Chapter 5 #2
“No, I mean it,” Dominic said, his voice more certain now.
“After my uncle purchased a commission for me, your father took me under his wing. He didn’t have to, but he did.
He guided me, shaped me. Taught me what it meant to lead with honor.
Without him, I would’ve never become the kind of soldier I could take pride in. ”
She studied him for a moment, then offered a soft smile. “My father may have helped guide you, but you were the one who rose to the occasion. You’re the one who fought valiantly.”
Dominic leaned back, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. “That’s kind of you to say. But truthfully… I spent much of the war fighting myself more than the enemy. I was desperate to prove something—to anyone who would look.”
He paused before he added, “Especially to my father. He always said I would fail.”
Dorothea’s expression dimmed. “That can’t be true.”
He held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t defend him. Please. My father was a brute. A cold, vicious man who ruled his family with a fist instead of affection. I grew tired of the beatings. Eventually, I left.”
Dominic continued. “I tried to make my own way. For a time, I worked as a Bow Street Runner.”
Her eyebrows lifted again, this time in earnest surprise. “Truly?”
He gave a short nod. “Yes. Most of the work was mundane—petty thefts, domestic squabbles—but eventually I was trusted with more serious cases. I actually… enjoyed it. Solving puzzles. Finding justice.”
“That’s rather impressive,” she said, clearly meaning it.
He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Is it? Most members of the ton would call it disgraceful. To work for your income? To chase criminals through back alleys?”
“Perhaps. But the ton also calls you a war hero. I doubt they would see you as anything less than honorable.”
His eyes met hers. “And what about you? What do you think?”
Dorothea hesitated, then gave him a small, almost shy smile. “You forget, I was there. I know you’re a hero.”
“I’m not,” he said immediately, the words bitter on his tongue.
“You can say that all you want,” she replied, “but it won’t change how I see you. I watched how you fought for your men. You took wounds for them. That is nothing short of heroic.”
He frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t say that. I only did what was expected. Nothing more.”
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t press the matter.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, though the doubt still lingered in his eyes.
Dorothea tilted her head slightly. “How did you go from Bow Street Runner to a soldier in the Royal Army?”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“After my father died, my uncle came to find me. Said it was time I stepped up and behaved like a proper gentleman. Offered to buy me a commission into the Royal Army, and I—foolishly, perhaps—accepted. I thought I might actually be able to make a difference.”
He stared down at the crust of bread in his hand. “But nothing prepared me for what I saw on the Continent. No training. No lecture. Nothing.”
Dorothea’s voice was soft. “Neither was I.”
Dominic looked over at her, curious. “Why did you go with your father to war?”
She gave a faint shrug. “What choice did I have? I could stay with my brother—who resented my very presence—or go with my father, where I was wanted. Where I was loved.” She smiled wistfully. “For me, it was an easy decision.”
“But you were exposed to the horrors of war. That kind of life is not meant for a young woman.”
“No,” she said, her voice trembling just a little, “but I would do it all again if it meant more time with him.” Her eyes dropped to her lap, and then, softer still, “And with you.”
That final admission hung in the air like a suspended breath.
Dominic stared at her, unsure of what to say to her. The way her gaze remained fixed on her hands told him she hadn’t meant to say it so plainly. And yet… it was there. Honest. Raw.
Before Dominic could form a single response to Dorothea’s unexpected confession, the sound of soft footsteps echoed from the stairwell.
Instantly, he became acutely aware of just how close he and Dorothea had been sitting.
He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet, creating a proper—and respectable—distance between them.
The last thing he needed was for the servants to start gossiping about late-night rendezvous between their lord and his young bride.
A moment later, a small figure emerged from the shadows of the narrow staircase. Tristan padded into the kitchen, his nightshirt trailing nearly to his ankles, his tousled brown hair flattened on one side from sleep. He glanced around the room until his eyes landed on Dominic.
“Lord Warwicke?” he asked sleepily, rubbing one eye. “What are you doing up?”
Dominic raised a brow. “What am I doing up? You’re the one who should be in bed.”
Tristan’s expression fell with sheepish guilt. “I was hungry, and the maid who usually brings me food fell asleep.”
Dominic sighed, his tone more indulgent than stern. “Very well. A crust of bread and a glass of water. Then it’s straight back to bed.”
Dorothea rose smoothly from her chair. “That’s hardly sufficient for a growing boy,” she said. “Let me see if I can find where the butter is kept.”
“There’s no need—” Dominic began, but his words faltered as Dorothea was already crossing the kitchen, scanning the cupboards with determined purpose.
“Ah-ha!” she exclaimed a moment later, holding up a small crock. “I simply hadn’t looked hard enough before.”
Tristan moved towards the counter, his eyes lighting up as he approached the bread. “Thank you, my lady,” he said with an awkward little bow.
