Chapter 15
The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows of Dorothea’s bedchamber as she turned a page in the book resting on her lap.
Across the room, Tabitha sat in a chair near the hearth, her hands moving with practiced ease as she worked on her embroidery. The quiet click of needle and thread was the only sound in the room, broken only when Tabitha paused, glanced up, and asked gently, “Can I get you anything, my lady?”
Dorothea turned her head and offered a faint smile. “No, thank you. I am quite comfortable.”
Tabitha lowered her embroidery to her lap, her expression thoughtful. “Forgive me for saying so, but Lord Warwicke has been particularly attentive to you of late.”
“He has.”
“I do not believe he is as immune to your charm as he claims,” Tabitha continued, a knowing gleam in her eyes.
Dorothea shook her head. “That is not the issue. He’s not avoiding affection because he is indifferent, but he believes he is sparing me. He sees this marriage as a trap… for me.”
“And what do you believe?”
Dorothea closed her book and laid it aside. “I don’t want to lose Dominic,” she confessed.
“Then you must continue the fight,” Tabitha said with conviction.
A frown tugged at Dorothea’s lips. “I’ve tried, but he remains so resolute. I don’t know how to show him that I am better off with him than without him. He is being stubborn to a fault.”
Tabitha regarded her closely. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but may I ask about your brother? It seems evident that you fear him.”
Dorothea nodded. “My brother is not a kind man. He used to strike me. It was always worse when no one was around to intervene. And I cannot go back. I will not live under his roof again.”
“I do not believe Lord Warwicke would ever permit such a thing,” Tabitha said.
Dorothea looked back to the window. “Sometimes, when he’s not thinking, I see a softness in him… something tender flickering behind the walls he’s built. But then he remembers himself, and it vanishes like a candle being snuffed out.”
“War leaves strange shadows behind,” Tabitha murmured. “My husband’s last letters were so dark, and his words grew distant, grim. As though hope itself had been bled from him.”
“I was there,” Dorothea said. “I was never on the battlefield, but I saw the aftermath—the wounded men, the screams in the night, the hollow eyes. I saw what war left behind.”
“Then you saw more than most women ever do,” Tabitha replied. “Some might say that makes you lucky.”
Dorothea gave a humorless laugh. “Lucky?” she repeated. “I lost my father during the war, and now I am losing my husband to it—just in a different way.”
“Give Lord Warwicke time,” Tabitha urged.
“Time is all I ever give him. Dominic walked into my life as if he had always lived there, like my heart had always been his.”
Tabitha’s gaze softened with understanding. “You love him.”
“I do,” Dorothea whispered. “I don’t even know why. There is no logic to it. But my heart is quite decided.”
Tabitha gave a wistful smile. “The heart seldom listens to reason. I loved my husband from the moment we met. We were young and reckless. He promised he’d make his fortune during the war and come back to us. But he never did.”
“I’m so sorry,” Dorothea said, her voice thick with empathy.
Tabitha sighed, her expression a mixture of sorrow and resignation. “It’s all right. I try to focus on the blessings I still have. I have a good job here, and Tristan is thriving under this roof.”
“You’ve raised a good son.”
“I think so,” Tabitha replied. “Though I’m rather biased.”
Dorothea smiled. “That’s the mark of any good mother.”
A firm knock interrupted the moment.
Tabitha set aside her needlework and crossed the room. “Who is there?”
“Molly,” came the muffled reply from the other side. “Wright asked me to inform Lady Warwicke that Lady Westcott and Lady Bedford have come to call.”
Turning towards Dorothea, Tabitha asked, “Do you wish to receive them?”
Dorothea lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Though I’ve no idea what they want with me.”
Tabitha turned back to the door. “Lady Warwicke will be down in a moment,” she informed Molly.
Dorothea rose from the window seat, brushing out the creases in her skirts. “I wonder what they want,” she murmured, half to herself.
Tabitha moved to the door and unlocked it, holding it open. “Lord Warwicke gave strict instructions that I am to accompany you.”
Dorothea gave a slight nod. “Then let us not keep our callers waiting.”
As they moved through the quiet corridor, Tabitha stole a glance at Dorothea before speaking. “Tristan informed me that Lord Warwicke has hired a tutor for him.”
“Yes, I believe that’s correct. He mentioned it briefly once.”
Tabitha’s brows drew together, her voice cautious. “Does he know that I cannot afford such an extravagance?”
