Chapter 12
After a much-needed nap, Dorothea emerged from her bedchamber at the sound of the dinner bell echoing through the halls. She paused just outside the doorway to smooth the sleeves of her lavender gown. Her hair had been neatly pinned, a few tendrils falling loose about her temples, framing her face.
She made her way down the corridor, her slippers soundless against the carpet. As she approached the top of the staircase, her gaze landed on Dominic in the entry hall below. He stood tall and composed, dressed in a dark jacket, and she couldn’t help but notice how devastatingly handsome he looked.
He looked up the moment she began to descend, his eyes locking on hers. With quiet purpose, he stepped forward and waited at the base of the stairs.
“Good evening, Dorothea.”
“Good evening, Dominic,” she returned, a smile tugging at her lips.
His gaze swept over her with a mixture of scrutiny and concern. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m well,” she replied quickly, perhaps too quickly.
His expression remained grave. “Does your shoulder still pain you?”
She gave a half-hearted shrug. “Only when I move it.”
The faint attempt at levity was lost on him. He frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t make light of it. You could have been seriously injured. Killed, even.”
“But I wasn’t,” she replied, trying not to let his anxiety unsettle her. “And I have no intention of dwelling on what might have been.”
His brow furrowed more deeply, but after a pause, he gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. I shall concede—for now.”
“Thank you,” she said, offering him a grateful look.
He extended his arm towards her. “May I escort you to supper?”
As she slid her hand into the crook of his arm, a subtle spark passed between them—a jolt of awareness that made her pulse quicken. She wondered, as she had so many times before, if he felt it, too. But his expression remained as inscrutable as ever.
Dominic led her into the dining room, guiding her to her place at the far end of the long, polished table. He released her arm and pulled out her chair. She sat, unfolding her white linen napkin with deliberate ease, trying not to show how flustered his nearness had left her.
He crossed the room to take his customary place at the opposite end. The footmen moved efficiently, placing steaming bowls of soup before them.
Dorothea lifted her spoon, then called across the table in a voice meant to carry, “How was the visit to the hospital with Tristan?”
“It went well,” Dominic replied in kind. “Tabitha seems to have made a full recovery. She should be released tomorrow. She mentioned she’s eager to begin work immediately. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Not at all,” Dorothea said. “I’ll be glad for the assistance. Mrs. Cameron has been assigning different maids each day, and while I appreciate the effort, it will be a relief to have someone consistent.”
Dominic inclined his head slightly. “It was generous of you to take her on. Not many would have shown such kindness.”
“I do believe Tabitha and I will get along well. And I am rather fond of Tristan.”
“As am I,” Dominic said, a flicker of warmth in his voice. “I’ve been thinking about his future. Perhaps it’s time to hire a proper tutor or even send him to boarding school.”
Dorothea nodded in approval. “That would be a remarkable opportunity for him. With education, he might truly make something of himself.”
Without warning, Dominic stood and took his wine glass in hand. “I can barely hear you over the crackle of the fire,” he said as he walked the length of the table. “Forgive me, but I’d prefer to sit nearer.”
A footman hurried to arrange a new place setting beside her, and Dominic took the seat to her right.
Dorothea arched an amused brow. “Do you always cause such a stir when you dine?”
His lips twitched. “I do. Especially when I know what I want.”
She leaned in slightly. “Well, I, for one, enjoy having you closer. I no longer have to shout my thoughts across the table.”
Dominic’s smile faded into something more contemplative. He set his glass down and looked at her with a seriousness that prickled her curiosity. “May I ask you a question?”
“You may.”
“Do you have a dowry?”
The question caught her off guard. “Yes. Ten thousand pounds. It may not be a fortune, but it’s respectable enough.”
“A very tidy sum.”
“It’s yours now,” she said simply. “If you like, I can contact my father’s solicitor—Mr. Poole—for any documents you may need.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Poole passed away.”
“That is unfortunate. He was always kind to me.”
Dominic shifted, his fingers tapping once on the table before stilling. “Do you know if your father left a will?”
She stared at him, puzzled. “Of course he did. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because he told me so,” she said, reaching for her napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth. “He revised it just before we left for the Continent. I remember distinctly.”