Dominic stepped in to formally introduce them, placing a hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “This is Tristan. He’s staying here while his mother recovers in the hospital.”
Dorothea’s expression softened immediately. “How is your mother faring, Tristan?”
“She’s still sick,” he answered, “but the doctor said he’d fix her up. And I get to sleep in a real bed with feathers in it.” He made a face. “I hate sleeping on the ground.”
Dorothea knelt slightly so she could look him in the eye. “You slept on the ground?”
Tristan nodded. “Mum and I used to sleep in an alleyway. It’s been like that since she lost her job as a lady’s maid.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said.
“It’s all right,” he said with a shrug. “Before that, we shared a bed stuffed with straw, and the bits always poked through. I almost prefer the floor.”
Dominic watched Dorothea as she glanced over at him, her brows slightly drawn, her eyes filled with silent questions.
He cleared his throat. “I found Tristan on the street.”
The boy grinned cheekily. “I tried to pickpocket him but he caught me. Wasn’t mad either. He still helped me and Mum.”
Dorothea gave Dominic an approving look. “That was incredibly generous of you.”
“It’s probably because he was a soldier,” Tristan added, popping a bite of bread into his mouth. “Like my father.”
Dominic turned back to the boy. “Your father was a soldier?”
Tristan nodded solemnly. “He died a while ago. That’s why I’m the man of the house now. I have to take care of Mum. I promised him I would.”
Dominic squeezed his shoulder. “And you’re doing a fine job, Lad.”
Tristan looked up at him, his eyes full of earnest hope. “Can we go visit her tomorrow?”
Dominic paused, torn between what he should do. He had no desire to go to the hospital again, to relive those painful memories, but he couldn’t deny Tristan the right to see his mother. “I have meetings all morning,” he said. “But perhaps I’ll have some time in the afternoon.”
Dorothea interjected. “I could take him. If you have no objection, that is. It’s not as though I have anything pressing.”
Dominic frowned. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea. The hospital isn’t in the most respectable part of Town, and the doctor hasn’t sent word about her condition.”
Tristan clasped his hands together and looked up at him with pleading eyes. “Please, Lord Warwicke. I’m real worried about her.”
Dorothea’s voice took on determination. “I assure you, I’ve been in far worse places than a hospital in London.”
“It’s different now,” Dominic said. “You’re a baroness. You have a reputation to consider.”
“I’m more concerned with Tristan seeing his mother,” Dorothea replied. Her gaze held his—steady, unwavering.
He looked between them, knowing he’d been outmaneuvered. “Very well,” he said at last. “You may go but I’ll send two footmen with you. I’ll not have either of you traveling through that part of Town unescorted.”
A smile played at the corner of Dorothea’s lips. “I can agree to that.”
Tristan, however, had no need for subtlety. His entire face lit up, his missing teeth showing as he beamed. “Thank you, my lord!” he said with fervent gratitude. “When my mum is better, do you think she can come live here, too?”
Dominic winced slightly. “I don’t know…”
But Dorothea cut in. “As it happens, I’m in need of a lady’s maid. Do you think she might like to work here, Tristan?”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Do you mean that?”
“I do,” she replied. “But for now, you should run off to bed. You’ll want to be well-rested for your visit tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lady!” he exclaimed, nearly skipping as he made his way back to the stairs.
Once he’d disappeared, Dominic turned to Dorothea. “That was awfully kind of you.”
She shrugged off the praise. “It was nothing. I genuinely need a maid.”
“You know nothing about her.”
“I know she was married to a soldier and that she’s a mother doing her best to raise her child.” Dorothea turned to face him fully. “That tells me she has strength and a reason to work hard.”
Dominic studied her, searching for something—perhaps doubt, or hesitation—but there was none. Just quiet conviction. He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the admiration from his voice. “Not many women would do what you just did.”
“Then I suppose I’m not like many women.”
“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re not.”
Dorothea glanced towards the darkened window, the moonlight now dimming as clouds passed across the sky. “It’s late,” she murmured. “I should be getting to bed.”
“As should I.”
She took a single step towards the staircase, then paused, her gaze flicking back to him. “Goodnight, Dominic.”
He lifted a hand in a quiet farewell. “Goodnight, Dorothea.”
She offered him a tentative smile—small and soft, but it lingered in her eyes. Without another word, she turned and ascended the narrow servants’ stairs, her footsteps fading into silence.
As the last of her hem vanished from sight, Dominic dropped heavily into the nearest chair, elbows resting on the wooden table, and raked a hand through his hair.
What was wrong with him?
He had told himself—again and again—that he must keep his distance. That he and Dorothea were too different, too distant, too incompatible for anything resembling peace or comfort to grow between them.
So why was it that every time she spoke and looked at him with those clear, earnest eyes, something inside him softened?