To Love a Baron (Courting the Unconventional #3)

Chapter 1

Dominic Stevens, Baron Warwicke, was no hero—no matter what the newssheets printed or the whispers claimed. He had survived not through valor, but because braver men had fallen in his place. The world called it luck. He called it a curse.

The jagged scar slashing down his right cheek was a testament of what he had endured.

Beneath his clothing lay other wounds, healed poorly and aching still, but even they were shallow compared to what war had carved into him on the inside.

If the damage to his soul bore visible marks, no one would have been able to recognize him at all.

Even now, he could feel the weight of their stares—the curious, judgmental gazes of passersby as he walked the cobblestoned pavement of Town.

He was dressed as a gentleman, but people didn’t look away.

They never did. Some halted mid-step, others diverted their paths entirely, crossing the street as though his very presence might soil their day.

It didn’t matter to him. Their discomfort couldn’t reach the part of him that had died overseas.

He had returned from war with his life, modest fortune, and a title granted by the king in recognition of valor and loyalty.

A grand honor, they had said. Yet to Dominic, the title felt like a cruel reminder that he had survived when so many others hadn't.

That he had failed in the one thing he had been ready to do—die beside his comrades.

From the shadows of a nearby alleyway, movement caught his attention: a boy, rail-thin and unkempt, his clothes threadbare, watched him with sharp, calculating eyes. Dominic recognized the look instantly. It was desperation disguised as confidence. The boy had pegged him for an easy mark.

Dominic almost smiled. The child was in for a disappointment.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the dark-haired, freckle-faced boy slip from the alley, feigning nonchalance as he moved closer.

The crowd didn’t notice. Most wouldn’t. Dominic kept walking, making no move to discourage him.

He felt it then—the faintest tug at his jacket pocket.

Try as he might, the boy wasn’t very good at picking someone’s pockets.

He stopped mid-stride and turned swiftly, grasping the small wrist. “And what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The boy’s face drained of color. “I… uh…”

“You were… what? Straightening my coat?” Dominic pressed, tightening his grip just enough to remind the boy he had been caught. “No, I believe you were trying to rob me.”

The boy jerked his arm back. “What’s it to you?” he snapped, voice trembling with defiance. “You’re flush with coins.”

“That I am,” Dominic said. “But I earned every one. What have you earned?”

The boy didn’t run. Instead, he stared at his worn shoes, then looked up again, defiant still, but something vulnerable in his voice. “Could you spare some, Mister? Just a few coins?”

Dominic had been ready to walk away, to teach the boy a lesson about consequences. But the request wasn’t snarled or slick with manipulation. It was quiet. Honest, perhaps.

“And why would I do that?” he asked.

“My mum’s sick,” the boy said, eyes flickering with hope. “She needs a doctor, but we’ve got no money.”

Dominic studied him. There were always ruffians spinning lies to tug at a mark’s conscience. But this one… this one didn’t feel like a lie.

He found himself asking, “What’s your name?”

“Tristan, sir.”

“Well, Tristan,” Dominic said with a flick of his wrist, “take me to your mother.”

Tristan’s eyes widened. “You mean it?”

Dominic gave a single nod.

The boy turned without another word and threaded his way through the throng of people with a speed and ease born of experience.

Dominic followed close behind, noting the way Tristan looked back every few steps to make sure he was still there.

They stopped at the edge of the alleyway, the same one where Dominic had first spotted him.

“This way,” Tristan said, slipping inside.

The stench hit him immediately—sour rot, filth, and something worse beneath it all. He hesitated. It could be a trap, a lure into some ambush. He’d seen worse ploys during wartime. But something about Tristan had pierced through the armor he wore around his heart. He pressed on.

At the far end of the alley, Tristan stopped beside a worn blanket draped over a broken crate. He pulled it back, revealing a woman slumped against the brick wall, her chest rising with shallow, uneven breaths. Her hair was a dull chestnut, plastered to her forehead, and her face pale as moonlight.

Dominic knelt beside her, ignoring the pungent odor that drifted off her person. “Miss?” he asked in a gentle tone. “Are you all right?”

The woman didn’t open her eyes, but her lips moved. “I will be, Tristan,” she whispered. “Just need a moment.”

Dominic looked up at the boy. “How long has she been like this?”

Tristan’s eyes were sad. “A few days. She ain’t eaten much neither.”

