Page 44 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke (The Unwanted Sisters #3)

Chapter Thirty-Five

“ H ow could you?” Wilhelmina choked out, her hand flying to her mouth.

Her chest heaved, the words trembling on her lips before she could steady them.

She was not obsessed with Robert the way Lady Farnmont was, but she had loved him, truly.

He had been her friend, her companion in quiet rebellion.

He had made her feel like herself in a world that never gave her permission to do so.

Together, they had carved out a little paradise in her home, a refuge where laughter, mischief, and whispered confidences reigned.

“You… you murdered a kind soul. You murdered kindness itself.” The words slipped past her lips with a terrible ease, as though the truth had been waiting, desperate to escape.

The crowd parted instinctively as she stepped forward, her skirts brushing the polished floor with a soft swish, swish, swish . Each step echoed in the silent ballroom. Eyes turned to follow her. Some flinched, some whispered, but Wilhelmina hardly noticed.

Her gaze was fixed on the man who had stolen her friend from the world.

Robert’s image was vivid in her mind. She could see him standing beside her, a gentle smile playing on his lips, eyes that had always understood her. She almost reached for him, even though she knew he was gone. A pang of grief, sharp and real, made her stomach twist.

Did Lady Farnmont feel this same pang of finality? Had she, too, finally realized that Robert would never return? The thought was terrifying, and yet, wasn’t death itself the most undeniable finality of all?

Wilhelmina inhaled, letting the air fill her lungs, letting it steady her. She felt the weight of the whispers, the subtle pressure of gazes on her back, the brush of satin against the floor.

Despite the tension, despite the horror of the moment, she held onto the calm she had cultivated over the years. Her father had been cruel, her mother a tyrant. If she could endure them, she could endure this.

She almost smiled at the thought, a flicker of dark humor in her chest.

Lord Farnmont, defiance etched into every line of his body, looked back at her.

His chin lifted, his posture stiff, even though she knew he could feel the tightening noose of his own guilt.

The fire in his eyes met her calm. For a brief, electrifying moment, it was as if they were the only two people in the room.

Wilhelmina stopped a mere few inches from him. She let the silence stretch, each second heavy with purpose.

This was a statement: she was not afraid of him. She would not flinch.

“Robert was gentle,” she said, her voice steady, carrying over the murmurs of the crowd.

“He was made of love. You… you were deprived of it. Perhaps that explains much, but it does not excuse what you did. I am sorry, My Lord, for your emptiness, but you stole a good man from this world. He still had so much in him… so much potential.”

She glanced over her shoulder, catching Gerard’s eyes. His gaze was taut with pain, yet he held himself in check. He knew this was not their moment, not yet. His presence anchored her, lending strength she hadn’t realized she needed.

Lord Farnmont sagged under the weight of her words, his defiance faltering just enough to reveal the first cracks in his facade. Wilhelmina watched him, steady, deliberate, taking note of the subtle tremor in his jaw, the rigidness of his shoulders, the shadow of panic flickering in his eyes.

Then, a sudden noise behind her.

A scuffle of boots on polished wood snapped her attention.

Two constables had arrived, moving swiftly through the crowd toward them.

How they had gotten here so quickly, she did not know. It was irrelevant. This was the least of her concerns.

“Lord Farnmont,” one of the constables announced, his voice ringing with authority, “you are under arrest.”

The gasps were immediate, cutting through the shocked silence like knives. It was as if the room had collectively just realized the full weight of what they had witnessed.

Lord Farnmont did not resist. He allowed the constables to bind his wrists and guide him through the parted crowd, his head bowed, shoulders slumping in defeat.

Yes, he should feel shame. Yes, he should suffer. The humiliation, the finality of it, seemed a fitting mirror to the monstrosity he had committed.

“H-He’s my husband!” Lady Farnmont cried, her voice rising in shrill panic.

The crowd, long spectators to her obsessive devotion to a dead man, now turned to watch her with disdain. Some faces registered revulsion, others open judgment.

Lady Farnmont fluttered after the officers, clawing at the air as though she could reach her vanished husband.

“No! Don’t take him! Please!” she begged, her voice shattering, echoing in the cavernous room.

Wilhelmina, rooted to the spot, did not move. Her chest heaved, her mind spinning. Gerard stood close, holding her with a quiet intensity that grounded her. She could feel his warmth, the taut strength beneath his hand.

The murderer of her first husband, the man who had dragged her closest friend from the world, was being escorted away. And she did not chase him.

Instead, she let herself breathe. Slowly. Finally.

She let reality settle in. The chaos around her, the murmurs of the crowd, even the shock of Lady Farnmont’s grief, faded slightly into the background. Gerard’s hand remained a tether to the present, a bridge to what could come next.

Perhaps it was time to begin anew. Robert would have understood. And maybe, just maybe, she could allow herself to live in the present, in the life and love she had fought so hard to build.

For the first time that night, Wilhelmina felt something like peace.