Page 2 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)

“I’m sorry,” Hector said in a much smaller voice. Then, with a sudden frown, “But I’ve seen those ladies, and not one of them could make you happy.”

“That is not your concern,” Gerard chided, his voice firm.

“It is ,” Hector insisted. “You’re lonely. Lady Silverquill wrote that in her reply to my letter. Everyone knows. But those ladies—” He made a face. “They’re not the answer. Even Lord Berkhead said so. I heard him.”

“Do not quote Lord Berkhead on matters of courtship,” Gerard snapped, his face darkening.

“But you are sad, Papa. And they don’t make you better. They make you worse. You frown more when they’re around.”

“We are not discussing this now,” Gerard said sharply. “No more interventions. No more scenes. Do you understand me?”

“But, Papa?—”

“You are grounded,” Gerard declared. “A full week. No drawing. Miss Elliot will see to it that your pencils and papers are locked away.”

“But—”

“ No . No arguments. If you wish to leave the house or gardens, you will ask for my permission first. Is that clear?”

Hector stood motionless, lips pressed together, his small fists clenched at his sides. His face reddened, not from shame, but fury. He turned toward the door.

He paused on the threshold and muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “I’m trying harder than you.”

Gerard said nothing.

What could he say? That he still lived with the guilt of having failed Pamela before she died? That his son, now seven, was already slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know how to hold on?

He remained in the study long after the boy’s footsteps faded up the stairs. The door stood open. The silence pressed in on him.

His hands were clasped behind his back, his jaw clenched.

“Well, that went splendidly,” came a familiar, maddeningly cheerful voice from just outside the door.

Gerard looked up to see Samuel strolling into the study with the insufferable ease of a man who had never been scolded a day in his life, wearing a grin that practically begged to be struck.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

Samuel leaned against the doorframe. “To inform you that your son was right. He was trying harder. While he dislikes the eligible women in your gardens, I at least encouraged a few of them not to lose hope.”

Gerard’s scowl deepened. “Don’t do that again. And don’t encourage him, either.”

“Hector has spirit. And for a seven-year-old, he’s remarkably sharp. Have you noticed that? Most boys his age are content chasing hoops or pretending to be pirates. Yours is quoting gossip columns and comparing ladies to wildlife.”

“He has no discretion.”

“He’s seven. You, as I recall, had even less.”

“I was tamed,” Gerard muttered darkly. “And punished. You remember. I swore I’d never do that to Hector. But he cannot go on unchecked. He cannot grow up like—” He paused. “Like we did.”

Samuel’s grin faded a little. “No, but perhaps he doesn’t need taming.

Just… direction. There are some truths you’ll have to face sooner rather than later, Gerard.

” He pushed off the doorframe and gestured into the hall.

“Come on. Let’s go back before the ton decides you’ve drowned the child in brandy and tossed him in the fishpond. ”

Gerard did not argue. He knew the gossips outside would be speculating. Perhaps they imagined a harsh scolding, or worse. Or perhaps they saw the truth: that he hadn’t wanted to be out there in the first place.

The two men walked side by side in silence. As they crossed back into the garden, Gerard could feel eyes on them—curious, cautious, calculating.

“To the refreshments table,” he muttered. “The only confrontation I’m prepared for today is with a glass of brandy.”

Samuel chuckled. “A noble cause.”

They made their way toward the decanters. Around them, the guests had resumed their games and gentle flirtations. Laughter rose again, and parasols bobbed in the sunlight.

To anyone watching, they looked like two gentlemen rejoining a pleasant gathering.

And yet Gerard could not stop thinking of the boy covered in mud and charcoal, clutching a beetle, determined to rescue his father from misery.

The little warrior who had tried harder than anyone else.

A tea shop was not meant to be a battlefield. And yet, lately, Wilhelmina Chant—née Brighton—found herself bracing for war at every turn.

The bell above the door chimed softly as she stepped inside, her arm tucked into that of her older half-sister, Elizabeth.

Wilhelmina was profoundly grateful for her sister’s presence; it lent her the courage she no longer possessed in full.

This ought to have been a place of comfort. The air was fragrant with bergamot, honey cakes, and mint. But as the sisters crossed the threshold, a hush swept through the room like a gust of disapproval.

Some ladies offered polite smiles—tight, brittle things. A few raised their teacups in guarded acknowledgment. Others managed no more than curt nods. And then there were those who did not bother with pretense at all. Fans snapped open with theatrical precision, hiding whispers and smirks.

