She took a single step towards the staircase, then paused, her gaze flicking back to him. “Goodnight, Dominic.”
He lifted a hand in a quiet farewell. “Goodnight, Dorothea.”
She offered him a tentative smile—small and soft, but it lingered in her eyes. Without another word, she turned and ascended the narrow servants’ stairs, her footsteps fading into silence.
As the last of her hem vanished from sight, Dominic dropped heavily into the nearest chair, elbows resting on the wooden table, and raked a hand through his hair.
What was wrong with him?
He had told himself—again and again—that he must keep his distance. That he and Dorothea were too different, too distant, too incompatible for anything resembling peace or comfort to grow between them.
So why was it that every time she spoke and looked at him with those clear, earnest eyes, something inside him softened?
6
Dressed in a pale pink muslin gown trimmed with delicate lace at the cuffs and collar, Dorothea stepped out of her bedchamber into the morning hush of the corridor. A soft breeze slipped through the tall windows at the end of the hall, rustling the curtains.
As she made her way towards the entry hall, she offered polite nods to the servants she passed. Though they bowed and curtsied respectfully, she felt the subtle weight of their curiosity, their silent observation of the new lady of the house.
When she entered the dining room, she paused, her gaze sweeping over the long table set for two. But Dominic was not there. Her steps faltered. She had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that after their conversation the night before, he might join her.
But no. She was alone.
Well, not entirely. Two footmen stood along the wall like sentinels, their gazes carefully blank. One of them stepped forward and pulled out her chair. Dorothea murmured her thanks and gracefully sat. Another placed a plate of eggs, toast, and sliced fruit before her.
She picked up her fork but found her appetite lacking. Still, she made herself eat in silence, stealing glances towards the doorway with every passing minute, hoping to see Dominic enter the room.
He had been distant, yes. Guarded. But last night… she’d seen a glimpse of something more. Of the man who had once listened to her read by candlelight in a smoky field tent. The man who had offered her kindness when no one else would.
The butler entered the room with his usual poise, a silver tray balanced in his hands. “The morning newssheets, my lady,” he announced, stepping forward and offering them with a slight bow.
Dorothea accepted the newssheets, her fingers brushing the crisp edges. She hesitated. Her brother had always criticized her for reading them—said it was unseemly for a young woman to care about politics, war, or Society gossip.
As if sensing her doubt, the butler offered, “If I may, his lordship specifically requested that you read the Society pages this morning.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “He did?”
“He did,” the butler confirmed with a faint, reassuring smile.
With newfound curiosity, Dorothea unfolded the sheets and turned to the designated pages. Her eyes scanned the columns until one name leapt out at her.
Lady Warwicke.
“It would appear the handsome—and elusive—Lord Warwicke has at last found himself a bride. But not just any bride: a courageous young woman who reportedly followed her father to war, tending to wounded soldiers and facing danger with uncommon bravery…”
Dorothea stared at the words, rereading them once, then twice. The words didn’t feel real—not exactly—but she was there in ink and rumor, laid bare for all of London to devour.
How had this Mr. Fairchild even known those details? She had never sought out attention, and in the eyes of Society, she had been a nobody. So why this sudden fascination?
Before she could ponder it further, the butler returned to the doorway. “A Lady Sarah and her daughter, Mrs. Arabella Haverleigh, have requested an audience with you, my lady.”
Dorothea’s stomach gave a small lurch, but she forced a smile. “How lovely. Please show them to the drawing room.”
As the butler left to escort the guests, Dorothea rose from the table, gathering her composure like a cloak around her. She had not expected to see Arabella again so soon. She had rather hoped—after being removed from her brother’s household—that her sister-in-law might simply fade from her life. But Arabella had always been persistent when it served her.
Still, Dorothea reminded herself, Arabella had no power here. Not anymore.
She straightened her shoulders and made her way down the corridor to the drawing room. When she entered, Arabella was already rising from the settee, her fashionable gown pristine, and her blonde curls arranged in an elegant chignon. Lady Sarah sat beside her, silver hair immaculately coifed, her cane resting against one gloved hand.
