Chapter 13
Dorothea stood motionless at the window of her bedchamber, her forehead nearly resting against the cool glass. Tears streaked down her cheeks and she made no effort to wipe them away. There was no one here to see her—no reason to pretend.
She was grieving.
Not for a man who had died, but for one who had never truly existed.
Dominic had never intended to stay with her. All this time, as she slowly began to believe that perhaps he could come to care for her, he had been planning to set her aside. The betrayal stung more than she could bear.
She had been foolish. Na?ve. She had fallen in love with a shadow—a man who had shown her glimpses of tenderness, only to retreat behind walls she could not scale. How was she to go on, knowing he didn’t want her? That he never had?
A soft knock at the door broke through her thoughts.
She stiffened, her breath catching. For a moment, panic flared—what if it was him? She didn’t think she could bear to see him. Not yet. Not like this.
“Enter,” she called out, schooling her voice into something resembling calm.
The door opened with a quiet creak, and to her great relief, it was Tabitha who stepped into the room. Her eyes filled with a compassion that Dorothea hadn’t known how much she needed until now.
“My lady,” Tabitha said, “Lady Sarah and Mrs. Haverleigh are in the drawing room. They’re rather insistent about seeing you.”
Dorothea turned her head away, brushing a stray tear from her cheek at last. “I do not feel like entertaining guests,” she admitted.
“I understand. But they refuse to leave until you speak with them.”
A long sigh escaped Dorothea’s lips as she turned from the window. Her voice was weary but resigned. “Then I suppose I should face them.”
Tabitha hesitated, then stepped farther into the room. “Forgive me, my lady, and please chide me if I overstep, but… I do not believe all hope is lost.”
“And why would you say that?”
“I saw the way Lord Warwicke looks at you. That is not a man who is indifferent towards you.”
Dorothea’s throat tightened. “You’re mistaken,” she said briskly. “Whatever you saw, it was not affection. He doesn’t want me.”
Tabitha opened her mouth, but closed it again just as quickly. She gave a small nod instead. “Of course, my lady. Perhaps I misspoke.”
Dorothea walked towards the door. “Would you send regrets to all of the invitations we received?”
“All of them?” Tabitha asked. “You don’t intend to go to any?”
“If I do, I will only invite gossip and stares. Best to remain out of sight… for now.”
Tabitha frowned. “You did nothing wrong.”
Dorothea paused in the doorway. “Didn’t I?” she asked. “I trusted the wrong man.”
And with that, she stepped into the corridor, her heart heavy as lead, and made her way to the drawing room.
Inside, she found Lady Sarah and Arabella seated together on the settee, deep in conversation.
Dorothea cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
Arabella’s head whipped up, and she sprang to her feet. “Oh, my poor dear!” she cried, rushing across the room and enveloping Dorothea in a tight, dramatic embrace. “Are you quite all right?”
Perhaps it was the need for comfort—or perhaps just sheer exhaustion—but Dorothea allowed herself to be held.
“I’m fine,” she murmured.
Arabella leaned back, holding her at arm’s length to inspect her tear-streaked face. “You are not fine. You’re humiliated.”
Lady Sarah spoke up. “Arabella, really. That is not the least bit helpful.”
“I meant nothing by it,” Arabella insisted. “It’s simply the truth. The article was in the Society pages, plain as day. The entire ton knows about the annulment now.”
Dorothea groaned softly. “Thank you for the reminder.”
Arabella grabbed her hand and tugged her towards the settee. “You must tell us everything. Did you know Lord Warwicke was seeking an annulment?”
She shook her head. “No. I found out with the rest of the world.”
Arabella gasped and clutched at her chest as though Dorothea had just confessed to murder. “He didn’t tell you? You found out by reading the newssheets?”
Dorothea’s cheeks flushed. “I would rather not talk about it.”
Lady Sarah leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on Dorothea’s knee. “Of course. And you don’t have to. We’re not here to interrogate you. We’re here because we’re your family, and we are worried about you.”
Dorothea managed a nod. “Thank you, but truly, I’ll be all right.”
“This is the most scandalous thing to happen all Season,” Arabella announced.
Lady Sarah shot her daughter a warning look. “Do stop. You’re upsetting her.”
Dorothea raised a hand. “It’s all right. Arabella’s only saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“Exactly,” Arabella replied. “But you needn’t fret. Parliament almost never grants annulments. He’ll likely be stuck with you.”
Dorothea flinched. “Does it even matter? He’s made his feelings perfectly clear. He doesn’t want me.”