This woman didn’t need just a doctor. She needed a hospital, and quickly. Dominic didn’t hesitate. He slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back and lifted her with ease. She weighed next to nothing.

“I’m taking her to the hospital,” he announced.

“We can’t afford the hospital,” Tristan said quickly, hurrying after him. “We only have a few pennies.”

“You need not worry about that,” Dominic replied without looking back.

“What do you want, then?”

“Nothing.”

The woman mumbled a weak protest but made no real effort to stop him. In moments, they were back on the main street, weaving through pedestrians who now stared not at his scar, but at the woman cradled in his arms.

When they reached the hospital—a stout brick building with tall windows and polished brass lanterns—Tristan rushed ahead to open the door.

Dominic strode in. “This woman needs help!” he barked.

A young man with neatly combed blond hair and a sneer that could curdle cream stepped forward. “I’m afraid this is not a hospital for vagrants.”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “Did I ask for your opinion?” he demanded. “Furthermore, did I say I wouldn’t pay?”

The man blanched. “Well, no, but… look at her. She clearly—”

“Prepare a bed,” Dominic ordered, stepping forward. “Now.”

“Sir, if I may—”

“You may not.” He turned his full attention on the man, his voice commanding. “Get a doctor. Or I’ll see to it your position is replaced by morning.”

Another figure entered—a tall man with white hair and a long face. “Is there a problem here?”

Dominic shifted the woman’s weight in his arms. “My name is Lord Warwicke. This woman needs a doctor’s care.”

The older man nodded his understanding. “I am Doctor Langley. This way, my lord.”

Dominic followed, and Tristan remained close.

The doctor pushed open a door, revealing a long hall lined on either side with narrow beds.

Some were occupied, others empty, but all were curtained off in some fashion, offering only the illusion of privacy.

The air was thick with the mingled scents that Dominic instantly recognized from his time on the battlefield—sickness.

Doctor Langley gestured to an unoccupied bed near the far wall. “Lay her there.”

Dominic stepped forward and lowered her onto the thin mattress, cradling her fragile form until her head rested against the pillow.

The doctor moved to the bedside, already inspecting her pallid skin, taking her wrist in hand to check her pulse. “How long has she been in this condition?”

Dominic glanced at Tristan, then back to Langley. “The boy said a few days. Perhaps longer. She hasn’t eaten much.”

As the words left his mouth, a wave of unease surged through him.

His mind betrayed him, transporting him back to makeshift field hospitals with blood-slicked floors and the constant scream of the wounded.

He could smell the iron tang of blood again, hear the sharp report of distant gunfire and the ragged cries of dying men.

The doctor’s voice broke through the fog. “My lord? Are you all right?”

Dominic blinked, shaken from the memory. His hands had unconsciously curled into fists. “Yes,” he said stiffly, eyes refocusing on the present. “Quite.”

Doctor Langley studied him for a second longer, then returned to his patient. “Does the woman have a name?”

Dominic turned to Tristan, who had quietly taken a seat beside the bed, his small hands clasped in his lap. “What’s your mother’s name, Lad?”

“Tabitha,” Tristan replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank you,” Doctor Langley said. “It’s fortunate you brought her when you did. She’s dangerously weak, but I believe we can still save her… assuming we bleed her immediately.”

“No.” The word burst from Dominic. He stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between the doctor and the bed. “There must be another way.”

The doctor raised a brow. “My lord, I assure you, bloodletting is a well-established, perfectly safe practice—”

“I’ve seen what bloodletting does,” Dominic snapped. “It leaves the strong weaker and the weak… dead. I won’t have it. Not with her.”

Doctor Langley exhaled through his nose, visibly restraining his irritation.

“Very well. I will pursue alternative treatments, though I must warn you, without knowing exactly what’s afflicting her, our options may be limited.

But we shall start by giving her some food and hope some of her strength returns. ”

“Do what you must, but keep her alive,” Dominic said firmly. “And I want to be informed of her progress. Send word to my townhouse the moment there’s any change.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Doctor Langley replied. “Though that does leave the matter of the boy. He cannot remain here.”

Dominic looked down at Tristan, who was holding his mother’s limp hand with such tenderness it nearly broke him. “And where is he meant to go?”

Doctor Langley shrugged. “There’s the workhouse. They’ll take him in.”