She held his gaze and replied, her voice quieter now, “Perhaps it is.”
17
Dominic sat alone in his study as the morning light filtered through the windows. The ledgers before him lay open, numbers neatly inked across the parchment, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus. His gaze remained fixed on the page, yet not a single figure registered in his mind.
All he could think about was Dorothea.
Last night in the drawing room, he had come dangerously close to kissing her. The memory still burned at the edges of his thoughts, refusing to fade. Her fingers had brushed his cheek, her eyes held him transfixed, and for one breathless moment, he had nearly surrendered to it all.
But he hadn’t. Because he couldn't. Not when everything inside him still warred with what he believed was right.
With a heavy sigh, he pressed a hand over his face. Good gads,it would’ve been so easy to lean in and take what he wanted—to let himself feel. To silence the world for just a moment and believe he deserved happiness. But Dorothea wasn’t just some fleeting comfort. She was kind. Steady. Bright in all the ways he was not. She deserved certainty. And he was nowhere close to having that.
The logical path would be to withdraw the petition for annulment. But could he do that in good conscience? What kind of life would he be offering her? A husband who carried ghosts, who flinched at the idea of joy, who feared he would destroy everything he touched?
Still… these blasted feelings for her refused to loosen their grip. They crept in at unexpected moments, stealing his breath. She made him smile—genuinelysmile—without even trying. And when she looked at him, it wasn’t with pity, but with something dangerously close to belief. No one had believed in him in a very long time.
Botheration.
He leaned back in his chair, exasperated. Was this what falling in love felt like? The endless push and pull? The aching want tangled up in fear? He wouldn’t know since he’d never allowed himself the luxury. But if it meant looking forward to seeing her, longing for the sound of her laugh, wondering what she might say next… well, he supposed he might already be halfway there.
A knock on the door interrupted his spiraling thoughts.
Wright stepped into the study. “Mr. Wells has requested a moment of your time, my lord.”
Dominic straightened in his chair, grateful for the distraction. “Send him in.”
A moment later, Mr. Wells entered the study, a well-worn satchel slung over one shoulder. His ruddy cheeks were flushed from exertion or excitement—possibly both.
“I come bearing good news,” the solicitor announced.
“You do?”
Mr. Wells nodded. “Despite Mr. Haverleigh’s earlier claim that your wife has no dowry, he has now agreed to grant you five thousand pounds as a gesture of goodwill.”
Dominic’s suspicion flared. Slowly, he closed the ledger in front of him and leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “And he offered this freely?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it freely,” Mr. Wells replied with a wry twist of his lips. “I paid him a visit this morning and informed him that we intended to request a formal inquest into his finances. I believe that suggestion alone was enough to motivate his generosity.”
Dominic snorted under his breath. “I see. Blackmail by implication. Clever.”
“I prefer to call it… strategic persuasion,” Wells said, clearly pleased with himself. He lowered into the chair opposite the desk and set his satchel on the floor with a thud.
“And what exactly are the circumstances that make five thousand pounds a fair offer?” Dominic asked.
Mr. Wells hesitated slightly before replying. “In truth, I’m not certain a judge would grant such an inquest, especially considering the absence of a will.”
“How certain are we that no will exists?”
“As I explained before, it wasn’t filed in probate court, and Mr. Haverleigh was adamant that his father left none,” Wells explained. “At present, the only claim to the contrary is your wife’s recollection. And while I believe she speaks the truth, it’s not exactly ironclad evidence in the eyes of the court.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened. He didn’t doubt Dorothea’s word. Not for a moment. But without a document, her honesty might count for very little in the legal arena. And her brother would no doubt hide the truth if it served his ends.
As if Dominic needed another reason to loathe the man.
“Furthermore,” Mr. Wells added, adjusting his spectacles as he withdrew a folded document from his satchel, “if Parliament does grant the annulment, the five thousand pounds will betransferred directly to your wife, per the terms dictated by Mr. Haverleigh himself.”
Dominic’s fingers drummed against the polished surface of his desk, slow and deliberate. On the surface, it sounded like a concession. Generous, even. But it was too neat. Haverleigh was many things—proud, calculating, vindictive—but generous was not among them. He wouldn’t yield five thousand pounds unless something larger was at stake.
