Chapter Seven
“Miss Weston, the sky has gone quite strange.”
Lorraine looked up from the geography primer to find Thomas at the nursery window, his small face pressed to the glass.
Beyond him, the October afternoon had turned ominous—the sky a bruised yellow-grey, the wind driving the bare branches of the oaks into restless motion, the first heavy drops of rain striking the panes with sharp insistence.
“So it has.” She set the book aside and joined him. The moors stretched bleak and open below, and as she watched, a jagged streak of lightning split the sky. Thomas flinched, edging closer to her.
“I do not like storms,” he said quietly. “They are too loud.”
“I understand.” Lorraine rested a hand upon his shoulder, feeling the tension there. “When I was your age, I used to hide beneath my bed whenever there was thunder. My father would find me there with my hands over my ears, utterly convinced the world was ending.”
Thomas glanced up at her, curiosity momentarily overtaking fear. “What did your father do?”
“He crawled under the bed beside me.” She smiled faintly. “He said storms were only the sky in a temper, and that the sensible thing was to wait it out somewhere comfortable until it passed.”
“That is rather foolish.”
“Entirely foolish. But it answered its purpose.”
Thunder rolled again, closer now. The lamps flickered.
Thomas caught her hand. “It is very loud.”
“It is only the storm,” she said, gently. “We are quite safe—”
The lamps flickered—and went out.
For a moment, the room fell into dim shadow, the grey light from the windows casting strange, shifting shapes across the walls. Thomas gave a small, frightened sound.
“It is all right,” Lorraine said at once, steadying her voice. “The draft has caught the lamps. Old houses are full of such tricks in bad weather. We shall find candles.”
“I do not know where they are.”
“Then we shall discover them together. Come.”
She led him toward the door, one hand resting lightly at his shoulder, the other extended before her. The corridor beyond was darker still, the storm pressing at the windows like a living thing.
“Miss Weston?” Thomas’s voice trembled. “I am frightened.”
“I know. But I am here. I shall not leave you.”
“Promise?”
She hesitated only a moment.
“I promise.”
They had gone but a little way when a warm light appeared at the far end of the corridor. Footsteps followed, measured and steady, and then the Duke came into view, carrying a candelabra in one hand and a lantern in the other.
“Miss Weston. Thomas.” His voice was low, composed. “Are you well?”
“The lamps went out,” Thomas said gravely.
“So I see.” A faint dryness touched the Duke’s tone. “The wind has found its way through the shutters, I imagine. Half the house is in darkness.” He extended the lantern toward Lorraine. “You may have use of this.”
She took it, her fingers brushing his in passing—a fleeting contact, yet she felt it keenly.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“The nursery will be chill without a proper fire.” His gaze rested on her, steady in the shifting light. “The library hearth is well kept. You may be more comfortable there.”
It was not quite an invitation. Nor quite anything else.
“Thomas?” Lorraine said. “Shall we sit by the fire until the storm passes?”
Thomas cast a quick glance at the Duke. “Will… will His Grace be there?”
A pause, filled by the low rumble of thunder.
“Yes,” the Duke said quietly. “If you wish it.”
Another moment of hesitation. Then Thomas nodded, just once, and Lorraine felt something ease in her chest.
“Lead the way, Your Grace,” she said.
***
Dominic had not intended this.
He had been in his study when the storm broke, watching the sky darken, his thoughts straying—as they had done with increasing frequency—to a certain governess who had unsettled the careful order of his days.
Three weeks. In that time, she had challenged him, unsettled him, drawn from him words he had not spoken in years. She had looked at him without fear—and without illusion.
And now he walked beside her through the darkened halls, carrying light.
The library was warm, at least. The fire had been built high against the storm, and the flames cast dancing shadows across the shelves and the leather chairs and the carpet where, he noticed, someone had left a collection of toy soldiers arranged in careful formations.
“We were playing,” Thomas said, following his gaze. “Earlier. Before lessons.”
“I see that.” Dominic set the candelabra on the mantle and turned to survey the room. “Who was winning?”
“I was.” A trace of pride entered the boy’s voice. “Miss Weston tried to outflank me, but I saw it coming.”
“You did?” Dominic felt the unfamiliar stir of something like satisfaction. “Your father would be proud.”
The words escaped him.
Thomas’s expression shifted—something complex passing through it—but he did not retreat.
“Did you know him?” he asked. “When you were soldiers?”
“Yes.” Dominic inclined his head. “He was my friend.”
