Page 5 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
Their late father, Lord Grisham, had only made matters worse. His name still carried weight, though never the kind one wished to inherit.
“They did give me a reprieve,” Wilhelmina murmured, her voice low, laced with something close to wistfulness.
Robert’s death had softened her; grief had a way of smoothing even the sharpest edges.
When he was alive, they’d kept their distance, but not like this. His charm opened doors, eased rooms. But once he was gone, the doors closed again. She was reminded, quite plainly, that they had only ever been open for him.
“Lady Slyham,” called Clemency Vaughn, the Viscountess Farnmont, her tone syrupy-sweet and her smile sharp as a blade. “Howverysurprising to find you still so… visible here in London.”
“Why shouldn’t she be?” Elizabeth asked, her voice uncharacteristically firm.
Wilhelmina turned to her sister with quiet gratitude. Elizabeth, her father’s second child by his first wife, was usually mild-mannered and reticent. It must have cost her something to speak so plainly.
For that, Wilhelmina was deeply thankful.
“Well,” Lady Farnmont drawled, her eyes glinting, “she is a widow. One does not expect a woman in mourning to mingle with debutantes and married ladies quite so… freely.”
“Why, Lady Farnmont,” Wilhelmina replied with a cold smile, “I imagine any woman with actual interests would find it tedious to wear black and kneel on a chapel floor every day of the week. Widows must return to Society, eventually.”
“Of course,” Lady Farnmont agreed, fluttering her lashes. “Some do return. But they tend to re-enter with a gentler touch. You might consider learning from them.”
From nearby, Lady Ashcroft gave Wilhelmina a once-over, her expression alight with smug amusement. She seemed delighted by the unfolding scene and eager to say her piece.
“If you ever hope to marry again, Lady Slyham,” she said, “you may wish to reconsider your wardrobe. Naturally, one is not expected to wear black forever, but returning to Society does demand a certain…presentation.” She wrinkled her nose. “Those sleeves, for example, look like something my aunt Agnes would wear. And she’s nearly seventy.”
“She’d look better if she had fewer opinions,” another lady muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
Wilhelmina stood tall, though heat flared behind her ribs.
This wasn’t new. Society had always treated her intellect as a flaw and her independence as a provocation. She was lucky to have had Robert—one of the few who hadn’t feared either.
“How helpful,” she said dryly. “I shall be sure to makesevereadjustments to my personality to avoid hurting other people’s delicate feelings about what is, frankly, none of their concern.”
“Come, Mina,” Elizabeth whispered, tugging gently at her arm. “They’re not worth it. You know they’re not.”
But Wilhelmina couldn’t leave, not yet. “My husband liked my clothes,” she continued evenly. “He valued my opinions, even when we disagreed.”
“Of course he did,” Lady Farnmont drawled, that cloying smile returning. But her eyes flashed—hard, cold, envious. “Your poor husband. He was a truly remarkable man…”
Wilhelmina knew what the woman wished to add.
“Unlike you.”
Elizabeth steered her away at last, and the two sat at a nearby table.
“They think I’m improper,” Wilhelmina muttered, staring into her teacup. “As if widowhood were a life sentence. As if I must vanish now that he’s gone. But Robert would have hated this. He would’ve hated how they are treating me. He never once asked me to shrink.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said softly. “But we must endure this society. If we don’t, it will swallow us whole.”
Wilhelmina turned to the window and caught her reflection in the glass. She looked pale, too serious, too tired.Too youngto be living in a cage. She was only three-and-twenty.
“I don’t want to endure, Lizzie,” she mumbled. “I want tolive.I want to breathe again. I refuse to let my life end because I buried him.”
Elizabeth reached across the table and took her hand. “And you shall. Not everyone is like Lady Farnmont and her little circle. Remember that. But… how are you, truly? You never speak of what you feel. Not about Robert. Not really.”
“It’s been a year,” Wilhelmina murmured, blinking against the sudden heat behind her eyes.
She could still see him so clearly—laughing, animated, full of warmth. His death had been cruel and senseless. A mystery that still offered no peace.
