Chapter 5
Dorothea sat in the corner of her bedchamber, knees drawn to her chest, her gaze fixed on the moonlight spilling through the tall windows. It was well past midnight, yet sleep eluded her as it so often did lately.
She should have been in bed. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to embers, and the house had long since gone silent. But something inside her felt unsettled—tight in her chest, like she couldn’t quite breathe.
Why did she feel so desperately alone?
The townhouse was filled with people—servants, maids, footmen—all moving quietly through their appointed roles.
But none of them knew her. None of them saw her.
Dominic had rescued her from her brother’s household, but in doing so, he had placed her in another prison.
One with silk curtains and quiet hallways instead of locked doors, but a prison all the same.
She tilted her head back and rested it against the wall. At least here, she was safe from harm. Dominic could be cold and short-tempered, but he didn’t frighten her—not the way her brother had. Still, there had once been something gentle between her and Dominic—hadn’t there?
Or had she imagined it?
Their acquaintance during the war had been limited. He had been polite, certainly, but distant. It wasn’t until after he was wounded—broken and burning with fever in that makeshift hospital—that her father had encouraged her to spend time with him.
She hadn’t minded. She’d sat at Dominic’s bedside, reading from whatever book she had nearby, while he listened—or sometimes just slept. He would ask her questions when he was lucid, and she had filled the silences with chatter about anything and everything. He had never told her to stop.
And when her father had died, she had confided in Dominic about the truth of her life. Her brother. Her fear. Her helplessness. It was then that he had offered to help.
So why was he so angry now?
He had wanted to help her. He had been the one to offer marriage as a shield against her brother’s guardianship. And yet, he now looked at her like she was the source of all his burdens.
Am I the problem?
The thought pierced her heart. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. How she wished her father were still alive. He wouldn’t have stood for this—this coldness, this rejection. He had always made her feel safe, protected. Loved.
The mantel clock chimed once, marking the hour.
She should crawl into bed and at least try to sleep, but her stomach twisted with hunger.
Dinner had ended in shouting—Dominic’s shouting—and the ache in her chest had chased away any appetite she might’ve had.
Now, the hunger gnawed at her with sharp persistence.
Sighing, she stood and slipped her arms into a warm wrapper, tying it around her waist. Perhaps there was something left in the kitchen—a bit of bread, some cheese. Anything.
She walked into the corridor, her bare feet cold against the polished wood, then down the staircase. The marble floor of the entryway was colder still, and she winced with each step as she made her way towards the narrower servants’ stairwell.
She held her breath as she descended, careful not to lose her footing. The steps were steep, narrow, and twisted. How the maids managed to carry trays up and down these stairs without toppling over she would never know.
When she stepped into the darkened kitchen, a small wave of relief washed over her. It was still warm from the ovens, and a faint scent of herbs lingered in the air. She moved towards the counter and lifted a cloth to find a modest loaf of bread. Her stomach growled softly in approval.
She began looking for a knife and some butter when the sound of approaching footsteps made her freeze.
Someone was coming down the servants’ stairs.
Panic fluttered in her chest.
Without thinking, she reached for the nearest knife—small and blunt, but it was all she had—and crouched behind the counter, her heart pounding as she stared towards the staircase.
A tall figure emerged from the shadows, broad-shouldered and silent. Moonlight filtered through the windowpanes and caught his profile.
Dominic.
Relief flooded through her, and her grip on the knife loosened. She felt foolish. Utterly foolish. Of course it was him. She’d been absurd to think otherwise.
He didn’t notice her right away. He moved to the counter, tearing off a hunk of bread with one hand and chewing absently, his gaze fixed on the dark windows as though lost in thought.
Dorothea remained where she was, half-hidden, unsure what to do. The longer she stayed silent, the more awkward it became. But announcing her presence felt equally humiliating. He had made it clear he didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to speak to her.
She shifted slightly, and the floor creaked beneath her.
Dominic turned sharply. “Who’s there?” he demanded, eyes narrowed. “Show yourself.”
