Chapter 21 #2
“Since you missed breakfast, Mrs. Dawson sent this up for you,” her lady’s maid announced.
“That was kind of her,” Dorothea murmured, though her eyes remained fixed on the gardens.
Tabitha crossed the room and set the tray down on the table before drifting to the window to join her. “I do so love hearing Tristan laugh.”
“You have a remarkable boy,” Dorothea replied.
“I think so, too—when he’s not climbing on the furniture or hiding frogs in my shoes,” Tabitha teased with a fond smile.
Dorothea turned to her. “Have you given any more thought to what Dominic offered? Your own household—”
But Tabitha raised a hand, stilling her words. “I’m happy here.”
“Then… perhaps you might consider being my companion?”
A firmer shake of her head followed. “No, my lady. I’m content as I am. I like my place in this house, close to you and to Tristan.”
“But if you had your own home—”
“I’d miss this,” Tabitha said simply, motioning to the scene outside. “I want Tristan to grow up surrounded by people who love him. Including Lord Warwicke. He’s a fine man.”
“That he is,” Dorothea agreed.
Tabitha offered a knowing smile. “Our arrangement may not be conventional, but I wouldn’t change it.”
“Then we shall keep it just as it is,” Dorothea said, returning her smile.
Another knock came at the door. Tabitha moved to answer it and a maid entered, dipping into a quick curtsy.
“A Mr. Stevens is here to see Lady Warwicke,” she announced. “He says he’s Lord Warwicke’s uncle.”
Dorothea’s brow lifted. “Very well. Please show him into the drawing room.”
Once the maid departed, Tabitha turned to her with urgency. “We must dress you at once, my lady.”
Not long after, Dorothea descended the stairs dressed in a soft green morning gown that brought a touch of color to her cheeks.
Her hair had been gathered into a loose chignon, a few wisps escaping to soften her features.
She felt oddly nervous but also curious.
Dominic had spoken highly of his uncle, with rare affection.
As she entered the drawing room, her eyes fell on a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman whose hair was white at the temples, though streaks of black still lingered. There was something in his bearing, in the quiet strength of his stance, that reminded her strikingly of Dominic.
He turned at her approach and bowed deeply. “My lady,” he said with warm formality. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
She dipped into a curtsy. “It is my pleasure, sir.”
A smile broke across his face, gentle and sincere. “Please. We are family now. You may call me Adam.”
“Then you must call me Dorothea,” she replied, stepping farther into the room.
Adam studied her for a thoughtful moment, then said with a glint of humor, “So you are the woman who managed to capture my nephew’s heart.”
Her cheeks flushed. “He captured mine as well.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Adam said. “He was always determined to remain unwed—as if solitude could atone for his past. So you can imagine my delight when I saw the news in the newssheets.”
“What news?”
“Ah, you haven’t read it yet,” he said with a chuckle. “A Mr. Fairchild penned the article. I rarely indulge in the Society pages, but I never miss one of his pieces.”
Dorothea smiled faintly. “Mr. Fairchild does have a certain flair.”
Adam grinned. “Indeed. And if even half of what he wrote is true, then my nephew is a very fortunate man.”
A low, familiar voice echoed from the doorway, dry with humor. “I wouldn’t believe everything you read, Uncle.”
Dorothea turned and found Dominic leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, the faintest quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked relaxed—unburdened in a way she rarely saw—and her heart stirred at the sight.
“And you, dear husband,” she said with a playful lift of her brow, “are supposed to be charming.”
Dominic gave a shrug, but amusement danced in his eyes. “It’s possible Mr. Fairchild exaggerated my charms. What’s he gone and said this time?”
Adam gestured towards him with a knowing smile. “He claimed the annulment has been officially called off. I do hope that part is accurate.”
Pushing off from the frame, Dominic stepped into the room with steady purpose. “It is.”
“That is wonderful news. And to commemorate such a momentous occasion, I’ve brought you a wedding gift.”
“You didn’t have to—” Dominic began, but his uncle cut him off with a wave of his hand.
“Nonsense. I had to. And besides, this gift was meant for you long ago.” With a subtle flick of his wrist, Adam signaled to a footman waiting just beyond the door.
The servant entered bearing a large, cloth-covered frame.
As he gently set it down near the settee and withdrew the fabric, a gasp slipped from Dorothea’s lips.
The portrait revealed a woman of striking poise and beauty, seated with regal grace. Her dark hair was arranged in soft curls, and a young boy stood at her side, his features solemn—so familiar in their resemblance to the man now standing beside her.
Dominic’s expression stilled as he stepped closer. His gaze remained riveted to the painting, his voice quiet with memory. “I remember this. I was six… maybe seven. The painter made me sit still for what felt like an eternity. I hated every minute of it.”
Dorothea moved to his side, her hand slipping into his. “She was beautiful,” she said gently, studying the woman’s serene expression and the elegance in her posture.
“She was,” Dominic replied, his voice roughening as moisture welled in his eyes.
Adam stepped forward and rested a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Your mother would’ve been proud of the man you’ve become. I know I am.”
Dominic swallowed. “Thank you. For this—for everything. I’ll treasure it.”
Dorothea gave his hand a soft squeeze. “We should hang it over the fireplace in here.”
“I would like that,” Dominic replied.
Adam’s hand lingered for a moment longer before he stepped back with a smile. “Well, I ought to be off. If I don’t go now, I’ll be stuck behind carriages and won’t make it home for hours.”
Dorothea turned towards him and asked, “Must you leave so soon? We’d love to have you stay for dinner.”
Adam hesitated, then conceded. “Dinner would be lovely, but you must excuse me. I should wash up first,” he said before departing from the room.
Dorothea turned back to her husband, only to find Dominic still gazing at the portrait. His expression was thoughtful, quiet—haunted, perhaps, but not broken. Not anymore.
“I wish I had met your mother,” Dorothea murmured.
Dominic turned towards her and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingertips lingering against her cheek. “I know my mother would have adored you.”
“And why is that?”
He took a step closer, his voice lowering into something almost reverent. “Because you make me happy, my love. More than I ever thought possible… more than I ever believed I deserved.”
Dorothea’s heart twisted in the most exquisite way. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “Because you make me happy, too. In ways I never expected.”
Dominic leaned forward and captured her lips in a kiss—slow, sure, and achingly tender. When he pulled back, his voice was roughened by affection. “And, just so you know, I have a rather particular fondness for kissing you.”
Dorothea let out a soft laugh, joy bubbling up through her chest. “You’ll hear no complaints from me,” she said. “You’re welcome to indulge in that fondness as often as you wish.”
“Those are dangerous words, my love,” he teased.
“And yet I regret nothing,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist.
For a long moment, they stood there, surrounded by the quiet stillness of the room, and it felt as if a blessing lingered in the air.
As if love itself had finally found room to breathe.