Page 3 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
“As I said,” Gerard interrupted, his voice hard like stone, “My son ismybusiness.”
Taking his son firmly by the shoulder, Gerard led him toward the house.
He knew discipline was necessary. Hector, bright as he was, had a troublesome inclination for mischief. And yet Gerard couldn’t bring himself to be too harsh on him. His own boyhood had been one of rules without affection, silence mistaken for obedience. He had vowed that Hector’s childhood would be different.
Still, some things could not be allowed to slide.
“Inside. Now, Hector,” he ordered as they reached the open door.
“But Papa, it’s hardly even tea time,” Hector protested, his voice as sweet and persuasive as ever. “Mr. Liddel still needs my help in the gardens.”
Gerard fought the urge to smile and ruffle the boy’s hair. Hector did not need a firm hand, but he needed boundaries.
“Now,” Gerard said quietly.
The door shut behind them with a muted click. It was a soft sound, but Hector flinched all the same. His lower lip jutted out. He knew he had crossed a line, and likely suspected he’d not suffer too terribly for it. He knew his father well.
But Gerard was determined. This time, the boy would feel the consequences.
He guided Hector into the study and shut the door behind them. The space was quiet and cool, lined with bookshelves, maps, and filled with the faint scent of pipe smoke and ink.
Crossing his arms, Gerard looked down at his son. “Well? What possessed you?”
Hector mirrored him, folding his arms in exaggerated imitation. “I was bored. Your guests are dull. The ladies talk like parrots and laugh like hyenas. I think they’d laugh even if you sneezed, just to make you look at them.”
Gerard stifled a sigh. Hector had been reading a great deal about animals lately. Gerard knew it wasn’t Miss Elliot’s doing; the boy chose his own books and smuggled them into lessons when he thought no one would notice.
“I was trying to help you, Papa!” Hector continued earnestly. “You looked miserable. I thought you needed rescuing.”
“While that may be partly true,” Gerard said carefully, “disgracing your father in front of his guests is not the way to go about it. Especially not when his business partners are present.”
“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.
“Itis,” 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 youaresad, 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?