Her cheeks burned as she rose from her crouched position. “It’s just me,” she said softly. “Dorothea.”
His eyes dropped to the knife still in her hand. “Why do you have a knife?”
She glanced down and winced. “I thought… I thought you might be a robber.”
“A robber?” His brow rose in disbelief. “And you thought that little thing could stop me?”
She lifted the knife, wryly. “It is a scary knife.”
Dominic reached for a cloth and wiped his hands. “That knife is so dull it wouldn’t even cut through soft cheese.”
“It was the first thing I saw. I panicked,” she admitted, placing the knife back onto the counter.
His expression softened. “There’s no one here who wishes you harm. You know that, don’t you?”
She nodded, hesitating. “I do. But… sometimes my nerves get the better of me.”
“May I ask what you’re doing down here at this hour?”
Dorothea turned towards him, her fingers still resting near the loaf of bread. The moonlight slanted through the kitchen window, catching the glint of curiosity in his eyes.
“The same as you,” she replied. “I couldn’t sleep. I came down looking for food.”
He regarded her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I shall leave you to it, then.”
A pang of disappointment surprised her, and she found herself speaking before she could second-guess the impulse. “You don’t have to leave,” she said. “There’s more than enough bread here for the both of us.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “I don’t believe it would be wise if I stayed.”
“Why?” she asked, a spark of dry humor creeping into her tone. “Do you think I’ll stab you with the bread knife?”
A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No. That thought hadn’t occurred to me, actually.”
Dorothea turned back to the counter, searching for a suitable knife. “Then there’s no reason you can’t stay. We are both grown adults, perfectly capable of sharing a loaf of bread while being civil to one another.”
Dominic glanced back at the narrow servants’ staircase as though debating an escape. But then he gave a resigned nod. “I suppose there’s no harm in that.”
She sliced two generous pieces from the loaf and handed one to him. “I don’t know where the butter or proper plates are kept,” she admitted. “We’ll have to eat like savages.”
He accepted the bread with a half-laugh. “I’ve eaten with dirtier hands and colder meals under worse circumstances. This feels practically civilized.”
He gestured towards the small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. “Shall we?”
Dorothea rounded the counter and settled into the seat closest to the window. Dominic took the one beside her, folding his long legs under the table with an ease that belied the tension still clinging to his shoulders.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked after a few moments of quiet chewing.
Dominic shook his head. “No. I… had too much on my mind.” He exhaled heavily, then turned to face her more fully. “I want to apologize for earlier. I had no right to speak to you the way I did.”
The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard. There was no defensiveness, no veiled sarcasm. Just quiet remorse.
“It’s all right.”
“No, it isn’t.” He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “Your father would have been furious with me. He adored you.”
The mention of her father made her chest tighten. She stared down at her bread, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow. “He did. He was my whole world.”
“I’m sorry he’s gone.”
Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them from falling. “He was a soldier. He always knew the risks. We both did.”
“That doesn’t make the loss any easier,” Dominic said.
“No,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. “No, it doesn’t.”
For a moment, they simply sat there, two people adrift in shared grief, finding a fragile peace in the quiet kitchen as the moonlight spilled across the stone floor.
Dominic was an idiot.
There was no other word for it. What had possessed him to stay and share a midnight loaf of bread with Dorothea?
He should’ve turned and walked back up those stairs the moment he realized she was in the kitchen.
Instead, here he sat—beside her, listening to her soft voice and watching the way the moonlight framed her face—and feeling his carefully constructed walls begin to splinter.
He was trying—truly trying—to harden his heart against her. But every word she spoke, every glance she offered, chipped away at his resolve.
And yet, he couldn’t leave. Not now. The quiet sadness in her voice had hooked something inside of him, something he thought long buried. There were things he needed to say—truths that had lingered far too long in silence.
He cleared his throat, gaze fixed on the table. “I owe my entire military career to your father.”
Dorothea glanced at him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I highly doubt that.”