Page 19 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)

Chapter Thirteen

“ I s that another glass of port?” Samuel’s voice broke through Gerard’s reverie.

It was.

Gerard sat quietly in a tucked-away corner of a drawing room that belonged neither to him nor to Samuel, and certainly not to Lady Slyham.

The host might never even have known her late husband, yet Gerard could see her with perfect clarity.

Light brown hair pinned in an elegant Apollo knot, a few loose curls softening her face, and eyes—those remarkable blue eyes—sparkling with a fire he had never encountered in any other woman.

Defiant. Intelligent. One eyebrow arched in silent disbelief as she scanned the crowd, seeing it for what it truly was: absurd and hollow.

And Gerard could not help but agree with her.

At first, he had wondered if Lady Silverquill’s reputation meant she was like everyone else in the ton, trading quips and compliments with the ease of habit. But after meeting her and reading her sharp, scathing remarks, he knew otherwise.

She was singular, untouchable in her intellect and wit, and utterly captivating.

“It just might be my second,” Gerard admitted to his friend.

“Second? Huh. Somehow, I recall the first one disappearing in a single gulp, and the second one wasn’t even given a chance to breathe.

I do hope you know what you’re doing,” Samuel said, wagging a finger at him with mock severity.

“And that’s coming from your best friend in the whole world, mind you.

The drinking, the staring off into space for the better part of an hour…

Honestly, it’s worrying, even for someone like me.

At this rate, it looks like you’re about to propose to Lady Merrit’s port decanter. ”

“Don’t be absurd,” Gerard snapped, tearing his gaze away from the decanter in question.

“You’re restless. Which is strange, given the fact that you are simply sitting there,” Samuel observed, sipping his brandy. “I find it interesting for an unshakable oak of a man to feel shaken. Now, you’re that owl on the oak, deceptively quiet but ready to swoop onto something.”

“I was not aware you possessed such a talent for metaphors,” Gerard remarked, setting down yet another empty glass with perhaps a touch more force than intended. “Aren’t we supposed to be here for business?”

“Funny how this particular business seems to be associated with the decanter and some glasses of port,” Samuel remarked with a broad grin. Still, Gerard did not miss the flicker of worry in his eyes. “Perhaps you have someone , not something else, in mind?”

Gerard found himself at a loss for words. All he could think of over and over was that Lady Slyham had been absent. His thoughts kept returning to that fact again and again, even as he tried to distract himself with other matters.

Two social events in succession had passed without her presence. Of course, she owed no one an appearance. She was a widow; she was under no obligation to prove her charm or to snare a husband.

And yet the word snare did not suit her.

She was far too mindful of her dignity, far too careful of her reputation, to entangle herself in frivolous schemes of courtship or to start petty quarrels with married ladies.

She was, by any measure, at a disadvantage in the rigid hierarchy of Society, and she knew it.

Perhaps that was all there was to it.

At the last gathering she had attended, Lord Elwood, a man who had once been a business associate of her late husband, had seen fit to dismiss her, and with a civility that barely masked his condescension.

To recover from that small but pointed humiliation would be entirely reasonable, even prudent.

Far more acceptable, in Gerard’s estimation, than the darker thought that had begun to creep into his mind: that she might be deliberately avoiding him.

“You’re wrong, Berkhead,” he muttered, not having the energy to argue with his friend.

“Oh, am I?”

It was infuriating how Samuel kept that smug look on his face, even as his attention had seemingly been captured by a nearby card table. Still, Gerard stayed in his seat. It was difficult enough to pretend to be glad he was there; he was not in the mood to brave the crowd.

His irritation lingered throughout the night. But hope somehow remained. It was the only explanation for his attending yet another social gathering.

“The Duke of Talleystone is right there,” a matron whispered aloud as soon as he passed by her group, “one of your daughters ought to approach him, for goodness sake!”

It seemed that the woman wanted to draw the attention of her friends and their daughters.

He was in no mood to be chased tonight. Still, he bravely walked through the crowd and looked left and right for no other than Lady Slyham. He’d even consider conversing with an acquaintance to take away some of the awkwardness or to avoid being trapped in conversation with any eager lady.

