Chapter 3 #2
As Mrs. Dawson began assembling a tray—thick slices of bread, an assortment of meat, and cheese—she called over her shoulder, “Is there anything you’re particularly fond of, my lady?”
There was something, but she didn’t want to be troublesome. “Not particularly,” she said with a polite shake of her head.
“Do you have a sweet tooth? A favorite pudding? Biscuits? Or perhaps,” Mrs. Dawson said with a knowing lilt in her voice, “you’re fond of a warm cup of chocolate in the morning?”
Dorothea bobbed her head as the tension in her shoulders eased for the first time that day. “I do love chocolate,” she admitted. It was an expense that her brother had considered frivolous, and he refused to pay for it.
Mrs. Dawson smiled, the kind of smile that made a person feel seen. “Then I’ll see to it that there’s always a cup waiting for you in the mornings, my lady.”
“Thank you,” Dorothea acknowledged.
Mrs. Cameron interjected, “You’ll find that here in this house, you only need to speak your mind and it will be done. You are the mistress now.”
The words stirred an old ache deep in her chest. Mistress. It sounded foreign, like a title meant for someone else—someone more confident, more worthy of the space she occupied.
Mrs. Dawson placed the tray on the table. “I hope this is sufficient, my lady.”
“It is,” Dorothea replied as she reached for a piece of bread. The familiar texture soothed her fingers, but she didn’t take a bite right away. Instead, she stared down at the tray, her thoughts drifting.
To others, perhaps, it was simple to speak up, asking for what one wanted.
But she had been taught otherwise. In her brother’s house, silence was safer than honesty.
Compliance was more valuable than opinion.
Keep your head down, keep your voice soft, and no one would raise their voice in return.
That had been engraved into her one bitter day at a time.
But now, she was Lady Warwicke. She had a place. A household to run. And a husband—however distant he may be. Maybe, just maybe… she could learn how to speak up again.
Dominic stood at the tall, arched window of his study, his gaze fixed on the gardens in front of him. The sunlight filtered through the glass, warming the dark wood paneling behind him as his eyes followed a solitary figure along the winding gravel path below.
Dorothea.
She moved with an effortless grace, her mourning gown brushing the gravel path as she walked. Occasionally, she would pause at one of the rose bushes, bending slightly to inhale the scent of the blooms with a soft smile. She looked entirely too content.
Dominic felt a pang in his chest, not of longing, but of guilt.
He harbored no ill will towards Dorothea. In truth, he admired her gentleness, her resilience. But admiration did not make a marriage, and certainly not one built on foggy memories and circumstances he could barely recall. He couldn’t remember proposing, much less saying his vows.
If anything, he pitied her for being tethered to a man so thoroughly changed from the one she had once known. He was no longer that man. Whatever optimism or promise had existed in him before had been stripped away, leaving behind someone bruised, bitter, and half-healed.
Perhaps, if he moved quickly enough—gathered the right support in Parliament—he could secure an annulment.
It was a slim chance, but one he would take.
And he would not abandon Dorothea. No, she would be given a comfortable allowance, enough for a modest estate or townhome, somewhere quiet where she could live as she pleased, free from obligation.
In a way, he told himself, it would be a kindness.
As if sensing his gaze, Dorothea looked up. Their eyes met across the distance. She lifted a hand in greeting, a tentative smile blooming on her lips. Dominic felt his stomach twist. He forced himself to look away and crossed the room to his desk, not bothering to return the wave.
Just as he sank into his leather chair, Wright entered the room with a slight bow. “The bedchamber for Lady Warwicke has been prepared, my lord,” he announced.
Dominic barely glanced up. “Good,” he muttered. Why did it matter where Dorothea slept as long as it wasn’t with him?
Wright hesitated. “Lord Westcott and Lord Bedford have arrived and requested an audience. Shall I show them in?”
He nodded with a resigned sigh. “Yes, let’s get it over with.”
Moments later, Westcott and Bedford strolled in with the smug expressions of men who were entirely too pleased with themselves. Dominic didn’t even bother standing.
Westcott was the first to speak, his voice laced with amusement. “So… is it true?”
“Is what true?” Dominic asked, though he already had a sinking suspicion.
“That you’re married,” Westcott said, grinning broadly. “To Dorothea Haverleigh, of all people.”
Dominic groaned. “Is there a blasted smoke signal I’m unaware of? How did you hear about this so quickly?”
“The ton wastes no time,” Bedford said, taking a seat without invitation. “Is it true, then?”
“It is,” Dominic admitted reluctantly. “But hopefully not for long.”
Westcott leaned forward, his grin fading slightly. “You’re serious?”
“Quite,” Dominic said. “I was hoping to enlist your help in petitioning for an annulment.”
Bedford raised a brow. “You think that’s possible?”
“Do you think it’s reasonable to be bound to someone you don’t even remember marrying?” Dominic snapped. “I was on my deathbed, delirious. According to her own words, I offered her marriage in some fevered state.”
“Were there witnesses?” Bedford asked, folding his arms.
