Chapter 17 #2
What was he feeling?
Was it… contentment?
The realization struck him, without warning, and yet with an undeniable clarity. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years—not since before the war, before the weight of duty had hardened him from the inside out.
And it was all because of Dorothea.
Dorothea sat nestled within the open carriage, her gloved hands resting lightly in her lap as they rolled steadily down the bustling road.
The city was alive with movement—hawkers lined the edge of the pavement, waving ribbons, shouting out their wares with exaggerated cheer, while elegant ladies browsed stalls beneath parasols and children darted through the gaps in the crowd.
The scent of warm bread wafted through the air, mingling with the faint aroma of coal smoke and horsehair, creating that familiar, chaotic perfume of London.
As she turned her head to glance towards Dominic, she found him already watching her. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze held a warmth that made her pulse skip.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
He shook his head, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “No. I’m merely enjoying your reactions.”
Dorothea smiled, turning her gaze outward once more. “I rather enjoy being outside—watching people, seeing the world in motion. There’s so much energy in the streets. So much life.”
Dominic gave a short, amused huff. “That is… unusual.”
She turned her head, brow lifted. “Unusual?”
“Most people of our class find it chaotic. Tiresome. But you seem to draw strength from it.”
“I suppose I do,” she admitted. “It reminds me that the world keeps turning, even when one’s own has come to a standstill.”
As the carriage curved past the crowded shops and turned into the wide, tree-lined lane leading to Hyde Park, Dorothea sat straighter in her seat, her eyes widening with something close to delight. “I haven’t been to Hyde Park in years.”
Dominic followed her gaze, his voice drier now. “It is a place to be seen. Nothing more.”
Dorothea glanced at him. “That’s a rather cynical view. It’s beautiful here. The trees, the lake… even the bustle of the park itself.”
“Not Rotten Row,” he muttered, eyeing the long, orderly line of fashionable carriages with clear distaste.
“That stretch is nothing but a slow-moving parade. People lining up to observe and to be observed. They pretend to take in the scenery while measuring the worth of every gown and every companion.”
Dorothea tilted her head, amused. “If you dislike it so thoroughly, why did you suggest this outing?”
He looked at her then, a devilish smile forming. “Because I wanted to spend time with you. Alone.”
She gave a soft laugh, raising a hand to gesture towards the row of carriages ahead of them. “Then I daresay you’ve miscalculated. We are anything but alone.”
Dominic leaned back against the cushions. “We are alone… enough.”
She laughed again. “Well then, shall we pass the time by discussing the weather?”
He feigned a shudder. “No, thank you. I’d prefer to discuss anything else.”
She regarded him for a long moment before asking, “May I ask you something more serious?”
“You may always ask me anything,” he said, his tone suddenly sincere.
She hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you miss it? Being a soldier?”
The amusement drained from his features, leaving behind something far more solemn. For a moment, he didn’t respond, and she wondered if she’d overstepped. But then he spoke, his voice tentative at first.
“There are parts I miss,” he admitted. “The camaraderie. The clarity. The rush of releasing a rocket and watching it soar towards its target. For a moment, everything made sense—every choice, every breath.”
He paused, his gaze turning distant. “But if I sit in silence too long, I can still hear the echo of it all. The sharp crack of musket fire. The roar of the cannons. And worse still—the screams of the wounded. The dying.”
A lump formed in Dorothea’s throat. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure what words could possibly ease the pain of such memories.
“I fought. I survived. But it’s not a chapter I like to revisit,” he said quietly. “Though… I’ll always carry pride in serving with my unit. Being chosen for the Second Rocket Troop was an honor I never expected.”
Dorothea’s brows knit with regret. “I should never have brought it up.”
“It is all right,” Dominic assured her. “Truly, you can ask me anything. I mean that. You may not always like what I say, but I will never lie to you.”
That courage—the openness in his voice—made her braver in return. “Then let me ask one more thing,” she said, steadying her breath. “Do you regret marrying me?”
His silence was immediate, but it didn’t feel cold—just weighty. Thoughtful.
“At first, yes,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain. “I regretted the circumstances. The rushed decisions. The way it all unfolded.”
Her heart clenched.
“But not you,” he added firmly. “Never you. And everything since then has changed. I am glad—truly glad—that I married you.”
Dorothea turned her face towards the wind, letting the breeze carry away the sting of his initial confession. But his final words—those stayed. Warming her from within like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“I’m relieved to hear that,” she murmured.
Dominic shifted slightly in his seat, close enough that his shoulder brushed gently against hers. The contact was unintentional—or at least, it seemed so—but it sent a ripple through her nonetheless.
“Why is it that you seem so surprised by my response?” he asked, eyes searching hers. “You know that I care about you.”
Dorothea looked away. “I know you care,” she replied. “But that’s not the same as staying. Do you still intend to go through with the annulment?”
Dominic winced—just slightly, but enough to answer her question before he opened his mouth. “I haven’t decided yet,” he admitted, his voice rough with conflict. “It’s… complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it,” she said, turning towards him, her tone firm.
His brow furrowed. “It’s not that simple, Thea. Whatever happens, I’ll ensure you’re well cared for. You’ll have your own household. Your own independence. You won’t want for anything.”
Dorothea pressed her lips together, hard. Why couldn’t he see? She didn’t want a house of her own. She didn’t want security or solitude or financial assurance. She wanted him.
