Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep them from falling. “He was a soldier. He always knew the risks. We both did.”
“That doesn’t make the loss any easier,” Dominic said.
“No,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. “No, it doesn’t.”
For a moment, they simply sat there, two people adrift in shared grief, finding a fragile peace in the quiet kitchen as the moonlight spilled across the stone floor.
Dominic was an idiot.
There was no other word for it. What had possessed him to stay and share a midnight loaf of bread with Dorothea? He should’ve turned and walked back up those stairs the moment he realized she was in the kitchen. Instead, here he sat—beside her, listening to her soft voice and watching the way the moonlightframed her face—and feeling his carefully constructed walls begin to splinter.
He was trying—truly trying—to harden his heart against her. But every word she spoke, every glance she offered, chipped away at his resolve.
And yet, he couldn’t leave. Not now. The quiet sadness in her voice had hooked something inside of him, something he thought long buried. There were things he needed to say—truths that had lingered far too long in silence.
He cleared his throat, gaze fixed on the table. “I owe my entire military career to your father.”
Dorothea glanced at him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I highly doubt that.”
“No, I mean it,” Dominic said, his voice more certain now. “After my uncle purchased a commission for me, your father took me under his wing. He didn’t have to, but he did. He guided me, shaped me. Taught me what it meant to lead with honor. Without him, I would’ve never become the kind of soldier I could take pride in.”
She studied him for a moment, then offered a soft smile. “My father may have helped guide you, but you were the one who rose to the occasion. You’re the one who fought valiantly.”
Dominic leaned back, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. “That’s kind of you to say. But truthfully… I spent much of the war fighting myself more than the enemy. I was desperate to prove something—to anyone who would look.”
He paused before he added, “Especially to my father. He always said I would fail.”
Dorothea’s expression dimmed. “That can’t be true.”
He held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t defend him. Please. My father was a brute. A cold, vicious man who ruled his family with a fist instead of affection. I grew tired of the beatings. Eventually, I left.”
Dominic continued. “I tried to make my own way. For a time, I worked as a Bow Street Runner.”
Her eyebrows lifted again, this time in earnest surprise. “Truly?”
He gave a short nod. “Yes. Most of the work was mundane—petty thefts, domestic squabbles—but eventually I was trusted with more serious cases. I actually… enjoyed it. Solving puzzles. Finding justice.”
“That’s rather impressive,” she said, clearly meaning it.
He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Is it? Most members of thetonwould call it disgraceful. To work for your income? To chase criminals through back alleys?”
“Perhaps. But thetonalso calls you a war hero. I doubt they would see you as anything less than honorable.”
His eyes met hers. “And what about you? What do you think?”
Dorothea hesitated, then gave him a small, almost shy smile. “You forget, I was there. I know you’re a hero.”
“I’m not,” he said immediately, the words bitter on his tongue.
“You can say that all you want,” she replied, “but it won’t change how I see you. I watched how you fought for your men. You took wounds for them. That is nothing short of heroic.”
He frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t say that. I only did what was expected. Nothing more.”
“If it makes you uncomfortable, I won’t press the matter.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, though the doubt still lingered in his eyes.
Dorothea tilted her head slightly. “How did you go from Bow Street Runner to a soldier in the Royal Army?”
