Page 45 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)
Chapter Thirty-Six
“ W ilhelmina,” Gerard began, breaking the silence that had settled like a fog over the room.
She stood by the fire, her silhouette outlined by flickering flames that painted shadows across her face. He could see the subtle curve of her cheek, the way the light caught the pearl sheen in her dark hair.
They had not reconciled yet, not truly.
The nearness he had enjoyed in the ballroom earlier had been practical, almost unavoidable, in the aftermath of the Farnmont confession. But now, with the house quiet, that nearness became something else entirely. Something heavier.
Something necessary.
“I’m glad Robert has finally found justice,” Wilhelmina said softly, her voice low, almost swallowed by the crackle of the hearth.
Her eyes remained fixed on the fire as though it might protect her from the emotions swirling in the room.
“However, what happened tonight… it does not change anything between us.”
Gerard’s chest tightened.
She was right. All the revelations, the confessions, the chaos…they had not solved the fractures between them. There were still words left unspoken, walls yet to be torn down.
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“You…You know that I…” he trailed off, unsure if the next words would sound hollow or pleading.
“I can’t accept trust that is given halfheartedly, Gerard,” Wilhelmina said, hugging herself tightly as if to physically contain the power of her words.
“It should be real . Trust that does not falter without reason. I do not expect free kindness, nor do I expect it as payment. But I want someone who sees all of me. Not just the parts that amuse or please him. Not just the easy parts. Someone who values my whole being.”
Her tone was calm, almost serene, but that made it all the worse. Her words carried finality without anger, yet they stung more sharply than any raised voice ever could.
Gerard held her gaze, searching desperately for a flicker of softening, a thread of vulnerability he could cling to, but it was elusive.
Wilhelmina tilted her head slightly, a graceful, deliberate movement, as though acknowledging the battle without yielding.
Then, almost ceremoniously, she curtsied and left the room.
The door clicked gently behind her, yet the sound resonated in the quiet chamber like the closing of a tomb.
Gerard sank into the nearest chair, hollow with uncertainty. The empty space where she had stood seemed to stretch infinitely.
Would she ever talk to him again? Could he even bridge the gap now?
Minutes passed before he noticed the soft creak of floorboards down the hall.
He rose and moved to his son’s room, settling on the edge of the bed.
His hands rested lightly on Hector’s small shoulders, unsure where to place them, unsure if he still knew how to be a parent.
He had been so wrapped in his pride and rigid upbringing that he had neglected the boy’s simplest needs, the quiet moments that built trust.
Hector, sensing the change in his father, leaned against him readily, clinging to the warmth Gerard offered, clutching a well-loved book against his chest. His eyes were heavy with sleep, yet he struggled to remain awake, eager for the stories that made the dark room seem less daunting.
Gerard opened the book, but the words blurred in his mind. Letters became shapes, sentences disjointed from the stories they were supposed to tell. He tried to breathe life into them, to speak as if he were the characters themselves, hoping Hector might sense the effort.
“Has Mina decided not to read to me again?” Hector asked, his lower lip pushed out in a pout. “I like when she does all the voices. The old knight, the grumpy dragon…”
Gerard’s chest tightened painfully. His son’s longing, his need for a mother-figure who could animate the pages with joy, reminded him of all he had failed to provide in the past. Wilhelmina had always filled those spaces effortlessly, and Gerard had allowed his pride and insecurities to keep him from seeing it.
He swallowed and continued reading, coaxing the voices from the page: the knight grumbled, the dragon roared, and for a moment, he imagined Hector laughing with Wilhelmina beside him, her hair falling in dark waves as she brought every character to life.
He worried he had taken Hector’s request too seriously, that his earnestness would keep the boy from sleeping, but when Hector finally slumped against him, the weight of the child’s trust settled like a warm blanket across Gerard’s chest.
He ruffled the boy’s dark hair, noting the resemblance to his own. In that small, perfect reflection, he glimpsed the boy he had once been: eager, bright-eyed, and crushed under the weight of a father’s harshness.
He would not, could not, repeat those mistakes. He would protect Hector’s spirit, nurture it, love it fiercely, even if he stumbled along the way.
“I will talk to her,” Gerard whispered under his breath. “I will. She would read to you more, if she knew how much you love it. She loves stories. She loves you, my boy.”
The thought lingered, fragile yet certain, echoing in the quiet room. He considered Wilhelmina in her many facets—mother, friend, partner, the woman who had agreed, somehow, to endure him—and he realized the magnitude of what he risked if he did not lay down his pride.
He could lose both his son and her.
But surrendering to his feelings did not feel like weakness; it felt necessary.
Hector’s breathing evened as sleep claimed him, and a small, weary smile curved his lips.
Gerard watched the rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering of long lashes still damp with unshed tears.
Carefully, so as not to disturb him, he lifted his son from his lap, laying him tenderly under the covers. He closed the book with a soft click, ensuring the boy would not wake.
Sitting back on the edge of the bed, Gerard let out a long, measured breath.
For the first time that night, he felt a flicker of hope.
He knew what he had to do. He knew how to step forward, how to bridge the silence with Wilhelmina. And he would. Not because it was easy, not because it was convenient.
But because it was worth every ounce of humility and courage he could summon.