His uncle picked up the ring and stared at it for a moment before slipping it back onto his finger. “Then it is I who is sorry.”
“Goodnight, Uncle.” Without another word, he turned and left the room.
His uncle had meant well, of that he was certain. But pity—he didn’t need that. Nor did he need a lecture on love from someone who had stumbled into a perfect, enviable marriage. His uncle hadn't lived through blood-soaked fields and the unrelenting sounds of gunfire that still echoed in Dominic’s ears like a phantom chorus. He hadn’t watched his comrades fall one by one.
Outside, Dominic climbed into the waiting coach and sank into the velvet cushions. He stared out the window, watching as the city passed in shadows. No wife, no child could mend what had been shattered inside him. He was terribly, painfully aware of that. The emptiness was a constant companion—familiar, and oddly comforting.
By the time the coach pulled to a stop in front of his townhouse, the streets were quiet. A servant opened the door, and Dominic climbed the steps with weary precision. Inside, the air was still. Silent. Just as he liked it.
It was only in the silence that he could breathe.
He ascended the staircase. As he stepped into his chamber and removed his jacket, he noticed something strange—smoke curling under the door that separated his room from Dorothea’s.
His blood turned cold.
He rushed forward, unlocked the door, and flung it open. A thick haze billowed into the room. Dorothea’s bedchamber was clouded with smoke, the fire in the hearth roaring far too high.
Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he darted to the bed. “Dorothea!” he shouted, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. “Wake up!”
She groaned faintly but didn’t rouse.
The smoke stung his eyes and throat. Coughing, he gathered her into his arms and hurried back through the door into his own chamber. He laid her gently on the bed and turned for the hallway.
Throwing the door open, he shouted into the corridor. “Help! I need help—now!”
Within moments, Wright appeared, his hair mussed, eyes alert. “What is it, my lord?”
“Lady Warwicke’s chamber is filled with smoke. The damper must have been left closed.”
Wright nodded without hesitation. “I shall see to it immediately.”
Relieved that someone would handle the fire, Dominic returned to Dorothea’s side, kneeling beside the bed. “Dorothea,” he said urgently, shaking her again. “I need you to wake up. Please.”
She didn’t move.
“Dorothea,” he said again, louder now, a note of panic creeping in. “I command you to answer me!”
A voice from the doorway interrupted. “I believe she is not responding because she took laudanum for her cold, my lord.”
He turned sharply to see Mrs. Cameron. “Do you think that’s all it is?” he asked, heart pounding.
“I do,” she replied.
Still, uncertainty gnawed at him. “Send for the doctor. At once.”
With a curt nod, Mrs. Cameron turned to obey.
Left alone, Dominic sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Dorothea’s pale face. He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly, and brushed a few strands of her red hair away from her forehead.
“Please wake up,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Not as a command.
Not as a husband.
Just as a man who suddenly realized how terrified he was to lose her.
9
