"Your Grace?" Lady Annabelle's voice penetrated his reverie. "Have I said something amiss?"
Dominic realized he'd been staring at his empty soup bowl with a frown. "Not at all. I was merely... contemplating the pattern of the china."
"Oh! It is rather pretty, is it not? Though not as fine as the set Mama ordered from Wedgwood for my dowry. That set has gold leaf and the most darling little shepherdesses around the rim. Mama says a proper tea service is essential to running a distinguished household, though I confess I worry about the servants breaking such valuable pieces. Our butler at home has the most dreadful tendency to?—"
And she was off again, her voice a continuous stream of inconsequential observations that required no response beyond the occasional nod. Dominic let his gaze wander down the table, where August appeared to be enduring a similar trial, trapped between the two daughters of his own determined matron.
Where is June? Is she ill? Has something happened?
He caught himself and ruthlessly suppressed the concern. It was better this way. Distance was what he needed—what theyboth needed. Whatever this strange attraction was, it could lead nowhere good.
The dinner progressed through five excruciating courses, each one accompanied by Lady Annabelle's ceaseless prattle. By the time the ladies rose to withdraw, leaving the gentlemen to their port, Dominic's head throbbed with the effort of maintaining polite attention.
"I believe I've just endured the longest dinner of my life," August muttered as he slid into the chair Lady Annabelle had vacated. "If I hear one more word about the superior quality of French lace over Belgian, I may be forced to commit an act unbecoming of a gentleman."
"Consider yourself fortunate," Dominic replied, pouring them both generous measures of port. "I've been treated to a comprehensive account of every social event in London for the past six months, complete with commentary on the moral implications of each lady's choice of sleeve length."
August grinned. "And yet you survived. I'm impressed by your fortitude."
"Barely," Dominic said, taking a long swallow of port. "Your sister chose wisely in avoiding this particular torture."
"Ah, so you did miss her," August said, his expression smug. "I knew it."
Dominic glared at him. "I merely observed that she demonstrated good judgment."
"June rarely attends these tedious dinners if she can help it," August said, ignoring Dominic's denial. "She finds a headache or a pressing letter to write. Mother has given up trying to force her attendance."
Dominic told himself the relief he felt was merely sympathy for June's escape from social obligation, not disappointment that her absence was routine rather than specifically aimed at avoiding him.
After what felt like an eternity, the gentlemen finally rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. The evening's entertainment had begun, with a young woman at the pianoforte murdering a Beethoven sonata while her proud mama beamed encouragingly.
Dominic made his way to a wingback chair positioned in a quiet corner, as far from Lady Annabelle as the room would allow. He sank into it with a sigh of relief, only to feel something hard press into his back. Reaching behind the cushion, his fingers encountered the smooth leather binding of a book.
Curious, he pulled it out. It was a slim volume, its cover embossed with intricate designs that his fingers traced with interest. Opening it, he found it was a treatise on Mayan civilization, complete with detailed sketches of temples and hieroglyphics.
June.
The book had to be hers. No one else in this gathering would read such material, certainly not stuffed into the cushions of a chair like a guilty secret.
He turned the pages carefully, noting small pencil marks in the margins—annotations in a neat, precise hand that somehow managed to convey skepticism even in brief comments. A smile tugged at his lips. He could almost hear her voice challenging the author's assumptions, questioning his conclusions.
Something about the marginalia sparked a memory—something about a library, about reaching for a book too high on a shelf...
The memory rushed back with such force that Dominic sat bolt upright, nearly dropping the volume.
The Bodleian. Oxford. Years ago.
A slender girl with amber eyes and a determined expression, climbing a ladder to retrieve a volume he couldn't reach. Her voice, younger but still crisp with intelligence: "Polybius is considered quite dense. I'm told the second volume is nearly impenetrable."
His own reply: "I admire a challenge. Or perhaps I simply enjoy a good struggle."
The shock of recognition left him momentarily breathless. That girl—that serious, bookish girl with eyes too large for her face and a mind that had impressed even his jaded twenty-year-old self—had been June. June Vestiere. August's sister.
And later, in the same library, he'd dismissed her to her brother. Casually, cruelly dismissed her without a second thought.
I have met June before? How could I have forgotten?
Eleven
