Chapter 8 #2
Dominic stepped inside. He followed his uncle down the dim corridor, past portraits of long-gone ancestors, and into the study—warmly lit and cluttered with books and old maps.
Without a word, his uncle made his way to the drink tray, decanter in hand, and poured two generous glasses of brandy. “So…” he said, the word stretching out in the silence. “I heard you got yourself married.”
There was amusement in his voice, a flicker of mischief behind his eyes, as though Dominic’s marriage were some grand joke at the end of a long tale.
“I did,” Dominic replied simply.
His uncle crossed the room and handed him a glass. “And here I thought you were determined to die a bachelor. A noble recluse—so tragic, so misunderstood.”
Dominic took the glass and offered a half-hearted chuckle. “Things change.”
“Not that much, in my experience.” His uncle gestured to the two wingback chairs near the fireplace, where flames crackled softly behind a brass screen. “Come. Sit.”
Dominic settled into the chair, the leather creaking beneath him. He took a sip, letting the brandy burn its way down his throat. “I married Haverleigh’s daughter,” he said after a pause.
His uncle’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Haverleigh? As in your former commanding officer?”
“The very one.”
“Well,” his uncle drawled, swirling his drink, “that’s bold. Even for you.”
Dominic sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “To be honest, I don’t recall every detail of how it happened. But regardless, I now have a wife. At least until I can get it annulled.”
His uncle studied him over the rim of his glass, the lines of his face shifting into something more serious. “And how does your wife feel about this… plan?”
“She doesn’t know,” Dominic admitted.
There was a sharp cluck of disapproval as his uncle set his glass down on the nearby table. “Do you mean to tell her? Or shall she learn about it secondhand—perhaps in one of those delightfully cruel Society columns?”
Dominic looked into his drink, shoulders hunched. “I intend to tell her. But the timing has never felt… right.”
His uncle gave a snort. “Timing rarely cooperates when it comes to the truth. Do you think it ever will?”
Dominic hesitated. “Dorothea is… she’s kind. Considerate. Too good for me by far. I don’t deserve her.”
“And so,” his uncle said, “your solution is to cast her aside? As a favor to her?”
Dominic met his gaze. “You don’t understand. I’m not the man I used to be. I’m broken, Uncle. I wanted to die on the battlefield. And yet here I am. Alive. While braver, better men are buried in shallow graves far from home. How is that fair?”
“You fought. You bled. You survived,” his uncle replied, his voice firm. “That is not a crime.”
“I was wounded while my men fought valiantly around me. I fell, and then they fell. And still I was the one given a title—as if my sacrifice was somehow greater than theirs.”
His uncle leaned forward, eyes steady. “You were given a second chance at life.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want it.”
“Want it or not, it’s yours,” his uncle said, sitting back. “And with it comes responsibility. You must move forward and let go of the past.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Dominic snapped, his grip tightening around the glass. “You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t hear the screaming, the endless gunfire, or the pleas of the dying men.”
His uncle nodded solemnly. “You’re right. I didn’t. And I cannot pretend to understand that pain. But I do know you. You gave everything you had to your men. To your King and Country.”
“Not everything,” Dominic muttered.
His uncle’s gaze sharpened. “Who, pray tell, are you angry with?”
There was a long pause before Dominic answered. “Myself.”
His uncle exhaled, slow and deliberate. “You’ve been given much, Dominic. More than most. Don’t waste it by clinging to what can’t be changed. Embrace what you’ve been given. Go home. Go to your wife.”
“I can’t.” The confession fell from his lips like a weight. “She smiles at me… and all I feel is guilt. Crushing, suffocating guilt.”
His uncle leaned in, his voice gentler now. “Would it be so terrible to smile back?”
“Yes,” Dominic said without hesitation. “Because it would give her hope.”
“And what,” his uncle started, “is so wrong with hope?”
Dominic drained the last of his brandy, his gaze fixed on the flames. “Hope is only for the foolish.”
His uncle spread his arms. “Then you must consider me a fool, Dominic. Because I still believe hope is one of the finest things a man can possess.”
“I do not. I never have.”
Leaning forward, his uncle picked up his glass and took a slow sip. “Your father was a cruel man.”
“I know. You don’t need to remind me since I lived through every moment of it.”
“And yet,” his uncle replied, setting his glass down with a click, “you’ve learned nothing.”
Dominic stiffened in his chair, the words cutting deeper than he’d expected. “That’s not true. I learned that I wanted to be nothing like him.”
“As you should,” his uncle agreed. “But despite your good intentions, your father still managed to take something from you. And you’ve never gotten it back.”
Dominic glanced heavenward. “Let me guess. You’re going to say he stole my ‘hope.’”
A knowing look softened the lines of the older man’s face. “I always said you were clever.”
Dominic exhaled, frustrated. “Uncle, I know what you’re doing. But I’ve already made my decision. I cannot—will not—be the cause of dimming the light in Dorothea’s eyes. She doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve me. Staying married wouldn’t be fair to her or to me.”