“Apparently,” Dominic said with a grimace. “Enough to make it legal.”
Bedford glanced at Westcott, then leaned back in his chair. “Do you think she manipulated the situation? Married you to secure her future?”
“I don’t know,” Dominic said. “But I do know that Dorothea was kind to me. Before everything. That’s what I remember.”
“That’s a foundation better than most marriages have,” Westcott remarked with a shrug.
Dominic shot him a sharp look. “I was dying, Westcott. What rational man makes a lifelong commitment while teetering at the edge of the abyss?”
“But you didn’t die,” Bedford pointed out, lips twitching.
Dominic glared at the ceiling. “Your power of perception astounds me.”
Bedford chuckled. “Well, at least I’m not the one who woke up with a wife and no memory of how it happened.”
Dominic waved a hand towards the door. “You can both leave now.”
Bedford ignored the gesture and settled more comfortably beside Westcott. “And miss the unfolding drama? Absolutely not.”
“Why did I save you?” Dominic muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should have let you get shot.”
“But you didn’t,” Bedford replied. “And I will be eternally grateful, my friend.”
Dominic scoffed. “You and I will never be friends.”
Bedford only grinned wider, his tone annoyingly smug. “Never say never.”
With a roll of his eyes, Dominic turned to Westcott. “Why, exactly, did you bring him here?”
“I didn’t. He followed me here,” Westcott said dryly. “Now then, I must pose the question—have you consummated the marriage?”
Dominic was caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. “I… don’t remember, but I doubt it,” he responded honestly.
Westcott stood, the leather creaking beneath him. “Well, you must find out. That detail could prove pivotal when petitioning for annulment. If the marriage was never consummated, your case gains strength.”
“I’m aware,” Dominic replied with a tired nod. “I plan to broach the subject with her tonight. Over dinner, perhaps.”
“Romantic,” Bedford teased, rising to his feet.
“Useful,” Dominic corrected.
“Well, I wish you luck,” Bedford said, sweeping towards the door. “You’re going to need it.”
After the two men left, Dominic turned back to the desk and opened the ledger resting there. He barely skimmed the first line when a small but familiar presence made itself known.
Tristan strolled into the study with crumbs on his clothes and a sizable biscuit clutched in his hand.
“Is it true?” the boy asked between bites. “Are you really married?”
Dominic exhaled and closed the ledger. So much for getting work done. “I am,” he said. “For now.”
Tristan chewed thoughtfully, his brow scrunching. “I saw her in the gardens earlier. Your wife. She looked sad.”
A quiet guilt stirred in Dominic’s chest. He looked away, his jaw tightening. “She’s an adult,” he stated, as if that explained everything.
“Adults get sad, too,” Tristan said matter-of-factly. “My mum cried a lot when we got word about my father. Sometimes, at night, she still cries when she thinks I’m asleep.”
Dominic’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, Tristan.”
The boy moved to the nearest chair and clambered up, legs swinging. “Have you heard anything from the doctor about my mum?”
“Not yet,” Dominic said. He glanced towards the doorway. “Wasn’t a maid assigned to show you around the townhouse?”
“Yes, but I didn’t feel like being followed everywhere. I can look after myself.”
“How old are you again?”
“Nine.”
“Well, Tristan,” Dominic said, leaning forward slightly, “I trust I don’t need to explain what would happen if you stole from me while your mother is recovering.”
Tristan paused mid-chew. Then, after a moment, he swallowed and said solemnly, “I wouldn’t do that. You’re taking care of us. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Just then, a breathless maid appeared in the doorway, her cheeks flushed and dark-haired curls escaping her cap. “My deepest apologies, my lord,” she rushed out. “The boy gave me the slip.”
Dominic exchanged a glance with Tristan, who gave an exaggerated shrug of innocence.
“No harm done,” Dominic said. “Though it might be wise to ensure he’s bathed before supper.”
The maid curtsied. “At once, my lord.”
At this, Tristan groaned audibly. “Do I have to?” he whined. “The water is always cold and dirty by the time it’s my turn.”
Dominic’s lips twitched at the corners. “I think you’ll find the bathing arrangements here somewhat more refined.”
The maid extended her hand towards the boy. “Come now, Tristan. Let’s not trouble Lord Warwicke further.”
Tristan slid off the chair with a dramatic sigh. “I am not a child,” he muttered, trudging towards her with the defeated air of a boy sentenced to the gallows.
Dominic watched Tristan and the maid disappear through the doorway before slowly rising from his chair. The room felt suddenly too still, the silence pressing in around him. With a low sigh, he crossed to the window once more, drawn by habit or perhaps by something else he didn’t care to name.
His eyes swept over the gardens until his eyes landed on Dorothea.
She was seated alone on an ornate iron bench near the fountain, and a single rose rested delicately in her hand.
Her head was slightly bowed, the curl of her hair falling across her cheek, shielding her expression.
But he didn’t need to see her face to know the truth.
Dominic muttered a curse under his breath. Blast it all. She was sad, and whether he intended it or not, he was the cause of it.
But what could he do?