“I know enough,” she replied. “You were loyal to your men. My father admired you. You were brave. You even risked your life to save your comrades?—”
Dominic’s hand came down hard against the table, the sharp sound echoing in the room. “I do not wish to discuss this. Not with you.”
“I did not mean to offend you?—”
He cut her off with a hard shake of his head. “You think you understand me? You don’t. You have no right to speak about what you cannot possibly comprehend.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He should have stopped. But the pain was too near the surface. He rose and snapped, “I think it might be best if we avoided one another for the time being.”
She flinched. “But we’re married.”
“For now, yes,” he said coldly.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
Dominic clenched his jaw. “Nothing that you need to concern yourself with.”
Dorothea stood and placed her napkin neatly on the table. “Then I believe I shall retire early, my lord.”
He watched her walk from the room with her head high and her back straight. A part of him wanted to call her back—to apologize, perhaps. But he remained still.
This was for the best.
So why did he feel like such an arse?
Dominic sank heavily back into his chair, the weight of his own anger and guilt pressing down on him like a leaden coat. He raked a hand through his hair and reached blindly for his glass.
How had the evening veered so wildly off course? It had begun with the simple intent of polite civility—awkward, yes, but manageable. And yet, here he sat, stewing in regret.
He knew exactly where it had all gone wrong.
The talk of war.
Blast it all! Those memories cut deeper than any blade. The wound hadn’t dulled with time. It bled still, unseen but constant, tormenting him with every breath, every heartbeat. Every hour of every cursed day. It haunted him in his dreams and stalked him in his waking moments. There was no escape. No forgetting.
“Botheration,” he muttered through gritted teeth, rising abruptly to his feet.
The dining room felt suffocating now—too many memories, too many words he wished he could take back. He turned and strode towards the rear of the townhouse, the sound of his boots echoing dully against the floorboards. He needed something stronger than wine. Something to quiet the noise in his head. Something to erase the look of pain on Dorothea’s face.
Heaven help him, that expression had gutted him.
What had she expected of him? That he’d be gentle? Attentive? That he would somehow transform into the sort of husband young girls dreamed about in the pages of novels and poetry?
He was none of those things. And she, poor girl, hadn’t realized it yet.
That was the real problem.
Dorothea had a kind heart—a tender, open thing that wore compassion like a mantle. She extended it freely, even to someone like him, who had done nothing to deserve it. People like her… they didn’t belong with men like him. He would ruin her. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But in the end, he would break her spirit, just as his own had been broken long ago.
It would not end well.
Not for her.
Not for him.
5
