Dorothea shook her head, genuinely perplexed. “I don’t know.”
Stepping forward, Matthew replied, “You must know something.”
But she truly didn’t know. Or if, in some distant way, she did, the answer eluded her entirely. Her brows drew together, confusion warring with trepidation.
“I assure you,” Dorothea said, “I have no idea why Lord Warwicke is here.”
Matthew studied her for a long moment, lips pursed. “Then you won’t be disappointed when I send him away.”
“I… uh…” Her breath caught as she searched for the right words. “That seems unnecessary.”
Apparently unmoved by her hesitation, Matthew turned towards the butler without a shred of concern. “Inform Lord Warwicke that Mrs. Stevens is unavailable to receive callers. She is still in mourning, and it would be most improper.”
Bennet gave the smallest of bows. “Yes, sir.” His voice was dutiful but tinged with a hint of unease as he withdrew.
Dorothea watched him go, her heart sinking with every step he took. A dull ache pulsed in her chest. She had never felt so helpless. Since Father’s death, the home that once offered her comfort had become a cage. Matthew’s house was no longer hers. She was merely a guest… and one barely tolerated at that.
It had been six months of this cold existence. Six months of being belittled and dismissed. If Lord Warwicke had come on Dominic’s behalf, she had just lost the opportunity to learn something—anything—about her late husband’s affairs.
What if he had news? What if Dominic’s name had not died with him on that battlefield?
Matthew’s voice yanked her from her spiraling thoughts. “I have work to attend to. I trust you ladies will find a way to occupy yourselves this afternoon?”
Arabella perked up. “Yes, I intend to call on Madame Lemoine. She’s finished the first fitting of my new gowns. I’ve asked for embroidery in the palest lilac and dove gray. It will look so elegant for spring.”
Dorothea glanced down at her own attire—a simple black gown. She had only three gowns in total now, all in mourning black. How she longed for something new, something beautiful. But Matthew would never allow such a frivolous expense. Not for her. Not when he believed she’d already squandered her worth.
Before another thought could pass between them, Bennet re-entered the room. This time, his expression was strained.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, directing his words to Matthew. “But Lord Warwicke has insisted he must speak with Mrs. Stevens. He says it is a matter of great urgency.”
Matthew’s eyes snapped to Dorothea, his gaze narrowing. “Out with it. Important men like Lord Warwicke don’t make unexpected house calls without cause. What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything!” Dorothea’s voice trembled with the effort to maintain composure. “I swear to you, I do not know why he’s come.”
Without warning, Matthew strode forward and struck her, his hand landing across her cheek. “You dare lie to me in my own house?” he hissed.
Before Dorothea could recover from the sting, a voice thundered from the doorway.
“How dare you strike my wife!”
The words hung in the air like cannon fire.
Wife?
Dorothea turned towards the doorway, blinking past the burning in her eyes and throbbing in her cheek. A tall man stood in the threshold, his shoulders broad and his presence commanding. Dark hair framed a chiseled face, and across one cheek ran a jagged scar—a scar she had seen before. One she knew.
Her knees buckled.
That scar... it was the same one Dominic bore after a dagger slashed him on the battlefield. But it was his eyes that confirmed the truth to her. His steely gray eyes—so unusual, so unlike any she had seen before—locked on to hers with unmistakable intensity.
It can’t be.
But it was.
“Dominic?” she whispered.
He took a step towards her, and she saw the familiar line of his jaw, the exact tilt of his brow when he was angry—or afraid. There was no mistake.
