“I do.”
“Then here it is,” she said. “I think you’re a coward.”
His head snapped back slightly, as though she’d struck him. “I beg your pardon?”
Dorothea squared her shoulders, refusing to look away. “You’re afraid, Dominic. Afraid of what this could be. So instead of facing it, you’re pushing me away. You keep yourself closed off and convince yourself that you’re doing the noble thing.”
His jaw clenched. “Thea?—”
But she lifted a hand and held it up, silencing him. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t pretend you’re heartless. You’re not. You think you’re unlovable because of what you’ve seen. What you’ve done. But that isn’t true.”
Her voice softened, but it lost none of its conviction. “Youarelovable. You just don’t believe it yet.”
Dominic turned towards her, expression caught between defensiveness and vulnerability, as though the words had cracked something he’d tried so hard to keep sealed.
But before he could speak, a sharp voice called out from beside the carriage.
“Lord Warwicke!”
A tall, heavy-set man on horseback drew near, his riding coat stretched across a barrel-like chest. His face was flushed from the exertion of the ride—or perhaps from self-satisfaction—and his eyes gleamed with too much familiarity as he looked between them.
“And this must be your lovely wife,” he said, his gaze lingering too long on Dorothea.
Dominic’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. He grew rigid. “Lord Inglewood,” he said tersely. “You may carry on. There’s no need to stop and speak with us.”
Lord Inglewood ignored the dismissal, reins slack in his gloved hand as his horse shifted beneath him. “Your presence is causing quite the stir,” he said with amusement. “I daresay all of Rotten Row is buzzing.”
“That was not our intention,” Dominic said. “We’re simply enjoying a quiet ride.”
“During the fashionable hour?” Lord Inglewood’s brows rose in mock surprise. “Surely you knew better, Warwicke. This is not the hour for quiet.”
Dominic’s patience thinned visibly. “What do you want, Inglewood?”
“Only an introduction,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “I have not yet had the pleasure of being properly introduced to your bride.”
After a long moment, Dominic spoke, his tone clipped. “Lord Inglewood, allow me the honor of introducing you to my wife, Lady Warwicke.”
Lord Inglewood tipped his hat with a theatrical flourish. “My lady. You are even lovelier than the whispers suggested. I can see why Warwicke keeps you so well hidden.”
Dorothea arched an eyebrow. “My husband does not keep me anywhere, Lord Inglewood.”
“Of course not,” Lord Inglewood said with a lazy smirk, though there was an edge of sharpness beneath the surface. He adjusted his grip on the reins and turned his gaze back to Dominic with a flicker of expectation. “Now then, have you come to a decision regarding our arrangement?”
Dominic met his gaze. “I have.”
The older man leaned forward slightly in his saddle, as if already anticipating agreement. “Well?”
“I will not be supporting your bill,” Dominic replied, his tone resolute. “I believe it serves personal interests, not the public good. I cannot, in good conscience, endorse legislation that would enrich a select few at the cost of the nation’s stability.”
Lord Inglewood’s face hardened. The false charm drained away, replaced by something cold and dangerous. “Then I wish you the best of luck securing your annulment in Parliament without the backing of the Tory party,” he stated. “I imagine you’ll find the path far more difficult than you anticipated.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Dominic replied.
Lord Inglewood narrowed his eyes. “You’re either very brave—or very foolish.” And then, with a smirk that reeked of cruelty, he glanced at Dorothea. “Perhaps,” he drawled, “once you've cast your wife aside, I might have a go with her.”
Dorothea’s breath caught in her throat. “How dare you?—”
But Dominic cut her off, his voice vibrating with fury. “Say something like that again,” he growled, “and I promise you, it will be the last mistake you ever make.”