Dominic studied her closely, his expression unreadable once again. “Did he mention any of its provisions at all?”
“No,” she said with a furrowed brow. “Dominic, why are you asking me all this?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I was curious.”
“Well, if you truly wish to know, you might try speaking to my brother,” she said, her tone cooling slightly. “Though I don’t envy you. He’s not known for his charm.”
Dominic fell silent, his features darkening with a quiet intensity. “Did your father know your brother abused you?”
Dorothea flinched at the question, though she didn’t look away. “He knew,” she said, her voice laced with old pain. “He tried to intervene, but every time I told him what he had done, Matthew would find a way to punish me.”
She continued. “That’s why my father allowed me to join him when he left for the Continent. He knew I was safer with him—safer on a battlefield than under Matthew’s roof.”
Dominic didn’t speak right away. But then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and took her hand gently in his own. His thumb brushed over her knuckles with a tenderness that caught her off guard.
“You will never be abused again,” he asserted, his eyes locking with hers. “I swear it.”
Something in her chest fluttered, fragile and unsteady. Not just at his words, but at the way he looked at her—as though she mattered. Truly mattered. “I know,” she murmured. “I feel safe here… with you.”
A flicker of emotion passed through his expression—too swift and guarded to name—but it left a trace behind. Then he released her hand and leaned back in his chair, his posture suddenly more reserved.
“I’m glad,” he said, though his voice was rougher than before.
As the footmen returned to clear the soup bowls and replace them with the next course, Dorothea couldn’t stop watching him.
Not just watching—studying. Searching. There was something behind his calm exterior, a weight he carried in silence.
Would he ever let her see all of it? Would he ever let her in?
Dominic cleared his throat, breaking the silence between them. “May I ask about your mother?”
The question startled her, but it also brought a soft smile to her lips. “My mother was extraordinary. Gentle, curious, and entirely unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. She had a rather eccentric habit of collecting bones.”
“Bones?”
She laughed. “Animal bones. She fancied herself an amateur naturalist. One time, when we were in Bath, she found several large ones near the edge of a quarry and insisted we bring them home. They were strapped to the top of our coach like prized relics.”
His mouth tugged upward in amusement. “That must have been quite the sight.”
“It was,” Dorothea agreed. “She died when I was eleven.”
The mood shifted instantly, and Dominic’s expression grew solemn. “That’s much too young.”
“It was. But truly, is there ever a good age to lose your mother?”
“No. I suppose there isn’t.”
“My mother always dreamed of a large family,” Dorothea shared.
“But she lost one baby after another. Miscarriage after miscarriage, until she gave up hope.” Her gaze dropped to her plate, though she wasn’t looking at the food.
“When she fell pregnant again, my father was overjoyed. He thought it was a miracle. But she bled to death not long after childbirth. They both died.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words, simple as they were, carried a weight that told her he meant them.
Dorothea waved her hand faintly, attempting to brush the moment aside. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s far too gloomy for dinner conversation.”
“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I want you to speak your mind, regardless of the occasion.”
“You may come to regret saying that,” she teased. “I can be quite opinionated.”
“I’m already well aware of that,” he said, lifting his glass with a half-smile of his own.
The moment felt lighter now, steadied by mutual understanding. And yet something still lingered between them—unspoken, unfinished.
So Dorothea took a chance. “Do you want a large family?” she asked.
Dominic had just taken a sip of wine and nearly choked. He coughed into his napkin, then looked at her with raised brows. “Pardon?”
“I don’t believe the question could have been any simpler.”
Setting his glass down carefully, he wiped his mouth before replying. “No,” he said, a touch too quickly. “I don’t want children.”
His admission stunned her. “At all?”
He leaned back in his chair, arms resting loosely on the armrests. “My father was a cruel man,” he shared. “He belittled, berated, and broke everything he touched. Including me. I wouldn’t even know where to begin raising a child without becoming what he was.”
“You are not your father,” she said firmly.
Dominic looked away. “It’s not that simple.”
“But maybe it is,” Dorothea countered. “I see how you are with Tristan. Kind. Protective. And in return, that boy adores you.”
His gaze returned to hers, something raw flickering there—part disbelief, part longing. But he said nothing.