Chapter 6 #2
It didn’t feel like he was learning who she was.
No, it felt far more dangerous—like he was remembering.
Every smile, every look that lingered too long, pulled at something half-buried in him.
A word here, a shared silence there—it was as though some part of him had always known her.
That notion terrified him. He was here to seek an annulment, not to rediscover his wife.
The coach rolled to a stop before the House of Lords.
Without waiting for the footman, Dominic flung open the door and stepped down, adjusting the fit of his waistcoat and straightening his cravat.
The massive structure loomed ahead and he ascended the steps two at a time, tipping his head to acknowledge the guards who stood watch.
Once he was inside the long hall, he made for the benches assigned to the Whigs, nodding absently at a few familiar faces.
Though he sat with them, he wouldn’t call himself a staunch Whig.
His years on the battlefield had taught him to distrust absolutes.
Some of his leanings aligned with the Tories, whether he liked it or not.
He had just begun scanning the chamber for a quiet place to sit when a broad figure intercepted him—Lord Inglewood.
He was a heavy-set man with eyes that always seemed a touch too calculating.
Inglewood had been an ally of his father’s, though Dominic had never determined whether that meant he was friend or foe.
“Warwicke,” Inglewood drawled, voice like gravel. “A pity you’ve chosen the wrong side of history.”
Dominic offered a thin smile. “And good morning to you.”
Inglewood’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your father would have expected you to side with the Tories.”
“I am painfully aware of what my father would have wanted,” Dominic replied. “Which is precisely why I’m seated with the Whigs.”
Inglewood gave a short, humorless laugh. “You were a soldier. You fought for King and Country. That should mean something.”
“It does. Which is why I vote with my conscience, not with party lines.”
Inglewood stepped closer, the scent of tobacco clinging to his jacket. “Then perhaps we have something to discuss.”
Feigning interest, Dominic arched a brow. “Do we?”
The older man glanced around, then lowered his voice. “I hear you’re seeking an annulment.”
Dominic stiffened but kept his expression neutral. That kind of gossip traveled fast—and dangerously. “That is correct.”
Inglewood’s lips curled into something almost resembling a smirk.
“I’m introducing a bill today. Higher tariffs on imported goods.
It will be framed as support for British soldiers.
A noble cause. If you help sway enough Whigs to vote in favor, I could convince a few influential Tories to back your petition for annulment. ”
Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “And you think that’s possible?”
“Under normal circumstances, no. But yours are exceptional,” Inglewood said. “You were on your deathbed when you married, were you not? Easy to argue your bride exploited your condition.”
“I was not tricked,” Dominic said sharply.
Inglewood leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “Weren’t you? You were feverish, barely coherent, and somehow you found the strength to pledge yourself to her?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want Dorothea’s name dragged through the mud.”
“If you pursue an annulment, scandal will follow—no matter how delicately it’s handled. The stain on her reputation will be indelible.”
Silence settled between them. The truth of it hit harder than Dominic wanted to admit.
Dorothea would be ruined. Cast out of Society.
And yet, if he stayed, if he bound her to a man like him—a man broken by war, by guilt, by obligations he never asked for—he would destroy her anyway.
She might not see it now, but in time, she would. And then she would hate him for it.
Inglewood took a step back. “Think on what I’ve said. We could both get what we want.”
Without another word, Inglewood turned and strode away, his steps echoing through the chamber.
Dominic made his way to his seat as his thoughts churned. No sooner had he sat down than he was flanked by Lord Bedford, Lord Wilton, and Lord Alcott, all looking at him with thinly veiled curiosity.
“What did Inglewood want?” Bedford asked.
Dominic barely glanced at him. “None of your business.”
Bedford snorted. “He's trying to gather support for that wretched bill of his.”
“I haven’t read it yet,” Dominic admitted.
“You should,” Wilton said, his tone grave. “The tariffs could weaken the entire stock market. And between you and me, I believe Inglewood intends to use the chaos to line his own pockets.”
Dominic frowned. “He said the bill would benefit the soldiers.”
“It would—slightly,” Alcott remarked. “But not nearly as much as it would benefit Inglewood’s business interests.”
Bedford tilted his head, studying Dominic. “Did he offer you something in exchange for your support?”
Dominic hesitated. “He said he’d convince the Tories to back my annulment.”
A sharp whistle escaped Bedford’s lips. “That’s no small favor. Annulments aren’t granted easily—not without causing a spectacle.”
“I know,” Dominic said. “But I have to try.”
Bedford exchanged a wary glance with Wilton before asking, “Do you hate your wife that much?”
Dominic winced. “I don’t hate Dorothea.”
“Are you sure?” Bedford questioned. “I only ask because you’ll ruin her. Once Society gets wind of it, she’ll be cast out. No one will want her.”