“Was he brave?”
“The bravest man I knew.”
“Was he ever frightened?”
Dominic considered. “Yes. As all men are. That is what gives courage its meaning; doing what must be done, even when one is afraid.”
Thomas absorbed this in silence. Then, very softly, “I am frightened often. Does that mean I might be brave too?”
Dominic crossed the space between them and knelt.
“You are brave already,” he said. “You have endured more than many grown men. That is no small thing.”
Thomas stared at him.
And then, suddenly, he moved—flinging himself forward.
Dominic caught him by instinct, one hand braced against the floor, the other closing around the slight body now clinging to him. Thomas buried his face against his shoulder, his small frame shaking with sobs that could no longer be contained.
Dominic stilled.
Every instinct urged retreat. Distance. Safety.
But the child held fast, and across the room Lorraine stood watching, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
And something shifted.
Dominic tightened his hold. One hand came up, awkward but certain, to rest against the boy’s head. He did not speak. Words would not suffice.
So, he did the only thing left to him.
He held on.
***
Lorraine watched them through a blur of tears she refused to shed.
For weeks, she had watched Dominic Vane struggle against himself—hovering in doorways, pausing outside closed rooms, treating every attempt at connection as though it cost him dearly.
She had known, in theory, that warmth must still exist in him—the man who had once laughed with William, who had played at soldiers as a boy, who had watched kestrels wheel above the folly—but she had not truly believed it until now.
Until she saw him kneeling on the library floor, holding a weeping child as though nothing else in the world mattered.
The storm raged. The fire burned steadily. And, little by little, Thomas’s sobs softened to hiccups; his grip loosened, and he drew back, blinking up at Dominic with red-rimmed eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I didn’t mean to—I know you don’t—”
“Don’t.” Dominic’s voice was rough. “Do not apologise. Not for that. Never for that.”
“But I got your coat wet.”
“Coats can be cleaned.” Dominic lifted a hand and brushed a tear from Thomas’s cheek with his thumb—a gesture so unexpectedly gentle that Lorraine felt something in her chest give way. “Feelings cannot. They must be borne.”
Thomas thought about that for a moment. “Miss Weston says that too,” he said. “She says it’s all right to be sad… just not forever.”
“Miss Weston is very wise.”
“I know.” Thomas glanced over at Lorraine, and a small, unsteady smile touched his face. “She makes me laugh sometimes. Even when I don’t want to.”
“Does she?” Dominic’s gaze followed, settling on Lorraine. It was different now—warmer, unguarded in a way she had not seen before. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
The moment lingered. Lorraine knew she ought to look away—but did not. The firelight, the storm, the fragile intimacy of what she had just witnessed held her fast beneath the weight of his attention.
Thomas, mercifully unaware, tugged at Dominic’s sleeve. “Will you stay? With us? Until the storm is over?”
A pause. A choice.
“Yes,” Dominic said. “I will stay.”
They made camp in the library like explorers in a foreign land.
Lorraine gathered cushions and arranged them before the fire.
Thomas collected his soldiers and began explaining their positions to Dominic with the gravity of a general addressing his commander.
Dominic listened, asked questions, offered suggestions—and somehow, improbably, the three of them fell into an easy rhythm.
When the soldiers were put away, Thomas looked up.
“Miss Weston tells good stories,” he informed Dominic. “She does voices and everything.”
“Does she indeed?” Dominic settled into one of the leather chairs, Thomas curled at his feet. “Then I should very much like to hear one.”
Lorraine felt the faintest warmth rise to her cheeks. “I am not certain my stories are suitable for—”
“Please?” Thomas fixed her with a look that was difficult to refuse. “The one about the knight. With the dragon.”
She had invented it on a grey afternoon when he had been particularly withdrawn—a foolish tale about a knight afraid of everything except, inexplicably, dragons. She had never intended it for a wider audience.
But Thomas was watching her with hope, and Dominic with quiet interest, and the storm pressed at the windows.
“Very well.” She took the chair opposite Dominic’s. “Once upon a time, in a kingdom by the sea, there lived a knight named Sir Reginald Bumbleshire…”
The story grew as she told it. Sir Reginald feared mice, loud noises, the dark, and—most especially—his formidable Aunt Gertrude, who had opinions on everything.
He was, in short, the most unlikely knight in the kingdom—until a dragon came to trouble the village, and he alone volunteered to face it.
“Because he was not afraid of dragons?” Thomas leaned forward.