Page 40 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
Wilhelmina tried not to flinch. The subtle reminder of the Duke’s presence in the gossip she curated for the ton was enough to make her stomach twist, but she let out a small sigh of relief, for Mr. Finch’s sake as much as her own.
A heavy silence settled between them, the kind that felt neither comfortable nor temporary.
Wilhelmina glanced at her publisher, raising an eyebrow. His expression was unreadable, but something told her the words that followed would not be pleasant.
“My Lady,” Mr. Finch finally said, exhaling slowly, “our sales are down this month.”
Wilhelmina felt her chest tighten. She sank into the chair opposite him, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk.
“Down?” she repeated, trying to mask the panic in her voice.
He gave a nod, though it was faint, almost imperceptible. “It seems that our readership—the ton, in particular—is no longer as amused by what we can offer. Perhaps they find the columns predictable, or perhaps they simply tire of the same topics.”
Her stomach sank. Was it her fault? She had done everything she could—crafting replies, polishing Lady Silverquill’s witticisms, ensuring every letter sparkled with wit and propriety. And yet she had no way of controlling the tastes of the ton.
“D-Do you think we can recover?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, almost afraid of the answer.
Mr. Finch rubbed the bridge of his nose, a gesture that suggested both fatigue and deep thought.
“Perhaps,” he replied after a pause. “It may depend on whether we can make Lady Silverquill entertaining again. The ton responds to her as though she were a prize exhibit. Without her spark, we risk fading into obscurity.”
Wilhelmina leaned back in her chair, letting out a long breath. She could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on her—not just for herself, but for her sisters and their standing in Society. Every word she wrote, every correspondence she oversaw, had consequences far beyond the pages of theGazetteer.
“And if she refuses to be entertaining?” she asked, a small edge of steel entering her tone.
“Then we adapt,” Mr. Finch replied firmly, his eyes meeting hers with unwavering seriousness. “We find another way. But for now, we must hope for Lady Silverquill’s cooperation.”
Wilhelmina nodded, a small, determined smile tugging at her lips. She had faced more daunting challenges than this, and she would face this one, too. The ton’s fickle whims might sway the masses, but they would not sway her.
She gathered the letters carefully, holding them close as though they were armor.
Tomorrow, she would draft new strategies, sharpen her wits, and ensure theGazetteerregained its footing. For now, though, she allowed herself the faintest glimmer of relief.
The work was hers to control, at least for today.
Chapter Eleven
Another evening. Another townhouse.
Wilhelmina let out a quiet sigh as she adjusted her shawl, steeling herself for what promised to be another interminable round of social performances.
The house belonged to one of Robert’s former business partners, a man of means and ambition, but with little taste.
The gathering was neither refined enough to be called a ball nor intimate enough to be considered a musicale. Instead, it was an ungainly mix of both, with too many people crammed into the gilt-draped rooms, milling about with glasses of wine, fanning themselves, and trading tidbits of gossip like seasoned merchants at a market.
It was precisely the sort of evening Wilhelmina dreaded. She disliked scrutiny at the best of times, and tonight, she felt it heavy upon her, pricking her skin like nettles.
Widows like her were curiosities, nuisances, or prey, never equals. They were pitied and whispered about, their every movement dissected and weighed for impropriety.
“My dear Lady Slyham,” Lady Grisham crooned, slicing through the hum of conversation.
She glided toward Wilhelmina with her habitual grace, her fan snapping open and closed with pointed emphasis. At her side was a tall gentleman whose shoulders seemed to bear loads of self-conceit.
“The Earl of Harlington is here to make your acquaintance.”
Wilhelmina suppressed the urge to groan. She could almost hear her mother’s thoughts.
An earl for the widow of an earl. How neat, how proper, how convenient.