“I’ll make sure she’s provided for,” Dominic replied, though the words rang hollow, as if spoken by someone else. And deep down, he feared that even the best intentions wouldn’t be enough to shield her from the storm he was about to unleash.
Alcott leaned back in his seat. “I, for one, think you should get the annulment,” he said with a shrug.
Dominic raised a brow. “You do?”
Alcott’s eyes held amusement. “Wives are burdensome creatures. They expect things of you. Attention, affection, a presence at dull dinner parties and infernal musicales. A man can hardly breathe under the weight of their expectations.”
Bedford chuckled under his breath. “Some would say there are certain benefits to having a wife.”
“No one asked you,” Wilton replied dryly. “You’re still basking in the glow of your newlywed haze. Your opinion is hopelessly compromised.”
Dominic allowed the banter to wash over him without joining in. His gaze wandered across the grand hall as more lords filtered in. He should have felt pride being here—a man with a voice, with a vote, with the power to shape the future. But instead, all he felt was the heavy press of inadequacy.
When he had worked as a Bow Street Runner, his world had been made of shadows and suffering.
He had walked the alleyways no lord would ever dare enter, seen families starving in corners of crumbling buildings, and watched children claw through rubbish for scraps.
Some had become criminals, shaped by desperation.
But others had simply endured, surviving one day at a time with no hope it would get better.
He hadn’t forgotten their faces.
Bedford’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Warwicke, are you still with us?”
“No,” Dominic said simply.
Bedford grinned. “He speaks! For a moment, I feared we’d lost you to your melancholy.”
Dominic looked to Wilton, his tone suddenly serious. “I want to make a difference.”
“In what way?” Wilton replied.
Dominic lowered his voice slightly. “We should draft a bill to raise the minimum age for children working in the workhouses. What they’re expected to do—the hours, the danger—it’s unconscionable.”
Wilton’s good humor faded. “That will never pass. And if we take the children out, what do we do with them? Leave them starving in the streets?”
“They could be taken in by the Foundling Hospital,” Dominic said. “There must be a better way than condemning a six-year-old to a life of soot and sickness.”
Wilton shook his head. “The hospitals aren’t equipped to handle the overflow. They were never designed for that kind of volume. It’s a nice sentiment but hopelessly na?ve.”
Frustration twisted in Dominic’s chest. “Then what is the point of any of this?” he asked, voice low but intense. “What good is it to hold power in this chamber if we are powerless to do anything that actually matters?”
“I know it’s unfair,” Wilton said. “But we must play the game. Wait our turn. Build power slowly until we’re in a position to wield it.”
Dominic turned sharply towards him, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “And how long must we wait? How many speeches must we give? How many hands must we shake before we’re finally allowed to matter?”
Wilton exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. “It could take years.”
Dominic’s hands curled into fists on his knees. “I don’t have years to waste.”
“You were thrust into this world when the king gave you your title,” Wilton pointed out. “You didn’t climb through the ranks like the rest of us. That has some advantages, but also disadvantages. You haven’t yet earned the kind of influence that lets you shake the foundations.”
“Then I’ll shake them anyway,” Dominic stated.
Wilton huffed. “If you try to do too much too soon, you’ll alienate the very people whose support you’ll one day need. The Whigs will turn their backs on you. The Tories will never let you in. You’ll be isolated. Powerless. And all your good intentions will burn to ash.”
Dominic opened his mouth to argue, but Bedford cut in. “Wilton’s right. Change comes, but only to those who know how to bide their time. You must strike when the moment is ripe.”
Dominic turned to look between the two of them. “And how many children must die waiting for the right moment?”
That silenced them all.
The worst part was that it wasn’t a rhetorical question. Faces of soot-covered children, malnourished and hollow-eyed, flickered behind Dominic’s eyes. He had walked among them. Held them as they coughed up blood.
Alcott reached out and placed a hand on Dominic’s shoulder, his grip steady.
“I haven’t seen what you’ve seen. I haven’t walked in your shoes.
But I do understand politics. And politics, unfortunately, is not a war you win with swords.
It’s chess. One wrong move… and the game ends before it ever truly begins. ”
Dominic didn’t shake off the hand, but he didn’t look at Alcott either.
He stared straight ahead at the chamber’s great doors.
His friends weren’t wrong. Dominic knew that.
He hated that. He was still the newcomer here—the soldier turned peer, elevated by royal favor but without the web of alliances, favors, and connections others had spent decades weaving.
Every step he took was under scrutiny. One misstep, and they’d have a reason to cast him aside.
But that didn’t mean he would sit idle.
He might not be able to change the game overnight.
But he could, at the very least, make the players nervous.