Page 43 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
Her cheeks burned, shame warring with something fiercer. She would not let Elwood usher her into a corner for empty apologies or hollow laughter.
With steely resolve, she gathered her skirts, turned around, and strode out of the room.
The night air hit her like a stone wall. It was bitterly cold, sharp, and punishing. But to her, it felt almost merciful.
The wind did not pretend. It did not wound with smiles. Yes, it was harsh, but far less cruel than the warmth she had just abandoned.
Chapter Twelve
“And of course, Your Grace,” Lord Ashford—viscount of turnips, as Gerard had long since dubbed him—droned on, his chin jutted with self-importance. “We found solutions to our earlier difficulties. So simple! Soil rotation was all we needed. My tenants, alas, are too dense to grasp such concepts.”
Gerard counted silently before stepping into Lord Elwood’s hall, already aware he was late. Some excused his tardiness as fashionably late, as though it were a cultivated affectation.
He hated the phrase. He wasn’t fashionably anything; he simply put off these gatherings until duty left him no choice.
And duty was precisely what brought him here.
He had Mr. Fairchild’s reports to prove the health of his ledgers, but vigilance remained his watchword. He would not be the duke who let his people down. Still, he would rather pore overpaperwork with his steward than endure another lecture on turnip yields.
“Indeed,” he said politely, though Ashford’s tone grated on his nerves. “One wonders how England has survived this long without such wisdom on soil rotation.”
“I am glad you understand, Your Grace!” Ashford beamed, as though they were bound for lifelong friendship. Gerard fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I left my notes in Lord Elwood’s study. I could show you?—”
Whatever torment lay ahead was cut short by a ripple of laughter from the far side of the room.
Feminine laughter, sharp with malice, rose near the entrance.
Gerard turned around, as did Ashford, and saw heads tilting and fans fluttering.
“You must excuse me,” he said quickly.
“Of course, Your Grace. Agriculture can wait.”
Gerard nearly laughed at that. For one merciful instant, he almost liked the baronet.
He weaved through the crowd until a familiar figure caught his eye: a woman retreating through the double doors, her posture proud, her chin jutted.
Lady Slyham.
Clusters of matrons still whispered in her wake, their eyes wide, their fans snapping with self-righteousness.
“What happened?” Gerard asked curtly.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” a lady replied too eagerly. “Merely a difference of opinion between ladies.”
Her relish of the scandal betrayed her words.
Gerard needed no further detail. The sound of their laughter, the way Lady Slyham carried herself as she fled, told him enough.
He slipped through the same doors, following the echo of her footsteps into the night air. The cold nipped his skin, but he hardly noticed.
He found her standing at the edge of the house’s entrance, closer to the street, her shoulders rising and falling, not from the chill, but from something more cutting.
“Lady Slyham,” he called, quickening his steps.
“Go back inside, Your Grace. They’ll look for you,” she said, her voice muffled as though she were gritting her teeth.
She did not turn around; her gaze remained stubbornly fixed on a distant point, invisible to him.
