Chapter 3
Dorothea sat quietly in the coach, hardly able to believe that Dominic was here.
With her. It felt surreal, as though her mind had conjured him from the fog of her longing and grief.
Not even in her most desperate dreams had she dared imagine he would come back from the dead.
And yet, here he was, very much alive… and pulling her from the shadow of her brother’s control.
Her gaze lingered on him as he stared out the window.
He looked stronger than she remembered. Healthier.
The last time she’d seen him, his face had been drawn and ashen, his lips tinged with blue from blood loss.
She’d been convinced he wouldn’t last the night.
And when word came of his death, she had wept for him.
But none of that mattered now. They were together again. Married, even. She didn’t know everything about the man across from her, but she knew enough. He had been a respected soldier—brave, disciplined—and through all his agony, he had treated her with a gentleness few men possessed.
Now they had a lifetime to get to know one another truly, and the idea brought an unexpected warmth to her chest.
Dominic turned suddenly, catching her in the act of watching him. His brows knit together. “Stop looking at me like that,” he said, his tone gruff.
“Like what?” she asked, startled.
“Like I’m your hero,” he muttered, looking away again.
“But you are.”
He exhaled through his nose, visibly uncomfortable. “I’m no one’s hero. I just… I hate bullies. And your brother is one.”
Dorothea tucked a loose strand of red hair back into the chignon she’d hastily tied earlier that morning. “That he is,” she murmured. “After our father died, he changed… for the worse.”
Dominic’s expression sobered. “I’m sorry about your father. He was a good man.”
“The best,” she said, her smile touched with sorrow. “Not every father would allow their daughter to accompany them to war.”
“That was reckless of him,” Dominic remarked. “Foolish, even.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, “but if he hadn’t, I never would have met you.” Her voice softened as she asked, “Are you truly a baron?”
He nodded. “The title was granted for my service in the Royal Army. I returned from war with more scars than medals, but the Crown still saw fit to give me a title.”
Dorothea felt an almost giddy flutter inside. A baroness. It sounded too grand to belong to her. “Then I owe you everything,” she said, nearly breathless.
“There’s no need to thank me,” Dominic replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “The truth is… I don’t remember much of our time together. Our courtship, if there even was one.”
She felt a stab of disappointment, not knowing how much he had remembered.
In a steady voice, she shared, “There wasn’t much.
You were recovering when I met you. I used to sit by your bedside at the hospital, and I’d talk for hours—about anything, really.
You seemed calmer when I was there. Less in pain. ”
“And that led to marriage?” he asked with a note of disbelief.
Dorothea looked down at her hands folded in her lap.
“My father had just passed, and I confided in you about my brother. How I was afraid to return to live with him. You were so kind… so understanding. I think the doctors believed you had only days to live. You said you wanted to do something good before the end. That you wanted to help me.”
His brow furrowed deeper. “I asked you to marry me?”
“You did,” she said. “At first, I refused. I didn’t want anyone thinking I took advantage of a dying man. But you were insistent. You even said that you hoped it would bring you peace.”
Dominic sat back, stunned. “That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“I disagree,” she said. “You were always so gentle. I found myself looking forward to every moment we spent together.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Then why can’t I remember? None of this… it’s like someone else lived that life.”
“It could have been the fever,” she offered. “You were delirious for days at a time. There were moments when you didn’t even know where you were.”
“Perhaps I proposed in a fever dream,” he muttered.
“I assure you that you were more than lucid during our wedding. I wouldn’t have married you otherwise.” Dorothea tilted her head. “Are you upset… that you married me?”
He looked at her sharply, his jaw tightening. “It was a shock,” he said. “To discover I was married to someone I couldn’t remember… it’s disorienting.”
Her chest tightened painfully, and she lowered her gaze to her lap. Of course. He regretted it. All of it. And here she was, foolishly prattling on about how he had saved her—how he had been her hero.
But he had forgotten her.
The silence that followed was heavy. Neither of them spoke again until the coach rolled to a stop in front of a grand red-brick townhouse, its tall windows gleaming beneath the overcast sky.
Dominic stepped out first and turned to assist her. She placed her hand in his, the touch warm and fleeting, and quickly withdrew it the moment her feet touched the ground.
