“How old are you again?”
“Nine.”
“Well, Tristan,” Dominic said, leaning forward slightly, “I trust I don’t need to explain what would happen if you stole from me while your mother is recovering.”
Tristan paused mid-chew. Then, after a moment, he swallowed and said solemnly, “I wouldn’t do that. You’re taking care of us. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Just then, a breathless maid appeared in the doorway, her cheeks flushed and dark-haired curls escaping her cap. “Mydeepest apologies, my lord,” she rushed out. “The boy gave me the slip.”
Dominic exchanged a glance with Tristan, who gave an exaggerated shrug of innocence.
“No harm done,” Dominic said. “Though it might be wise to ensure he’s bathed before supper.”
The maid curtsied. “At once, my lord.”
At this, Tristan groaned audibly. “Do I have to?” he whined. “The water is always cold and dirty by the time it’s my turn.”
Dominic’s lips twitched at the corners. “I think you’ll find the bathing arrangements here somewhat more refined.”
The maid extended her hand towards the boy. “Come now, Tristan. Let’s not trouble Lord Warwicke further.”
Tristan slid off the chair with a dramatic sigh. “I am not a child,” he muttered, trudging towards her with the defeated air of a boy sentenced to the gallows.
Dominic watched Tristan and the maid disappear through the doorway before slowly rising from his chair. The room felt suddenly too still, the silence pressing in around him. With a low sigh, he crossed to the window once more, drawn by habit or perhaps by something else he didn’t care to name.
His eyes swept over the gardens until his eyes landed on Dorothea. She was seated alone on an ornate iron bench near the fountain, and a single rose rested delicately in her hand. Her head was slightly bowed, the curl of her hair falling across her cheek, shielding her expression. But he didn’t need to see her face to know the truth.
Dominic muttered a curse under his breath. Blast it all. She was sad, and whether he intended it or not, he was the cause of it.
But what could he do?
4
Dorothea sat alone on the iron bench nestled beneath the arching branches of a flowering dogwood. The air smelled of freshly turned earth and blooming roses, and birds flitted from tree to tree, singing bright, cheerful notes that only made her feel more hollow.
It was beautiful here—peaceful, even—but she felt none of that peace.
Her hands, clasped in her lap, trembled slightly as she held a single rose she'd picked during her walk, its petals soft as velvet against her thumb. She stared down at it. The gardens were everything that had been described to her—lavish, well-kept, idyllic—but they weren’t hers. Nothing here felt like it belonged to her.
Least of all her husband.
Dominic was alive. That should have filled her with relief, with joy. And yet, she had never felt further from him. He barely looked at her, barely spoke, as though the affection that once blossomed between them had withered during his recovery. She missed his quick wit, their shared stories and easy silences.When had their friendship turned into this quiet, aching distance?
How did one reclaim something so lost?
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path behind her, and Dorothea glanced up, her heart giving a startled little leap. But it wasn’t Dominic.
It was Mrs. Cameron, the housekeeper, her hands folded neatly in front of her, a kind smile on her face. “The dressmaker has arrived, my lady,” she informed her.
My lady.
Dorothea still wasn’t used to hearing that—wasn’t sure she ever would be.
She stood, brushing her skirts with faintly trembling fingers. “That was quicker than I expected.”
A glint of amusement danced in Mrs. Cameron’s eyes. “Wait until you see the gowns she’s brought with her. I daresay you’ll be spoiled for choice.”
