Page 35 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
Moonlight caught the hard line of his jaw, the dark gleam of his hair, and the breadth of his shoulders beneath his pristine black jacket. He looked every inch the man whose presence made ballrooms hush and hearts flutter.
“I didn’t know you expected to have a chat with me tonight, Your Grace,” she said lightly. “Would you have preferred I wait in a corner, or fall in line with the debutantes clamoring to speak with you?”
“No, of course not, My Lady,” the Duke replied coolly, as though reminding himself they were only a few paces from prying ears. “I merely noticed that you’ve slipped away from your family.”
“I’m surprised you noticed. You had admirers surrounding you. I am but a guest,” she said with a practiced smile that never reached her eyes.
“Jealous?” he asked.
She clenched her fists, trying to push down the feeling of getting caught.
“I am not in the habit of being jealous, Your Grace,” she said, though her voice cracked faintly.
His gaze unsettled her, stirred things she would rather not name.
“Mhm. Then perhaps you ought to develop the habit of being cautious. Why are you outside, alone?” he asked, stepping closer.
“I am a widow, Mother. I do not need a chaperone. And your presence here hardly helps, Your Grace.”
Her voice cracked again. She loathed it, yet she could not resist the effect his proximity had on her.
He took another deliberate step closer, the air between them charged.
“Then send me away,” he murmured, his voice low. “Say the word, and I will leave you to the safety of the dark.”
She swallowed, but no words came out. Her lips parted, her breath unsteady, her pulse a wild thing at her throat. She wanted to dismiss him—oughttodismiss him—but she could not summon the will.
“You see?” His gaze held hers, steady, relentless. “You do not want me to go.”
Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown, as though she might anchor herself against the truth of it. “I?—”
The terrace door swung open.
“Lady Slyham! It’s you!”
Relief and disappointment tangled inside her as Hector bounded toward her, his cheeks flushed with excitement. He wore a dressing gown that indicated he ought to be in bed, but he showed no intention of retiring.
With childlike eagerness, he flung his arms around her waist, and warmth spread through her chest despite the interruption.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured, clinging to her tightly.
Wilhelmina gently pulled back, then bent low until her eyes met his. A genuine smile curved her lips. “Lord Hector. You should be in bed, preferably fast asleep, should you not?” she chided softly.
“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see the guests! Father never lets me wander about during events!” he protested, casting a hopeful glance at the Duke.
The Duke folded his arms, exhaling with controlled exasperation. “Hector, you know the rules. You should have been in bed an hour ago.”
“But Papa, it’s so dreary upstairs. And Lady Slyham is here!”
“Dreary or not, you are expected to obey,” the Duke insisted.
His tone suggested that he had more to say, but before he could continue, the governess appeared in the doorway, flushed and breathless.
“Your Grace, forgive me! He was too quick for me. I only turned my back, and he was gone. Lord Hector,” she said briskly, her hand extended toward Hector, “it is long past your bedtime. Come, at once.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped. Yet, even as he shuffled toward her, he cast Wilhelmina one last look, bright with stubborn affection.
“Goodnight!” he called, waving a hand.