Arabella’s mouth opened to reply, but Lady Sarah cut her off. “You are strong, Dorothea. And I promise, you will get through this. One day, all of this pain will feel distant. It may not seem like it now, but you do not know what blessings the future may hold.”
Dorothea’s shoulders slumped. “It feels impossible.”
Lady Sarah offered her a warm smile. “Sometimes the greatest trials come just before something beautiful.”
Arabella leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you quite certain you didn’t do something to offend him?”
Lady Sarah rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you should wait in the entry hall until you’ve remembered how to behave like a friend.”
At that moment, a footman stepped into the room carrying a gleaming tea service. Dorothea recognized him—he had been present the morning of the riding accident. He moved with practiced grace and placed the tray down on the table.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” he asked, straightening.
“No, thank you,” Dorothea acknowledged.
Lady Sarah gave Arabella a meaningful nudge. “Do pour the tea, dear.”
“But I’m the guest,” Arabella argued.
“Yes, and we are here to comfort Dorothea, not you,” Lady Sarah replied firmly.
With a dramatic sigh, Arabella lifted the teapot and poured three cups. Lady Sarah took one and handed it to Dorothea with great care.
“There you are,” she said. “This will help calm your nerves.”
Dorothea accepted the teacup and lowered her gaze, unsure if she wanted to sip or weep. She didn’t want tea. She wanted to not feel so utterly unwanted.
But then Lady Sarah offered, “Don’t give up hope yet.”
And for one fragile, flickering moment… Dorothea almost believed her.
Dorothea brought the teacup to her lips. The warmth seeped into her hands first, then spread through her chest as she swallowed. It was soothing, but it did little to temper the storm within her. Her heart still ached, raw and sore, as if bruised from the inside. The tea couldn’t reach that place.
Lady Sarah watched her over the rim of her own cup, her expression kind. “So… do you intend to move back home?”
Home.
The word landed with unexpected weight. Dorothea’s gaze drifted across the drawing room. This place had begun to feel familiar, but it wasn’t truly hers. And yet… the alternative made her stomach twist.
She could not return to her brother’s house. The very thought of it filled her with dread.
Setting the teacup back into its saucer with careful deliberation, she said, “I have not yet decided what I shall do.”
“You have time to make that decision,” Lady Sarah said. “But know that you are always welcome with us.”
Arabella interjected, “But our townhouse is already rather crowded, is it not? I don’t believe there’s any proper room left for Dorothea.”
Lady Sarah’s smile thinned. “We will make the room.”
Arabella pursed her lips. “Her room is being used as storage for my gowns. I’ve nowhere else to keep them.”
“We must all make sacrifices for the sake of family, dear,” Lady Sarah replied, her voice edged with a quiet sharpness.
Arabella crossed her arms with a huff. “Why must I make all the sacrifices?” she muttered.
Lady Sarah slowly rose from the settee, steadying herself with her cane. “And on that note, I believe it’s time we took our leave.”
Dorothea stood as well, though as she pushed herself to her feet, a strange wave of dizziness swept over her. Her vision blurred at the edges, and the room seemed to tip slightly beneath her. She raised a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, willing the sensation to pass.
“Dorothea?” Lady Sarah asked, her voice ripe with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I just…” She pressed her fingertips to her temple, her other hand gripping the back of the chair. “I just need a moment.”
The aching in her limbs had worsened—deep, pulsing aches that settled in her shoulders and lower back. And her stomach had begun to churn, the nausea rising with disconcerting swiftness.
She sank back into her chair as the room slowly righted itself. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap.
“I feel… unwell,” she admitted. “Like I’ve taken ill.”
Lady Sarah moved closer and touched her shoulder. “You’re pale as a sheet. Arabella, go fetch someone—now.”
As Arabella rushed towards the door, Dorothea leaned back into the settee and let her body sink into the cushions. Her limbs ached, her head throbbed, and her stomach twisted in protest. But it was none of those things that truly unsettled her.
It was the thought of him.
If Dominic came…
She closed her eyes.
She did not want his pity. Not his sudden, hollow attempts at comfort when he had already made it so devastatingly clear that he wanted nothing to do with her.
Let it be anyone but him, she pleaded silently. A maid. Or even the footman who had witnessed her fall from the horse.
But not Dominic.
Dominic sat at his desk, a quill poised above an open ledger, when a sharp, panicked cry pierced the stillness of the study.
“Help! Someone—please!”
The voice was female—urgent, unmistakably distressed.