Wilhelmina gave a slight, one-shouldered shrug. It was the only armor she had left.

“I didn’t expect it to be like this,” Elizabeth murmured. “It’s almost like you went inside wearing breeches.”

“Perhaps I should have,” Wilhelmina quipped, her lips curling into a mischievous smile.

“It has always been this way for us, hasn’t it?” Elizabeth said softly, her eyes skimming the room. “Had I not married such a formidable man, I expect I’d still be enduring the same stares and whispers. Even Alasdair was poorly received at first, only because he’s Scottish.”

Her sister had wed the Duke of Redmoor, a towering Highlander whose accent and bearing had once elicited cruel remarks and baseless fears.

Time and Alasdair’s quiet strength had silenced most of them, but both women remembered too well what it meant to be different, and how rarely Society forgave it.

Their late father, Lord Grisham, had only made matters worse. His name still carried weight, though never the kind one wished to inherit.

“They did give me a reprieve,” Wilhelmina murmured, her voice low, laced with something close to wistfulness.

Robert’s death had softened her; grief had a way of smoothing even the sharpest edges.

When he was alive, they’d kept their distance, but not like this. His charm opened doors, eased rooms. But once he was gone, the doors closed again. She was reminded, quite plainly, that they had only ever been open for him.

“Lady Slyham,” called Clemency Vaughn, the Viscountess Farnmont, her tone syrupy-sweet and her smile sharp as a blade. “How very surprising to find you still so… visible here in London.”

“Why shouldn’t she be?” Elizabeth asked, her voice uncharacteristically firm.

Wilhelmina turned to her sister with quiet gratitude. Elizabeth, her father’s second child by his first wife, was usually mild-mannered and reticent. It must have cost her something to speak so plainly.

For that, Wilhelmina was deeply thankful.

“Well,” Lady Farnmont drawled, her eyes glinting, “she is a widow. One does not expect a woman in mourning to mingle with debutantes and married ladies quite so… freely.”

“Why, Lady Farnmont,” Wilhelmina replied with a cold smile, “I imagine any woman with actual interests would find it tedious to wear black and kneel on a chapel floor every day of the week. Widows must return to Society, eventually.”

“Of course,” Lady Farnmont agreed, fluttering her lashes. “Some do return. But they tend to re-enter with a gentler touch. You might consider learning from them.”

From nearby, Lady Ashcroft gave Wilhelmina a once-over, her expression alight with smug amusement. She seemed delighted by the unfolding scene and eager to say her piece.

“If you ever hope to marry again, Lady Slyham,” she said, “you may wish to reconsider your wardrobe. Naturally, one is not expected to wear black forever, but returning to Society does demand a certain… presentation. ” She wrinkled her nose.

“Those sleeves, for example, look like something my aunt Agnes would wear. And she’s nearly seventy. ”

“She’d look better if she had fewer opinions,” another lady muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Wilhelmina stood tall, though heat flared behind her ribs.

This wasn’t new. Society had always treated her intellect as a flaw and her independence as a provocation. She was lucky to have had Robert—one of the few who hadn’t feared either.

“How helpful,” she said dryly. “I shall be sure to make severe adjustments to my personality to avoid hurting other people’s delicate feelings about what is, frankly, none of their concern.”

“Come, Mina,” Elizabeth whispered, tugging gently at her arm. “They’re not worth it. You know they’re not.”

But Wilhelmina couldn’t leave, not yet. “My husband liked my clothes,” she continued evenly. “He valued my opinions, even when we disagreed.”

“Of course he did,” Lady Farnmont drawled, that cloying smile returning. But her eyes flashed—hard, cold, envious. “Your poor husband. He was a truly remarkable man…”

Wilhelmina knew what the woman wished to add.

“Unlike you . ”

Elizabeth steered her away at last, and the two sat at a nearby table.

“They think I’m improper,” Wilhelmina muttered, staring into her teacup. “As if widowhood were a life sentence. As if I must vanish now that he’s gone. But Robert would have hated this. He would’ve hated how they are treating me. He never once asked me to shrink.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said softly. “But we must endure this society. If we don’t, it will swallow us whole.”

Wilhelmina turned to the window and caught her reflection in the glass. She looked pale, too serious, too tired. Too young to be living in a cage. She was only three-and-twenty.

“I don’t want to endure, Lizzie,” she mumbled. “I want to live. I want to breathe again. I refuse to let my life end because I buried him.”