“And what if the annulment doesn’t come through? What then? What happens when Dorothea finds out she was never wanted?”
Dominic shifted in his seat, uncomfortable under the weight of the question. “She’ll manage. I’ll see to it she’s provided for. She won’t want for anything material.”
“That’s not the same as being wanted.” His uncle held up a hand and pointed to the simple gold ring on his finger. “Have you ever noticed this?”
“Yes. You’ve worn it every day for as long as I can remember.”
“I have,” his uncle said, removing it and holding it out. “Because it holds a lock of Deborah’s hair. I had it made after we wed. Do you know why?”
Dominic took the ring gently, turning it over in his hand. “Because you loved her.”
His uncle’s voice thickened with memory.
“Yes. I loved her with every beat of my heart. But more than that, I wanted to keep some part of her with me. Always. It’s the little things I miss most. The way she’d toss her hair over her shoulder in the mornings.
The way she’d fall asleep at the opera, no matter how grand the production.
Even how she’d chide me for reading the newssheets at breakfast. Her presence filled every corner of my life, and now, those corners feel empty. ”
Dominic could hear the pain in his uncle’s voice. It was a pain that came from a love so deep that it didn’t die with the person.
His uncle gave a sad smile. “Do you know when I really started to love Deborah?”
“Wasn’t it from the moment you met her?”
His uncle chuckled. “Heavens, no. I thought she was an insufferable debutante, and she thought I was a rake and a bore. We argued constantly. Then one day, I realized… I didn’t want to argue with anyone else, ever again. That’s when I knew.”
Dominic turned the ring between his fingers. “I’m glad you found her, Uncle.”
“I tell you this,” his uncle said, “because I know how hard your life has been. You’ve seen horrors most can’t even imagine. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love. You do. You deserve someone who sees the man you are now and loves you all the more for it.”
“Uncle…”
He raised his hand to stop his nephew. “No. It’s time, Dominic. Time to stop hiding behind walls of grief and guilt. Let someone in.”
Dominic rose slowly and placed the ring on the table between them. “I’m sorry. But I can’t.”
His uncle picked up the ring and stared at it for a moment before slipping it back onto his finger. “Then it is I who is sorry.”
“Goodnight, Uncle.” Without another word, he turned and left the room.
His uncle had meant well, of that he was certain.
But pity—he didn’t need that. Nor did he need a lecture on love from someone who had stumbled into a perfect, enviable marriage.
His uncle hadn't lived through blood-soaked fields and the unrelenting sounds of gunfire that still echoed in Dominic’s ears like a phantom chorus.
He hadn’t watched his comrades fall one by one.
Outside, Dominic climbed into the waiting coach and sank into the velvet cushions.
He stared out the window, watching as the city passed in shadows.
No wife, no child could mend what had been shattered inside him.
He was terribly, painfully aware of that.
The emptiness was a constant companion—familiar, and oddly comforting.
By the time the coach pulled to a stop in front of his townhouse, the streets were quiet. A servant opened the door, and Dominic climbed the steps with weary precision. Inside, the air was still. Silent. Just as he liked it.
It was only in the silence that he could breathe.
He ascended the staircase. As he stepped into his chamber and removed his jacket, he noticed something strange—smoke curling under the door that separated his room from Dorothea’s.
His blood turned cold.
He rushed forward, unlocked the door, and flung it open. A thick haze billowed into the room. Dorothea’s bedchamber was clouded with smoke, the fire in the hearth roaring far too high.
Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he darted to the bed. “Dorothea!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “Wake up!”
She groaned faintly but didn’t rouse.
The smoke stung his eyes and throat. Coughing, he gathered her into his arms and hurried back through the door into his own chamber. He laid her gently on the bed and turned for the hallway.
Throwing the door open, he shouted into the corridor. “Help! I need help—now!”
Within moments, Wright appeared, his hair mussed, eyes alert. “What is it, my lord?”
“Lady Warwicke’s chamber is filled with smoke. The damper must have been left closed.”
Wright nodded without hesitation. “I shall see to it immediately.”
Relieved that someone would handle the fire, Dominic returned to Dorothea’s side, kneeling beside the bed. “Dorothea,” he said urgently, shaking her again. “I need you to wake up. Please.”
She didn’t move.
“Dorothea,” he said again, louder now, a note of panic creeping in. “I command you to answer me!”
A voice from the doorway interrupted. “I believe she is not responding because she took laudanum for her cold, my lord.”
He turned sharply to see Mrs. Cameron. “Do you think that’s all it is?” he asked, heart pounding.
“I do,” she replied.
Still, uncertainty gnawed at him. “Send for the doctor. At once.”
With a curt nod, Mrs. Cameron turned to obey.
Left alone, Dominic sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Dorothea’s pale face. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a few strands of her red hair away from her forehead.
“Please wake up,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Not as a command.
Not as a husband.
Just as a man who suddenly realized how terrified he was to lose her.