“Good,” Dominic said with a nod. “Also, inform Mrs. Dawson we’re ready for our midday meal.”
Without further prompting, Wright departed, his footsteps silent against the marble. Dominic turned back to Tristan, who remained rooted in place, his mouth slightly agape as he stared up at the chandelier like it might fall on him.
Dominic couldn’t help but smile. “You’re allowed to look. It’s all real, I assure you.”
Tristan blinked rapidly, then looked up at him. “You really live here?”
“I do. Though sometimes, I still find it difficult to believe.” He rested a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “Come, let’s adjourn to the dining room. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”
Tristan gave a vague nod and followed as Dominic led him through the corridor, past a pair of double doors, and into the dining room. The space was warm with late-day sunlight, the long table gleaming with polish. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wafted faintly through the air.
Dominic walked to the head of the table and seated himself. Before he could speak, a footman silently approached and pulled out a chair for Tristan. The boy froze, looking up at the man like he had grown a second head.
“Sit,” Dominic instructed.
Tristan obeyed, lowering himself into the chair as though afraid it might collapse beneath him. “I’ve never sat at a table like this before,” he admitted.
“It’s just a table,” Dominic replied with a shrug.
“But what if I dirty it?”
Dominic smirked. “Then I shall have it cleaned.”
Tristan gave a nervous laugh, but his expression softened. After a pause, he glanced towards the footmen by the door and murmured, “My mum used to work in a house like this.”
“Was she a maid?”
“A lady’s maid,” Tristan said proudly, straightening his back. “She used to help the mistress dress, do her hair… all that. But she was let go.”
“Why?”
Tristan frowned. “The mistress said she stole an earring. But my mum’s no thief.”
Dominic raised a brow, keeping his voice even. “But you are?”
Tristan didn’t flinch. He just shrugged. “Someone has to make sure there’s food on the table. I’m the man of the house.”
Dominic studied him for a moment. There was no guile in the boy’s tone—only a kind of quiet desperation he recognized all too well. “What happened to your father?” he asked gently.
The boy’s gaze dropped to the gleaming surface of the table. “He is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Dominic said.
Bringing his gaze up, Tristan asked, “Do you think I could work here?”
Dominic pretended to consider it. “I do think we can arrange something, but let’s not worry about that until your mother recovers.”
Before Tristan could respond, the door opened and two footmen stepped inside, carrying silver trays. The lids were lifted, revealing bread, carved meats, and soft cheeses arranged beside bowls of fruit and preserves.
Tristan’s eyes widened again. “Is that all for us?”
Dominic gave him a small nod. “It is. Go ahead, eat.”
And for the first time since they’d met, Tristan smiled—small, uncertain, but real. He reached for the bread and took a large bite.
As Dominic reached for a slice of roasted venison, the dining room door opened with a quiet creak. Wright entered with hisusual composed demeanor, but there was a slight apologetic tilt to his posture.
“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” he said with a slight bow. “Mr. Wells has arrived and is requesting a moment of your time.”
