He mounted in one fluid motion, not bothering with a saddle. The stallion tensed beneath him, eager to run despite the late hour. Dominic gave him his head, and they surged forward into the darkness, leaving Stone's estate behind in a thunder of hooves.
The wind tore at his hair, his shirt—he had dressed hastily, forgoing a coat or cravat. Stars wheeled overhead, cold and distant pinpricks of light that had seen the births and deaths of countless men like him. Men who had ridden beneath their glow believing themselves important, believing their legacies would matter.
Fools, all of us.
He urged the stallion faster, feeling the powerful muscles bunch and release beneath him. The beast responded eagerly, perhaps understanding something of his rider's need to outrun the inescapable. Together they flew across the open fields, leapt over hedgerows that loomed suddenly in their path, splashed through a shallow stream that glittered silver in the moonlight.
Dominic's lungs burned with each breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the stallion's mane. This was living—this reckless gallop through the night, this mingling of fear and exhilaration, this dance with danger that reminded him how thin the line between life and death truly was.
For half an hour they rode thus. Then he stopped. Before him stretched the vast, rolling lands of Icemere—his lands, if such things could truly belong to any man. Fields and forests, villagesand streams, all laid out beneath the moonlight like a map of a kingdom he was only borrowing. In the distance, perched upon another hill, stood Icemere Castle itself, its ancient stone walls silvered by moonlight, its windows dark and watchful.
His birthright. His legacy. His gilded prison.
The stallion's sides heaved beneath him, each breath a bellows stoking the fires of life. Dominic's own heart pounded in his chest, a reminder that for now, for this moment, he lived.
For how much longer?
This should have felt like triumph—these lands, that castle, the title that opened doors and commanded respect throughout England. Men envied him. Women pursued him. Yet as he gazed across his domain, he felt nothing but the weight of dust.
The image of June rose unbidden in his mind—not as she had appeared in his nightmare, but as she truly was. Proud. Sharp-witted. Those amber eyes that saw too much, that challenged him in ways no other woman ever had. Her cool dismissal of him that first night in his chambers. Her quiet fascination with Egyptian hieroglyphs in the library.
The chill of the nightmare still clung to him, but it had crystallized into something else now—a grim resolve that hardened his spine and cleared his vision.
His time was short. This he had always known, had built his entire life around this certainty. It was why he had traveled extensively, why he had never denied himself any pleasure within reach, why he had avoided forming attachments that would only end in grief.
So why deny myself this? Why not enjoy the fire in June's eyes, even if it is aimed at me in anger or disdain?
The thought unfurled like a banner in his mind that was bold and defiant. What did it matter if she hated him? What did it matter if she thought him arrogant, dismissive, cruel?
At least she thought of him.
Eight
"If one more ribbon is added to this monstrosity," June said through gritted teeth, "I shall be forced to commit a crime most unbecoming of a lady."
She glared at her reflection in the mirror, where the feathers of an absurdly decorated bonnet bobbed with every slight movement of her head. One particularly ambitious plume seemed determined to poke her directly in the eye. Perfect. Blinded by fashion—what a fitting epitaph that would make.
"Oh, don't be dramatic, Junebug," April said, circling June like a general inspecting troops. "The feathers are meant to draw the eye upward. It's quite the rage in London."
"I believe they're meant to draw birds of prey," June muttered. "I feel like a particularly gaudy pheasant."
May approached with yet another armful of fabric—this time a shade of orange so vivid it might be visible from the Scottish border. "This would complement your complexion beautifully."
June stared at the garment in horror. "That is not a color found in nature."
"Fashion need not be natural to be splendid," May replied, thrusting the dress into June's already overburdened arms. "Try this one next."
June cast a desperate glance at the growing pile of purchases her sisters had already arranged. Three dresses altered to her measurements, two pairs of evening slippers, gloves in various shades that June could not distinguish between ("Ecru is entirely different from cream, June!"), and reticules that served no purpose June could discern beyond decorative.
"I've lost count of how many items you've ordered," June said, attempting to shift the mound of orange fabric to a less precarious position. "Have you forgotten that neither of you is our mother?"
April waved dismissively. "Mother would have ordered twice as many and all in pastels. We're showing remarkable restraint."
June looked down at her current ensemble and wondered what restraint would look like. Her right foot sported a Moroccan slipper in pale blue, while her left wore a half-boot in practical brown leather.
The dress she wore—if one could dignify it with such a term—was clearly intended for someone with considerably more bosom than June possessed, causing it to gape alarmingly at the neckline. And crowning this disaster was the bonnet, festooned with more feathers than seemed possible for a single headpiece.
"At least I convinced you to abandon the red dresses," June said, counting small victories where she could find them.
