Page 4 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
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’sseven.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,onlybecause 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.
