Dominic was looking directly at her, his expression unreadable. Had he heard? June felt her cheeks warm as he turned away to greet her father.
"Duke of Icemere," Albert said, extending his hand. "I've heard much about you from my son. He speaks highly of your friendship."
"Lord Wildmoore," Dominic replied, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "The pleasure is mine. August has often spoken of his father's wisdom and excellent library."
Albert chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere, young man. Though I suspect you say the same to all the old bibliophiles you encounter."
"Only those whose collections truly merit it," Dominic assured him with a charming smile.
June watched the exchange with growing dread. Her father already appeared charmed by Dominic, and her mother?—
As if on cue, Dorothy beckoned Dominic over. "Your Grace, I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I am the Duchess of Wildmoore."
Dominic bowed elegantly over Dorothy's outstretched hand. "A pleasure, Your Grace. Your daughters speak of you with great affection."
"How kind of them," Dorothy replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I hope you are acquainted with my daughter, June."
Please don't. Please don't. Please don't.
Dominic's gaze shifted to June, a devilish grin spreading slowly across his face. "I have had the pleasure of meeting your daughter, Duchess."
The emphasis he placed on the word "pleasure" was subtle—perhaps imperceptible to anyone who hadn't shared a midnight encounter with him in a darkened kitchen—but to June, it was as good as a shout. Heat rushed to her face, burning all the way to the tips of her ears.
"I—" she began, then faltered. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I left something upstairs."
Without waiting for a response, June turned and fled the room, her mother's puzzled "June?" following her into the hallway.
The absolute nerve of him,she fumed, climbing the stairs two at a time.The unmitigated gall. As if last night wasn't mortifying enough.
Only when she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber did June allow herself to acknowledge the truth—a truth far more disturbing than Dominic's teasing or her mother's matchmaking: despite everything, despite all reason and propriety, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and go directly back to him.
"If there is anything more tedious than watching a gaggle of society ladies exclaim over ribbons, I cannot imagine what it might be." Dominic muttered this observation to no one in particular as he maintained a careful distance behind the party. His gaze, however, remained fixed on one particular lady who had just separated from the group. June Vestiere moved with purpose down the village's main street, her destination apparently not the linen draper's that had entranced the others. Where was she going? And why did he find himself compelled to follow?
He watched as June glanced over her shoulder—checking if anyone had noticed her departure—before slipping down a narrow side lane. Without consciously deciding to do so, Dominic found his feet carrying him after her, maintaining a discreet distance. The sounds of the market faded as he turned onto the quieter street.
This is madness, he told himself.Following a woman through village streets like some lovesick swain. But he continued nonetheless, his curiosity—or perhaps something far more dangerous—propelling him forward.
June stopped before a shop with a weathered sign swinging gently in the breeze. Even from where he stood, Dominic could make out the faded letters spelling "Thornfield's Books & Manuscripts." A bookseller. Of course. Where else would June Vestiere go when freed from social obligations?
She disappeared inside, the shop's bell announcing her arrival. Dominic hesitated only briefly before following, nearly hitting his head on the low doorframe as he entered.
The interior was exactly what one might expect of a country bookshop—cramped, dusty, and utterly enchanting to those who loved the written word. Shelves rose from floor to ceiling, each one sagging slightly under the weight of its literary burden. The air smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and the peculiar mustiness that only truly ancient books could produce.
June stood with her back to him, examining a shelf of historical texts, her fingers trailing reverently over the spines. She hadn't noticed him yet. Dominic cleared his throat.
"I see you've found the only establishment in this village worth patronizing," he said, enjoying the way she startled at his voice.
June whirled around, her eyes widening. "Your Grace. What are you doing here?"
"The same as you, I imagine. Seeking something more stimulating than discussions about the relative merits of Belgian lace."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I wasn't aware you had a preference regarding lace."
"I have preferences regarding many things," he replied, moving to stand beside her and examine the shelf. "Ancient history, I see. A particular interest of yours?"
"Among many," she admitted, turning back to the books. "Though I confess a weakness for local histories. They often contain details overlooked by more... prestigious scholars."
Dominic pulled a volume from the shelf, raising an eyebrow at the title. "The Complete Accounting of Sheep Farming in Norfolk, 1760 to 1790.' That must make for riveting bedtime reading."
