His foot shifted forward, and the small sound seemed thunderous in the quiet garden, but June didn't look up. The breeze turned a page of her book for her, and she smoothed it down with careful fingers.
Dominic's chest tightened. What was he doing here? Did he truly want to make amends with her and get out of her way? Was he after more amusement with her?
June turned another page, completely unaware of the battle raging within him mere yards away. A small smile played across her lips at something she read. Dominic found himself desperate to know what had caused it. Was it poetry? History? One of her agricultural treatises?
He took another step forward. Then stopped.
This path led nowhere but torture for both of them. Better to maintain his distance, to enjoy her company at a safe remove. The verbal sparring, the shared moments of intellectual connection, these he could permit himself. But anything more would be selfish beyond measure.
He had spent his life making the most of limited time. Climbing the highest peaks in Switzerland, racing the fastest horses in France, savoring the finest wines in Italy. He had lived each day with the knowledge that his allotment might be shorter than most men's. And he had made peace with that.
Or so he had believed.
But June made him suddenly want more time. Made him rage against the unfairness of it all. Made him wish, for the first time, that he could change what seemed inevitable.
Dominic's heart thundered in his chest, so loudly he wondered she didn't hear it. He took a half-step backward, retreating into the shadow of a tall hedge.
The decision settled over him like a shroud. He would maintain his distance. Treat her with cordial politeness. Perhaps even encourage the attachment between her and Lord Blackwood that Lady Worthington had been hinting at.
No. Better this way.
Ten
"Looking for anyone in particular?" August's voice held a note of amusement that made Dominic's shoulders tighten. He had not realized his gaze had lingered on the drawing room door for quite so long, or that his friend had been watching him with such careful attention.
Dominic turned, arranging his features into an expression of bland disinterest that belied the inexplicable tension coiling within him—a tension that had everything to do with a certain sharp-tongued lady who had yet to grace the gathering with her presence.
"Who could I possibly be looking for?" Dominic replied, his tone deliberately careless. He withdrew his pocket watch and made a show of checking the time. "I am merely wondering how soon before dinner is announced. I am famished."
August's laugh was short and knowing. "Of course you are. And I suppose your appetite has nothing to do with a certain lady with amber eyes and opinions sharp enough to cut glass?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Dominic said, snapping his watch closed with more force than necessary. "The hunting party this morning was vigorous. One develops an appetite."
"Indeed. Though I notice you haven't stopped watching that door since we entered." August took a sip of his wine, his eyes dancing with mischief over the rim. "Curious, that."
Dominic scowled. "If you're so desperate for conversation, perhaps you should join Lady Worthington. She appears to be holding court by the pianoforte, and I'm certain she'd welcome your insights on whatever trivial matter currently occupies her attention."
"And miss the spectacle of the Duke of Ice melting? I think not." August clapped him on the shoulder. "Come now, admit it. You're wondering where my sister is."
"I am wondering," Dominic said deliberately, "when we shall eat."
As if summoned by his complaint, a butler appeared at the drawing room entrance and announced dinner with the solemnity of a man proclaiming the Second Coming. The assembled guests began to move in a choreographed shuffle toward the dining room, ladies seeking gentlemen ofappropriate rank to escort them, gentlemen bracing themselves for the gauntlet of hopeful mamas and their daughters.
Dominic scanned the room one final time, telling himself he was merely taking stock of the company. But June was not among them. The realization brought a curious hollow sensation to his chest.
Where is she?
"Your disappointment is showing," August murmured. "Shall I inquire after her whereabouts? Perhaps she has a headache. Or perhaps she's avoiding someone." His meaningful look was about as subtle as a cannon.
"Don't be absurd," Dominic muttered. "I'm merely surprised your mother would permit her to miss a social obligation."
Before August could respond, a rustle of expensive silk and the cloying scent of violets announced the approach of a woman Dominic recognized as the Marchioness of Linton. She bore down upon them with the determination of a naval frigate, towing in her wake a slender girl whose expression suggested she was being led to execution rather than dinner.
"Your Grace!" The marchioness's voice carried across the room with such volume that several nearby conversations stuttered to a halt. "What a fortunate encounter! May I present my daughter, Lady Annabelle? She is quite the accomplished musician—plays the pianoforte like an angel, doesn't she, Annabelle?"
Lady Annabelle, a pale slip of a girl with limp blonde curls and a complexion that suggested she'd never been exposed to direct sunlight, managed a curtsy so deep Dominic feared she might topple forward.
"Your Grace," she whispered, her voice as insubstantial as mist.