He sighed. “I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for, but it’s the truth.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You want the truth?”
“I do.”
“Then here it is,” she said. “I think you’re a coward.”
His head snapped back slightly, as though she’d struck him. “I beg your pardon?”
Dorothea squared her shoulders, refusing to look away. “You’re afraid, Dominic. Afraid of what this could be. So instead of facing it, you’re pushing me away. You keep yourself closed off and convince yourself that you’re doing the noble thing.”
His jaw clenched. “Thea—”
But she lifted a hand and held it up, silencing him. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t pretend you’re heartless. You’re not. You think you’re unlovable because of what you’ve seen. What you’ve done. But that isn’t true.”
Her voice softened, but it lost none of its conviction. “You are lovable. You just don’t believe it yet.”
Dominic turned towards her, expression caught between defensiveness and vulnerability, as though the words had cracked something he’d tried so hard to keep sealed.
But before he could speak, a sharp voice called out from beside the carriage.
“Lord Warwicke!”
A tall, heavy-set man on horseback drew near, his riding coat stretched across a barrel-like chest. His face was flushed from the exertion of the ride—or perhaps from self-satisfaction—and his eyes gleamed with too much familiarity as he looked between them.
“And this must be your lovely wife,” he said, his gaze lingering too long on Dorothea.
Dominic’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. He grew rigid. “Lord Inglewood,” he said tersely. “You may carry on. There’s no need to stop and speak with us.”
Lord Inglewood ignored the dismissal, reins slack in his gloved hand as his horse shifted beneath him. “Your presence is causing quite the stir,” he said with amusement. “I daresay all of Rotten Row is buzzing.”
“That was not our intention,” Dominic said. “We’re simply enjoying a quiet ride.”
“During the fashionable hour?” Lord Inglewood’s brows rose in mock surprise. “Surely you knew better, Warwicke. This is not the hour for quiet.”
Dominic’s patience thinned visibly. “What do you want, Inglewood?”
“Only an introduction,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “I have not yet had the pleasure of being properly introduced to your bride.”
After a long moment, Dominic spoke, his tone clipped. “Lord Inglewood, allow me the honor of introducing you to my wife, Lady Warwicke.”
Lord Inglewood tipped his hat with a theatrical flourish. “My lady. You are even lovelier than the whispers suggested. I can see why Warwicke keeps you so well hidden.”
Dorothea arched an eyebrow. “My husband does not keep me anywhere, Lord Inglewood.”
“Of course not,” Lord Inglewood said with a lazy smirk, though there was an edge of sharpness beneath the surface. He adjusted his grip on the reins and turned his gaze back to Dominic with a flicker of expectation. “Now then, have you come to a decision regarding our arrangement?”
Dominic met his gaze. “I have.”
The older man leaned forward slightly in his saddle, as if already anticipating agreement. “Well?”
“I will not be supporting your bill,” Dominic replied, his tone resolute. “I believe it serves personal interests, not the public good. I cannot, in good conscience, endorse legislation that would enrich a select few at the cost of the nation’s stability.”
Lord Inglewood’s face hardened. The false charm drained away, replaced by something cold and dangerous.
“Then I wish you the best of luck securing your annulment in Parliament without the backing of the Tory party,” he stated.
“I imagine you’ll find the path far more difficult than you anticipated. ”
“I’ll take my chances,” Dominic replied.
Lord Inglewood narrowed his eyes. “You’re either very brave—or very foolish.” And then, with a smirk that reeked of cruelty, he glanced at Dorothea. “Perhaps,” he drawled, “once you've cast your wife aside, I might have a go with her.”
Dorothea’s breath caught in her throat. “How dare you—”
But Dominic cut her off, his voice vibrating with fury. “Say something like that again,” he growled, “and I promise you, it will be the last mistake you ever make.”
Inglewood, to his credit—or perhaps his arrogance—didn’t flinch. But a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. “That’s rather bold talk,” he said, “from a man so eager to be rid of her.”
Dominic’s gaze never wavered. “If I were truly eager to be rid of her, I wouldn’t be threatening a duel over your disgraceful tongue. She is my wife, Inglewood. And that gives me every right—and obligation—to defend her honor.”
Inglewood’s lips curled into a sneer. “She is your wife… for now,” he said, his tone mocking. With a tug on the reins, he wheeled his horse around and rode off, his departure kicking up a trail of dust behind him.
Dorothea looked over at Dominic and said, “That man is vile. Utterly without shame.”
Dominic turned to face her. The tension in his jaw began to ease, and some of the fire in his eyes cooled—but not all of it. His expression softened, but there remained a flicker of fierce protectiveness in his voice.
“Never be alone with Lord Inglewood,” he said, the command beneath the words unmistakable. “I do not trust him.”
Dorothea nodded. “I won’t. I promise.”
He studied her for a moment, as if trying to gauge whether she truly understood the threat Inglewood posed. Then, ever so gently, he placed a hand over hers where it rested on her lap.
“I would never let him touch you,” Dominic assured her, the edge of violence still simmering beneath his calm. “Not while I still draw breath.”
“I know,” she replied.
And she did. The promise in his words wasn’t idle. He meant it, every word, and she should be grateful for such a declaration. But she wanted more. She wanted love, or nothing at all.