Page 45 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
The sight struck him with an ache he did not want to name. He longed—foolishly, recklessly—to draw her into his warmth,though every sensible thought urged restraint. Yet his body betrayed him, his feet carrying him nearer.
“Your Grace.” The words left her as a plea rather than a protest.
He had the dangerous urge to hear his name on her lips instead of his title, but he pushed it down. Barely. His gaze locked on hers—bright blue, alive with quick wit—and then slid down to the lips that had muddled his reason.
They drew nearer, as though some silent invitation lingered between them. Gerard could almost feel her warmth seeping through his clothes, as though she were a lodestone and he mere iron, helpless against her pull.
“Lady Slyham!”
The cry shattered the moment.
From behind her came the rumble of wheels and the snort of horses. A carriage drew up at the gate, a footman descending with efficient haste.
She exhaled shakily, and the faintest tremor racked her frame.
Gerard felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest as the invisible tether between them snapped; the warmth he had sensed vanished, leaving the chill of the evening to claim him fully.
“Good night, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper carried on the wind.
Before he could form a reply, she stepped into the waiting carriage. The horses shifted, the wheels groaned, and in an instant, she was gone, leaving only the echo of her presence.
Gerard remained rooted to the spot, the fading sound of hooves reverberating through him. He could not tell if it was the cold that made him shiver, or the sudden, aching absence of her.
For a long moment, he wondered if he had imagined the warmth she had brought to the frost.
Chapter Thirteen
“Is that another glass of port?” Samuel’s voice broke through Gerard’s reverie.
It was.
Gerard sat quietly in a tucked-away corner of a drawing room that belonged neither to him nor to Samuel, and certainly not to Lady Slyham.
The host might never even have known her late husband, yet Gerard could see her with perfect clarity.
Light brown hair pinned in an elegant Apollo knot, a few loose curls softening her face, and eyes—those remarkable blue eyes—sparkling with a fire he had never encountered in any other woman. Defiant. Intelligent. One eyebrow arched in silent disbelief as she scanned the crowd, seeing it for what it truly was: absurd and hollow.
And Gerard could not help but agree with her.
At first, he had wondered if Lady Silverquill’s reputation meant she was like everyone else in the ton, trading quips and compliments with the ease of habit. But after meeting her and reading her sharp, scathing remarks, he knew otherwise.
She was singular, untouchable in her intellect and wit, and utterly captivating.
“It just might be my second,” Gerard admitted to his friend.
“Second? Huh. Somehow, I recall the first one disappearing in a single gulp, and the second one wasn’t even given a chance to breathe. I do hope you know what you’re doing,” Samuel said, wagging a finger at him with mock severity. “And that’s coming from your best friend in the whole world, mind you. The drinking, the staring off into space for the better part of an hour… Honestly, it’s worrying, even for someone like me. At this rate, it looks like you’re about to propose to Lady Merrit’s port decanter.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Gerard snapped, tearing his gaze away from the decanter in question.
“You’re restless. Which is strange, given the fact that you are simply sitting there,” Samuel observed, sipping his brandy. “I find it interesting for an unshakable oak of a man to feel shaken. Now, you’re that owl on the oak, deceptively quiet but ready to swoop onto something.”
“I was not aware you possessed such a talent for metaphors,” Gerard remarked, setting down yet another empty glass with perhaps a touch more force than intended. “Aren’t we supposed to be here for business?”
“Funny how this particular business seems to be associated with the decanter and some glasses of port,” Samuel remarked with a broad grin. Still, Gerard did not miss the flicker of worry in his eyes. “Perhaps you havesomeone, not something else, in mind?”
Gerard found himself at a loss for words. All he could think of over and over was that Lady Slyham had been absent. His thoughts kept returning to that fact again and again, even as he tried to distract himself with other matters.
Two social events in succession had passed without her presence. Of course, she owed no one an appearance. She was a widow; she was under no obligation to prove her charm or to snare a husband.