“He must be looking for a wife!”

“I told you so! That letter was telling the truth, but be careful with the way you talk to him. I feel like he’s selective.”

“My daughter Joanna would be a good match for him. She’s beautiful and smart.”

“But not half as pretty as my Flora!”

Gerard sighed. It seemed that irritation had become his constant companion as of late. But he had to engage in casual, polite conversation.

“Oh, there you are, Talleystone!” the Earl of Edgewood called.

Gerard joined the circle of gentlemen. At least he didn’t have to deal with Samuel’s knowing eyes.

Then, he heard a lady’s laughter. He turned toward the source of the sound, but was disappointed when he saw that it was a petite blonde.

This time, it was no longer irritation that lingered. It seemed that despair would replace it—and quickly.

Gerard thought that the best thing to do was to recuperate at home. He’d spent so much energy on the last few social gatherings that he was utterly drained.

The library seemed to take away some of his exhaustion, with the familiar smell of leather and the idea of being surrounded by something that he could control.

He could have stayed in his study, but he knew that Hector liked the library better. So, he sat on his favorite couch, while Hector sat on his.

With one leg crossed over the other, he perused a merchant’s proposal. He tried, anyway. The text seemed to blur, for he could not focus. He had read he same line at least five times.

At first, Hector seemed occupied with the new books they had acquired at the bookshop where they had encountered Lady Slyham and her sister. He was leaning back in his cushiony seat, his legs hanging slightly. However, he was not the sort of child who could keep still the whole day.

Soon, Gerard heard him approach.

“What is it, son?” he asked, looking up at him curiously.

“Papa, are you sad?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You look like someone just told you that puddings are made of mud,” the boy replied.

“Do I, really?” Gerard asked, trying to school his features, for his son knew too much.

“Shall I fetch the chessboard? Would that help you feel better?”

“Feel better? I am not ill,” Gerard said, irritation creeping into his voice for no particular reason.

Samuel was right. Even Hector had a point. Gerard was restless, and that restlessness grated on him.

Hector plopped down into the nearest chair, his legs swinging as though gravity were optional. Each pendulum-like motion made Gerard’s temples throb.

“For your ill humor, Papa,” the boy announced, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Ah, so that is the matter,” Gerard muttered, finally meeting his gaze. “Well, do not trouble yourself with my supposed ill humor.”

He returned his attention to the documents before him, though his mind refused to settle.

Nothing seemed any clearer. Perhaps it was hunger, or perhaps it was the weight of too many evenings spent thinking of matters that could not be fixed with quill and ink alone.

“Or…” Hector’s voice brightened with sudden inspiration. “We could ride tomorrow! I haven’t seen my pony in ages!”

“That is enough,” Gerard snapped. “If you have nothing of consequence to say, cease the idle chatter. I have things that require my attention.”

The words came out harsher than he had intended. He saw it immediately, the sudden tension in Hector’s small frame, the stiffening of his shoulders. The flush on his cheeks, red-hot with the quiet fire of indignation.

“I was only trying to help!” Hector grumbled, springing from his chair with the drama only a seven-year-old could manage.

He stomped away, each step steady yet full of righteous fury. Though he didn’t slam the library door, the faint rattle of his bedroom door upstairs confirmed his departure.

Gerard exhaled, his chest tight with a mix of guilt and exasperation.

He would make it right. He had to. Somehow, tomorrow, he would find a way to soothe the sting of his words.

He moved his business to the study, yet found himself feeling strangely bereft. The memory of Hector’s flushed face and wounded expression gnawed at him, a suffocating weight he could not set aside.

What had he done to his son?

He drew in a long, deep breath, trying to steady himself. He reminded himself of the duties that must come first: his son, his estate, and caring for both.

Minutes passed before he could even begin to concentrate on his papers. He worked through his readings, scribbled notes for Mr. Fairchild to review later, yet his mind kept wandering.

Time slipped by unnoticed, the hours stretching into the evening.

His stomach grumbled loudly, drawing his attention to the small tray of pastries the maid had left in the study when he failed to go down for dinner.

