“Because he told me so,” she said, reaching for her napkin to dab at the corners of her mouth. “He revised it just before we left for the Continent. I remember distinctly.”
Dominic studied her closely, his expression unreadable once again. “Did he mention any of its provisions at all?”
“No,” she said with a furrowed brow. “Dominic, why are you asking me all this?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I was curious.”
“Well, if you truly wish to know, you might try speaking to my brother,” she said, her tone cooling slightly. “Though I don’t envy you. He’s not known for his charm.”
Dominic fell silent, his features darkening with a quiet intensity. “Did your father know your brother abused you?”
Dorothea flinched at the question, though she didn’t look away. “He knew,” she said, her voice laced with old pain. “He tried to intervene, but every time I told him what he had done, Matthew would find a way to punish me.”
She continued. “That’s why my father allowed me to join him when he left for the Continent. He knew I was safer with him—safer on a battlefield than under Matthew’s roof.”
Dominic didn’t speak right away. But then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and took her handgently in his own. His thumb brushed over her knuckles with a tenderness that caught her off guard.
“You will never be abused again,” he asserted, his eyes locking with hers. “I swear it.”
Something in her chest fluttered, fragile and unsteady. Not just at his words, but at the way he looked at her—as though she mattered. Truly mattered. “I know,” she murmured. “I feel safe here… with you.”
A flicker of emotion passed through his expression—too swift and guarded to name—but it left a trace behind. Then he released her hand and leaned back in his chair, his posture suddenly more reserved.
“I’m glad,” he said, though his voice was rougher than before.
As the footmen returned to clear the soup bowls and replace them with the next course, Dorothea couldn’t stop watching him. Not just watching—studying. Searching. There was something behind his calm exterior, a weight he carried in silence. Would he ever let her see all of it? Would he ever let her in?
Dominic cleared his throat, breaking the silence between them. “May I ask about your mother?”
The question startled her, but it also brought a soft smile to her lips. “My mother was extraordinary. Gentle, curious, and entirely unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. She had a rather eccentric habit of collecting bones.”
“Bones?”
She laughed. “Animal bones. She fancied herself an amateur naturalist. One time, when we were in Bath, she found several large ones near the edge of a quarry and insisted we bring them home. They were strapped to the top of our coach like prized relics.”
His mouth tugged upward in amusement. “That must have been quite the sight.”
“It was,” Dorothea agreed. “She died when I was eleven.”
The mood shifted instantly, and Dominic’s expression grew solemn. “That’s much too young.”
“It was. But truly, is there ever a good age to lose your mother?”
“No. I suppose there isn’t.”
“My mother always dreamed of a large family,” Dorothea shared. “But she lost one baby after another. Miscarriage after miscarriage, until she gave up hope.” Her gaze dropped to her plate, though she wasn’t looking at the food. “When she fell pregnant again, my father was overjoyed. He thought it was a miracle. But she bled to death not long after childbirth. They both died.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words, simple as they were, carried a weight that told her he meant them.
Dorothea waved her hand faintly, attempting to brush the moment aside. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s far too gloomy for dinner conversation.”
“I don’t care about that,” he said. “I want you to speak your mind, regardless of the occasion.”
“You may come to regret saying that,” she teased. “I can be quite opinionated.”
“I’m already well aware of that,” he said, lifting his glass with a half-smile of his own.
The moment felt lighter now, steadied by mutual understanding. And yet something still lingered between them—unspoken, unfinished.
