, it is none of your concern, Your Grace. It is mine, and mine alone.”
Gerard did not like the sound of that. Not the words, nor the steely pride behind them. He had caught glimpses before, hints of why Lady Slyham believed herself forced to stand alone, but this… this outright refusal of help unsettled him.
He could not accept it, not when he saw the future still stretching before her, even for a widow, and not when he saw the stiff set of her shoulders.
“Why should it be solely yours?” he asked, more quietly now. “Where is your mother when you most need defending?”
She lifted her chin, though she still refused to face him. “Do you take me for a damsel in distress, Your Grace?”
“No, Lady Slyham. I take you for a woman who has borne more than she should, and who still believes she must bear it alone. That is what I will not allow.”
“You presume a great deal, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice lower now.
“And yet,” Gerard said, stepping closer, his hands loose at his sides, “I would rather presume too much than leave you to whatever indignities were inflicted inside.”
She finally met his eyes, searching for that flicker of reproach she often expected from men and finding none. Only certainty—quiet, steady, unyielding.
“I am not so weak as to need defending,” she declared defiantly.
“Perhaps not,” Gerard relented. “But there is nothing dishonorable in allowing someone who cares, or who ought to care, to be near when the world proves itself thoughtless.”
The words lingered between them, carried on the soft rustle of leaves and the faint chill of the evening air.
Eventually, she spoke, her voice steadier than he had expected.
“The bookshop.” She looked him right in the eye.
“You paid for our books. You did not even ask if you could. Do you have the slightest notion, Your Grace, of what that looks like to others? Even my mother will not cease asking questions about you.”
Gerard felt the rebuke keenly. He had known what she meant the moment she opened her mouth, but he had not thought his impulse that day would become such a burden to her. He had no wish to harm her reputation.
“It looks like gratitude ,” he stated carefully. “Hector is very fond of you.”
“Gratitude?” Her laugh was brittle, sharp as glass.
“Do you truly believe people will take it so? They already suspect that my return to Society is but a search for a husband. Your presence makes it seem like something else entirely. That I am in search of a lover. Or worse, for someone willing to—God forbid—buy me.”
“I was not buying ,” Gerard insisted. “At least nothing beyond the volumes I could tell you and your sister would cherish.”
They stood much too near. He knew it was unwise. It was courting trouble. And yet the night itself seemed to conspire with them, the lamplight casting a glow on her features, as if daring him to forget himself.
“You—” He broke off, his voice catching on a breath he hadn’t meant to take. “You unsettle me, Lady Slyham. There is something about you, something impossible to ignore, that makes the world fade whenever you are near.”
The words slipped out, almost an accusation.
Her eyes widened, as though he had revealed a secret he had not meant to share.
Perhaps he had. For what kind of woman was this widow with fire in her eyes, who made him notice what he had long trained himself to overlook?
Her lips parted, a pale wisp of breath rising in the cold air.
The sight struck him with an ache he did not want to name. He longed—foolishly, recklessly—to draw her into his warmth, though every sensible thought urged restraint. Yet his body betrayed him, his feet carrying him nearer.
“Your Grace.” The words left her as a plea rather than a protest.
He had the dangerous urge to hear his name on her lips instead of his title, but he pushed it down. Barely. His gaze locked on hers—bright blue, alive with quick wit—and then slid down to the lips that had muddled his reason.
They drew nearer, as though some silent invitation lingered between them. Gerard could almost feel her warmth seeping through his clothes, as though she were a lodestone and he mere iron, helpless against her pull.
“Lady Slyham!”
The cry shattered the moment.
From behind her came the rumble of wheels and the snort of horses. A carriage drew up at the gate, a footman descending with efficient haste.
She exhaled shakily, and the faintest tremor racked her frame.
Gerard felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest as the invisible tether between them snapped; the warmth he had sensed vanished, leaving the chill of the evening to claim him fully.
“Good night, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper carried on the wind.
Before he could form a reply, she stepped into the waiting carriage. The horses shifted, the wheels groaned, and in an instant, she was gone, leaving only the echo of her presence.
Gerard remained rooted to the spot, the fading sound of hooves reverberating through him. He could not tell if it was the cold that made him shiver, or the sudden, aching absence of her.
For a long moment, he wondered if he had imagined the warmth she had brought to the frost.