“You need not concern yourself,” Dorothea replied. “My husband has grown rather fond of Tristan. I believe he sees something of himself in your boy. Perhaps it’s the curiosity… or the stubbornness.”
Tabitha’s lips curled into a small smile, tinged with surprise. “That is awfully generous of him. I shall be sure to thank him personally.”
Dorothea smiled back, but before she could respond, they arrived at the drawing room. She crossed the threshold, her gaze immediately falling on the two women awaiting her inside.
They were elegant—almost intimidatingly so.
One possessed rich, dark brown hair pinned artfully into a modest chignon, while the other had a cascade of golden curls that caught the afternoon light like spun silk.
Both were impeccably dressed, their gowns a clear mark of fashion and refinement.
And both were smiling at her—wide, practiced smiles that made Dorothea wonder if she was being evaluated or pitied.
Was she merely some new curiosity? A social obligation? Or worse, a charity case?
“Good afternoon,” Dorothea said, managing a polite smile of her own.
The brunette stepped forward with graceful confidence. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. I am Lady Westcott.”
“And I am Lady Bedford,” the blonde woman added.
Dorothea clasped her hands together at her waist, unsure whether to feel guarded or grateful. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage since I do not know what occasioned your visit.”
Lady Westcott’s smile didn’t falter. “Our husbands are friends with Lord Warwicke, and we wished to introduce ourselves.”
Lady Bedford leaned in slightly, her tone more playful. “Although, my husband insists he is Lord Warwicke’s closest friend. He would be most put out if I didn’t extend an olive branch on his behalf.”
Dorothea gave them an apologetic look. “I must admit, my husband has never spoken of either gentleman.”
Lady Westcott did not look concerned. “That doesn’t surprise me. My husband says Lord Warwicke keeps to himself. A man of mystery, it seems.”
“That he is,” Dorothea murmured, gesturing towards the settee. “Would you care to sit for a moment?”
“That would be lovely,” Lady Bedford replied, sweeping over to the proffered seat with the grace of someone well-accustomed to drawing rooms and small talk. “We should have come earlier, but we thought it best to give you time to settle in. Newlywed life can be rather consuming, can it not?”
Dorothea took her seat and folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Did you happen to read the Society pages yesterday?”
Lady Westcott and Lady Bedford exchanged a glance, and then Lady Westcott nodded. “We did. Which is precisely why we felt it necessary to come. You see, we ladies must support one another when the gossip columns attempt to reduce us to a headline.”
“Aren’t you concerned about being caught up in the scandal? About what others might say?” Dorothea asked.
Lady Bedford gave a light, unbothered laugh, waving her hand in front of her. “I have weathered my own share of scandals. I emerged from each one wiser, more resilient, and far less concerned with the opinions of people who hide behind their fans and whisper behind your back.”
“You are not alone in this,” Lady Westcott remarked. “If there is one thing the ton excels at, it is forgetting. The story will fade, replaced by the next bit of juicy gossip.”
Dorothea looked between the two women, still unsure what to make of them—but grateful, nonetheless, for the unexpected kindness. Whether it was pity, duty, or genuine outreach, it felt like a lifeline.
And at that moment, she needed one.
Lady Westcott leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You should know that my husband intends to vote against the annulment.”
“He does?”
Her eyes held kindness as she replied, “Indeed. He said that you are the best thing to happen to Lord Warwicke since he returned from the war. And I daresay he’s right.”
Before Dorothea could respond, Lady Bedford gave an unladylike scoff and interjected. “As does mine since I told him—in no uncertain terms—that supporting this annulment would be a mistake. A grave one. Honestly, it’s sheer madness.”
Dorothea’s lips parted in astonishment. The honesty, the unexpected solidarity—it was more than she had anticipated from women who were practically strangers.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you. Both of you. Truly.”
“You don’t have to say anything at all,” Lady Westcott assured her. “Just know this—despite what the gossip columns may imply, not everyone in the ton is against you. There are some of us who see you clearly, and we are most certainly in your corner.”
Dorothea blinked back the sting of sudden emotion. The kindness was unexpected and so genuine that it nearly undid her. She nodded, unable to find the words, but grateful all the same.
Lady Bedford, who had been watching with an amused gleam in her eyes, sat back against the settee and declared, “And if all else fails, we are not above kidnapping Lord Warwicke until he comes to his senses.”