Page 74 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
Every instinct urged him to move forward, to lift his son down from the unsteady structure before he fell. The boy was all he had, and though his sternness often looked like displeasure, it was only ever born of fear that some harm might befall him.
But then his gaze wandered, and everything in him stilled.
Wilhelmina was crouched beside the chair, her gown tugged this way and that as she helped smooth a blanket across the top. Lavender fabric clung to her figure in a way that made his blood simmer.
He knew all too well what lay beneath that gown.
The memory of her body beneath his hands, the sound of her gasps in the library, the way she had shattered against him… all returned with ruthless clarity.
He clenched his jaw, fighting the rush of desire. It was madness to be stirred so easily by a single glimpse, but he could not deny it.
He had only allowed himself to pleasure her that night. Something deep inside had urged him to stop there, to draw a line.
The fire between them had been unlike anything he had ever known—raw, urgent, all-consuming—and he sensed how dangerously close it had come to overwhelming him. Passion like that was not easily contained, and he could not afford to lose control. Not in the house, not with her, not ever.
If he let it go unchecked, he risked crossing boundaries he had spent a lifetime maintaining, and for what? Desire, or whatever it was that pulled him toward Wilhelmina, couldn’t justify recklessness.
“What is the watchword, My Lord?” Wilhelmina asked, her tone conspiratorial, her cheeks pink from the effort of stretching the fabric into place.
“It should bedragon fire,” Hector whispered solemnly.
Gerard smothered a laugh. Of course, it would be related to dragons. His son’s imagination was boundless.
“Don’t tell Papa about it!” the boy added quickly.
“Oh, you can trust me, My Lord,” Wilhelmina assured, her eyes bright with mischief. “My lips are sealed.”
Gerard should have entered then. He had come for a purpose: Hector’s Latin lessons needed addressing. The boy had been restless with his tutor again. But all thought of lessons flew out of his mind as he lingered in the shadows.
Hector’s face shone with excitement, wholly absorbed in his fort. Wilhelmina’s laughter mingled with his, unrestrained, warm, filling the room like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. A strand of her hair had slipped loose from its pins, brushing against her cheek as she tipped her head back.
She was utterly unguarded, and the sight of her struck him more deeply than it should.
The memory of her against him returned unbidden. How she had clung to him. How she had responded. The echo of it burned in his veins, dangerous, intoxicating.
He knew better than to step closer. Distance was the only safeguard.
Alas, Hector’s eyes, wide and bright, flicked to the doorway, catching him in the act. “Papa! You can’t come inside unless you can guess the watchword!”
Gerard tried not to smile. He arched an eyebrow and asked, ‘What would happen if I tried to enter your fort without the watchword?”
“Ooooh. Didn’t you hear?” Hector gasped, peeking through blankets. “You’ll be eaten by dragons!”
Wilhelmina turned to him, her lips twitching. “Lord Hector has made his rules clear, Duke. Only those who can say the watchword may be admitted.”
Duke.
In the library, she’d called him by his name. He had thought about it over and over. Had that been passion for him or only for the moment?
Not again. Never.
“Mhm. Perhaps I should guess so I may be granted entrance,” he said thoughtfully, entering the room, but stopping a foot away from the fort’s entrance. “Might it be…hippogriff?”
“No!” Hector burst into laughter.
“Thunderbolt, then?”
“Nooo!”
