He hadn’t wanted to have this conversation. Not yet. The thought of disappointing her made his chest tighten, but keepingher in the dark any longer would only make it worse. Perhaps now was the time to tell her the truth—that he intended to petition for an annulment. He opened his mouth, preparing to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
Just then, the sound of rapid footsteps broke the moment. Tristan came barreling across the gravel path, his face lit with pure joy. Clutched in his hands was a brightly colored kite, the long tail trailing behind like a banner of triumph.
“Look what I got!” he cried, grinning from ear to ear.
Dorothea’s expression instantly softened as she turned towards him. “It’s a kite,” she replied.
“Do you want to fly it with me?” Tristan asked eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet as though the excitement couldn’t be contained in his small frame.
She laughed. “I would love to.” Then, turning towards Dominic with hopeful eyes, she inquired, “Would you care to join us?”
“I have work I must see to,” he said firmly.
A flicker of disappointment came into Dorothea’s eyes as she murmured, “I understand.”
Tristan reached up and grabbed Dorothea’s hand with enthusiasm. “Come on! Let’s go fly the kite!”
Dorothea cast one final glance over her shoulder, her eyes meeting Dominic’s for a moment—a silent question lingering there. Then, with Tristan tugging at her hand and excitement in his step, she let herself be drawn away.
Dominic remained where he stood, his boots planted firmly on the gravel path as he watched them disappear through the break in the hedge that led to the open field beyond the gardens.
It didn’t surprise him how good Dorothea was to Tristan. That was who she was. Kind. Caring. And a far better person than him.
8
The low chime of the dinner bell echoed through the corridors as Dorothea stepped out of her bedchamber. She paused a moment, smoothing down the soft folds of her jonquil gown, the muslin fabric glinting under the flickering sconces. She knew Dominic might not want her company tonight—he so often didn’t—but she still took care with her appearance. For herself. For him.
No matter how he tried to keep her at arm’s length, she saw flickers of the man he had once been—warm, teasing, attentive. They were rare and fleeting, but she clung to them all the same.
Sniffling softly, she pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her nose. The cold still lingered, but her nap had done wonders for her aching limbs and heavy head. With each step towards the dining room, anticipation built inside her, lifting her spirits despite her persistent cough.
But it shattered the moment she stepped over the threshold and found the long dining table lit and laid—but empty.
Dominic wasn’t there.
Before she could even form a question, Wright approached from the far end of the room, his hands clasped behind his back and an apologetic expression shadowing his features.
“My lady,” he began, “Lord Warwicke has chosen to dine at his club this evening.”
Dorothea faltered. Her smile arrived late. “I see,” she said, the words hollow in her throat.
Wright motioned towards the glittering display of silver and porcelain. “The cook has prepared a fine feast for you, my lady.”
The thought of sitting alone at that vast table, surrounded by empty chairs and echoing silence, made her chest constrict. “I believe…” she hesitated, then straightened her spine. “I believe I shall take my dinner in the kitchen tonight.”
Wright studied her for a moment, his gaze softening. “As you wish, my lady. Would you care for an escort?”
She shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. I know the way.”
Turning quickly before her composure cracked, Dorothea made her way to the servants’ staircase tucked behind a tapestry. The cold iron banister was rough beneath her fingers, and the stairs creaked with age, each step uneven and narrow.
As she reached the bottom and stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of pots, hiss of boiling broth, and hum of voices wrapped around her like a comforting shawl. Servants moved swiftly, assembling plates, washing dishes, and bustling about their duties. Near the hearth, Mrs. Dawson stirred a pot with such vigor that it sloshed dangerously near the rim.
“I need the vegetables!” she called over her shoulder, her tone brisk.
A young maid rushed forward, cradling a bowl. “I have them, ma’am.”
“Well then, put them on the plate,” Mrs. Dawson replied, stepping back and wiping her hands on her apron. “This meal should’ve already been halfway up the stairs by now.”
