Page 107 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
“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.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Wilhelmina.”
Gerard had called her name several times before, but this time it carried something different. It was not quite a plea, not quite a demand. It was closer to a prayer—tense, trembling, yet resolute.
He stepped into her bedchamber with slow, deliberate steps, and every motion spoke of a man who had wrestled with his pride and lost.
He had not crossed this threshold in many nights. Not properly. Not without holding himself at a careful distance, as though any warmth shown might betray him.
Pride had always told him that indifference was safer than hope. That if he wished for her, he must not dare to show it.
But tonight, pride felt hollow.
Wilhelmina stood by the window, her dark blonde hair a contrast to the pale sky outside. The curtains were drawn aside, fluttering with the light evening breeze, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Her posture was composed, calm, almost detached, but her eyes betrayed nothing. Blank. Unreadable.
And then she spoke.
“Duke.”
The title was sharp, deliberate. It cut through the tension in the room, and Gerard felt the sting. That single word, so formal, so distanced, was a challenge, a wall he could not ignore.
He could retreat now, walk away, and leave her alone with that cold barrier. But he would not. Not tonight.
He closed the distance slowly, cautiously, as one approaches a wary creature, yet every step carried purpose.
“Don’t call me that, Mina. Not you. Call me by my name.”
She did not flinch. Did not yield even an inch. Her calm unmoored him more than tears ever could.
“What should I call you?” she asked. “You’ve built walls to protect yourself. The best way to call you is by your title because that is how you show yourself to the world.”
In her eyes, he saw the shadows of Robert, of a past he could not erase, of a grief he could never touch. He knew her thoughts without words: wondering if he could ever fill the space left by the man she had loved.
“Mina,” he began, voice low, steady, carrying weight, “I will tear those walls down myself. Every last one. I have been a fool. A coward. I thought if I held you at a distance, I would not want what I could not have. That if I kept the Duke between us, I would protect my heart from disappointment. I never imagined it would wound you instead.”
Her gaze softened slightly, but she did not speak.
