Page 47 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
“Shall I fetch the chessboard? Would that help you feel better?”
“Feel better? I am not ill,” Gerard said, irritation creeping into his voice for no particular reason.
Samuel was right. Even Hector had a point. Gerard was restless, and that restlessness grated on him.
Hector plopped down into the nearest chair, his legs swinging as though gravity were optional. Each pendulum-like motion made Gerard’s temples throb.
“For your ill humor, Papa,” the boy announced, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Ah, so that is the matter,” Gerard muttered, finally meeting his gaze. “Well, do not trouble yourself with my supposed ill humor.”
He returned his attention to the documents before him, though his mind refused to settle.
Nothing seemed any clearer. Perhaps it was hunger, or perhaps it was the weight of too many evenings spent thinking of matters that could not be fixed with quill and ink alone.
“Or…” Hector’s voice brightened with sudden inspiration. “We could ride tomorrow! I haven’t seen my pony in ages!”
“That is enough,” Gerard snapped. “If you have nothing of consequence to say, cease the idle chatter. I have things that require my attention.”
The words came out harsher than he had intended. He saw it immediately, the sudden tension in Hector’s small frame, the stiffening of his shoulders. The flush on his cheeks, red-hot with the quiet fire of indignation.
“I was only trying to help!” Hector grumbled, springing from his chair with the drama only a seven-year-old could manage.
He stomped away, each step steady yet full of righteous fury. Though he didn’t slam the library door, the faint rattle of his bedroom door upstairs confirmed his departure.
Gerard exhaled, his chest tight with a mix of guilt and exasperation.
He would make it right. He had to. Somehow, tomorrow, he would find a way to soothe the sting of his words.
He moved his business to the study, yet found himself feeling strangely bereft. The memory of Hector’s flushed face and wounded expression gnawed at him, a suffocating weight he could not set aside.
What had he done to his son?
He drew in a long, deep breath, trying to steady himself. He reminded himself of the duties that must come first: his son, his estate, and caring for both.
Minutes passed before he could even begin to concentrate on his papers. He worked through his readings, scribbled notes for Mr. Fairchild to review later, yet his mind kept wandering.
Time slipped by unnoticed, the hours stretching into the evening. His stomach grumbled loudly, drawing his attention to the small tray of pastries the maid had left in the study when he failed to go down for dinner. Tentatively, he took one, then another, until his fingers and mouth moved almost unconsciously.
By the time he realized, his stomach ached from indulgence.
A faint knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts. The study door was ajar, a silent invitation for Hector to enter if he wished.
“Yes?” Gerard called, straightening in his chair.
“My Lord…” Miss Elliot’s head appeared in the doorway, her composure fraying. Her pale face and twitching hands spoke of distress.
“What is it?” Gerard’s voice sharpened immediately, a predator sensing danger.
“It’s Hector, Y-Your Grace,” she stammered. “He’s not in his room.”
Gerard’s chest tightened, cold dread crawling up his spine. “What do you mean, he’s not in his room?”
“I-I’ve looked everywhere, Your Grace. The nursery, the kitchens, the gallery… The footmen are in the gardens, searching every path!”
A heavy silence followed, broken only by the distant clatter of the servants.
Gerard’s mind raced, the papers before him suddenly meaningless. The gates, the boundaries he had thought secure, were no longer enough.
