Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “And you think that’s possible?”
“Under normal circumstances, no. But yours are exceptional,” Inglewood said. “You were on your deathbed when you married, were you not? Easy to argue your bride exploited your condition.”
“I was not tricked,” Dominic said sharply.
Inglewood leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “Weren’t you? You were feverish, barely coherent, and somehow you found the strength to pledge yourself to her?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want Dorothea’s name dragged through the mud.”
“If you pursue an annulment, scandal will follow—no matter how delicately it’s handled. The stain on her reputation will be indelible.”
Silence settled between them. The truth of it hit harder than Dominic wanted to admit. Dorothea would be ruined. Cast out of Society. And yet, if he stayed, if he bound her to a man like him—a man broken by war, by guilt, by obligations he never asked for—he would destroy her anyway. She might not see it now, but in time, she would. And then she would hate him for it.
Inglewood took a step back. “Think on what I’ve said. We could both get what we want.”
Without another word, Inglewood turned and strode away, his steps echoing through the chamber.
Dominic made his way to his seat as his thoughts churned. No sooner had he sat down than he was flanked by Lord Bedford, Lord Wilton, and Lord Alcott, all looking at him with thinly veiled curiosity.
“What did Inglewood want?” Bedford asked.
Dominic barely glanced at him. “None of your business.”
Bedford snorted. “He's trying to gather support for that wretched bill of his.”
“I haven’t read it yet,” Dominic admitted.
“You should,” Wilton said, his tone grave. “The tariffs could weaken the entire stock market. And between you and me, I believe Inglewood intends to use the chaos to line his own pockets.”
Dominic frowned. “He said the bill would benefit the soldiers.”
“It would—slightly,” Alcott remarked. “But not nearly as much as it would benefit Inglewood’s business interests.”
Bedford tilted his head, studying Dominic. “Did he offer you something in exchange for your support?”
Dominic hesitated. “He said he’d convince the Tories to back my annulment.”
A sharp whistle escaped Bedford’s lips. “That’s no small favor. Annulments aren’t granted easily—not without causing a spectacle.”
“I know,” Dominic said. “But I have to try.”
Bedford exchanged a wary glance with Wilton before asking, “Do you hate your wife that much?”
Dominic winced. “I don’t hate Dorothea.”
“Are you sure?” Bedford questioned. “I only ask because you’ll ruin her. Once Society gets wind of it, she’ll be cast out. No one will want her.”
“I’ll make sure she’s provided for,” Dominic replied, though the words rang hollow, as if spoken by someone else. And deep down, he feared that even the best intentions wouldn’t be enough to shield her from the storm he was about to unleash.
Alcott leaned back in his seat. “I, for one, think you should get the annulment,” he said with a shrug.
Dominic raised a brow. “You do?”
Alcott’s eyes held amusement. “Wives are burdensome creatures. They expect things of you. Attention, affection, a presence at dull dinner parties and infernal musicales. A man can hardly breathe under the weight of their expectations.”
Bedford chuckled under his breath. “Some would say there are certain benefits to having a wife.”
“No one asked you,” Wilton replied dryly. “You’re still basking in the glow of your newlywed haze. Your opinion is hopelessly compromised.”