Tentatively, he took one, then another, until his fingers and mouth moved almost unconsciously.

By the time he realized, his stomach ached from indulgence.

A faint knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts. The study door was ajar, a silent invitation for Hector to enter if he wished.

“Yes?” Gerard called, straightening in his chair.

“My Lord…” Miss Elliot’s head appeared in the doorway, her composure fraying. Her pale face and twitching hands spoke of distress.

“What is it?” Gerard’s voice sharpened immediately, a predator sensing danger.

“It’s Hector, Y-Your Grace,” she stammered. “He’s not in his room.”

Gerard’s chest tightened, cold dread crawling up his spine. “What do you mean, he’s not in his room?”

“I-I’ve looked everywhere, Your Grace. The nursery, the kitchens, the gallery… The footmen are in the gardens, searching every path!”

A heavy silence followed, broken only by the distant clatter of the servants.

Gerard’s mind raced, the papers before him suddenly meaningless. The gates, the boundaries he had thought secure, were no longer enough.

“That’s not enough,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “We must search beyond the gates. Immediately.”

He rose from his chair, the weight of authority and panic pressing equally upon him, and strode toward the door.

Every step was purposeful, his mind already forming plans.

He had to track his son before he came to harm.

Wilhelmina brushed her brown hair slowly, the soft bristles massaging her scalp so thoroughly that she could not help but moan softly.

It was a small pleasure, one of the few she allowed herself these days. Food had once been a source of comfort, but it came at a cost she could not ignore.

Her cup of tea had long gone cold on the bedside table, untouched save for habit.

She set the brush down with deliberate care and turned her attention to her writing, penning her responses as Lady Silverquill. Her hand moved with precision, every stroke smooth and controlled.

There was a sharpness to her letters, a delicate balance of elegance and bite that she had long perfected. The older replies leaned toward the latter, but tonight, she sought finesse—a metaphor here, a subtle provocation there.

Her concentration was broken when her bedroom door flew open.

“My Lady!” her maid gasped, her cheeks flushed with excitement and perhaps a tinge of fear. “There’s a boy at the door. He said he’s here to see you!”

Wilhelmina frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late, too late for social calls.

Before she could speak, a footman ushered in a familiar figure: a tall, dark-haired boy she had grown familiar with in recent weeks. She tightened her robe around her shoulders, a faint prick of irritation mingling with concern.

“Lord Hector? What are you doing here?” she asked, rising from her chair.

The night had promised quietude, the calm solitude of her home a sanctuary from the demands of Society. Yet the world seemed to have other plans for her, at least for this evening.

Hector did not answer immediately. Instead, he ran forward and flung his arms around her waist, clinging to her desperately. She could feel the tremors in his body, the intensity of emotions held too long in check.

“I-I had to come here,” he stammered, his voice thick, as though he had been crying.

Wilhelmina sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around him. One hand cradled the back of his head as he pressed against her, leaving damp marks on her robe with each sob.

“There now, sweet Hector,” she murmured, stroking his hair in gentle, rhythmic motions. “I don’t know what happened, but you are safe here. Always. You are always welcome here; I was merely worried.”

For a few moments, she allowed him to cry, the sound of his sobs punctuated by the faint crackling of the fire in the grate. Gradually, his tears subsided, leaving only shallow, uneven breaths. He pulled back, his little chest heaving as he struggled to compose himself.

Wilhelmina studied his face, still glistening with tears, his lashes dark like his father’s, his cheeks red and blotchy from the storm of emotions he had endured.

The fragility of the moment struck her, yet so did the resilience she had always admired in him.

“Papa is always cross with me now,” he croaked. “Always! I thought that you could—” He broke off and looked down, avoiding her eyes.

“What is it, dear? Tell me,” she coaxed.

“Yes. I think how you feel will matter to my father,” he said, his eyes wide with innocent conviction.

Wilhelmina drew back slightly, her gaze lingering on his earnest, handsome little face. She could not deny the truth in his words or the unspoken weight they carried.

For a moment, she wondered whether his belief was na?ve or if, in some quiet way, it reflected the respect he held for her, even at his tender age.