They entered the house, where a white-haired butler stood waiting with quiet dignity. His face bore the calm of a man who had seen much but judged little.
“Wright,” Dominic said, gesturing towards her, “this is the mistress of the house. My wife… Lady Warwicke.”
There was the briefest pause, as if he had tripped over the word wife, but the butler seemed to ignore it.
“My lady,” Wright said with a respectful bow.
Dorothea inclined her head in response.
“Please send for the dressmaker,” Dominic instructed. “Lady Warwicke will require a whole new wardrobe.”
“Yes, my lord.” Wright disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing into the distance.
Now alone in the entry hall, Dorothea bit her lower lip to keep from nervously filling the silence. She wanted to make a good impression, to be a proper wife—even if Dominic wasn’t sure he wanted her in that role.
Dominic turned to her, his expression solemn. “I have work to attend to. I trust you’ll find something to occupy your time.”
“Yes, of course. You needn’t worry about me.”
He gave a short nod. “I’ll be in my study.”
Before she could respond, he turned and strode away, his boots clicking against the marble floor until they faded into the quiet of the house.
Dorothea stood alone, her eyes drifting up to the grand chandelier suspended above. The house was beautiful. Elegant. But she had never felt more unsure of her place.
Just as she began to wonder what she should do next, a warm voice called out from the corridor. “What a pretty thing you are, my lady.”
Dorothea turned to see a plump woman with dark hair and keen, friendly eyes approaching.
The woman offered a pleasant smile. “I’m Mrs. Cameron, the housekeeper. Where are your trunks?”
“I… I have none. At least, not yet,” Dorothea said, her cheeks flushing. “This is the only dress I have at the moment.”
Mrs. Cameron looked her over thoughtfully. “You’re in mourning.”
“I was,” Dorothea replied. “But not anymore.”
Understanding slowly bloomed across Mrs. Cameron’s face, her eyes softening with sympathy. “Are you hungry, my lady?”
As if in response, Dorothea’s stomach let out an audible growl. She gave a sheepish smile. “I could eat,” she admitted.
Mrs. Cameron’s lips twitched in amusement, and she gestured towards a nearby corridor with a sweep of her arm. “Then come with me. We’ll have you seated in the dining room, and Cook will prepare something hot.”
“That’s kind of you, but I would prefer the kitchen. It’s where I usually take my meals.” Dorothea’s voice dropped a little at the admission, her gaze flicking downward, half-expecting judgment.
If Mrs. Cameron was surprised by such a confession, she didn’t show it. Not even a flicker of condescension passed over her features. “If the kitchen is where you feel most at ease, then who am I to deny such a request?” she asked with a smile. “Come along, then. It’s this way.”
Dorothea followed her down the narrow servants’ staircase, the scent of baked bread and roasting meat growing stronger with each step. A few passing servants paused to glance curiously at her, but no one said a word. She tried not to fidget beneath their gaze.
“How long have you been the housekeeper?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from the scrutiny.
Mrs. Cameron chuckled, her laugh full-bodied and genuine. “Oh, I suppose you could say I came with the house. When Lord Warwicke purchased the townhouse, he kept on all the staff. A rare kindness, these days. We were all quite prepared to be turned out.”
“That was… very generous of him,” Dorothea said, genuinely touched.
“It was,” the housekeeper agreed with a proud little nod. “He surprised us all.”
They stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, a spacious room with gleaming copper pots hanging above the hearth and the comforting scent of herbs wafting through the air.
A tall, thin woman stood behind a broad counter, rolling dough with practiced precision.
Her apron was dusted with flour, and her dark hair pulled back beneath a white cap.
She looked up and arched a brow. “And who do we have here?”
“This is Lady Warwicke,” Mrs. Cameron replied, “and she prefers to take her meal here, in the kitchen.”
The cook’s face lit up with a smile that reached her eyes. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air? You’re most welcome here, my lady. My friends call me Mrs. Dawson.”
Dorothea offered a tentative smile. “Thank you. I hope that one day I might be honored enough to call you a friend.”
“We’ll see how you feel after you’ve tasted my cooking,” Mrs. Dawson said with a wink. “Please, sit.” She gestured towards a round wooden table tucked into the corner near the hearth. “I’ll fix you something hearty.”
Dorothea gratefully took a seat, sinking into one of the well-worn chairs.