Lady Worthington beamed. "How gallant! But I've left my reticule at the draper's. You two go ahead—I'll catch up directly."
With a knowing wink that made Dominic want to sink through the floorboards, his aunt swept from the shop, the bell jangling cheerfully in her wake.
In the sudden silence, Dominic became intensely aware of June still standing beside him, the Roman manuscript clutched to her chest like a shield. Their synchronized denials hung in the air between them, the lie—for it was a lie, wasn't it?—creating an unexpected intimacy.
Neither spoke. June carefully retied the ribbon around the manuscript and placed it back on the shelf.
"Your aunt is..." she began, then trailed off.
"Meddlesome? Presumptuous? Embarrassingly transparent?" Dominic suggested.
A small smile touched June's lips. "I was going to say 'observant.'"
The word fell between them like a stone in still water, sending ripples of meaning in all directions. Dominic stepped closer, close enough to see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.
"What exactly do you imagine she observed?" he asked, his voice low.
June met his gaze steadily, though a flush of pink colored her cheeks. "Nothing of consequence," she replied. "Nothing at all."
But the lie was there again, hanging in the dusty air. And with it, a question neither dared to voice: What if it wasn't a lie at all?
Thirteen
"Iam certain Logan will try to find me here." May's declaration floated through the air like a pleased prophecy rather than a concern. She stepped daintily over a fallen branch as they followed the narrow path toward the meadow. June watched her sister's graceful movements with a mixture of affection and exasperation. May had been married four years, yet she still blushed like a new bride whenever her husband's name was mentioned.
"I believe Theo will do the same," April replied, adjusting her parasol to shield her face from the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. A smile played at the corner of her mouth—the secretive, content smile of a woman thoroughly pleased with her lot in life.
June rolled her eyes. "Well, I certainly am glad I have no man following me around."
April and May exchanged a look—that infuriating twin glance that always made June feel as though she'd missed some crucial part of a conversation—and burst into laughter.
"What?" June demanded, narrowing her eyes at her sisters. "What is so amusing?"
"Nothing at all," May said, adjusting her spectacles with studied innocence. "We're merely enjoying the fresh air."
"And your delusions," April added under her breath, though not quietly enough to escape June's notice.
June opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort but was distracted by their arrival at the meadow. Even she had to admit the spot was enchanting. Tall grasses swayed in the gentle breeze, dotted with wildflowers in every imaginable shade. At the meadow's center, beneath the sprawling branches of an ancient oak, a footman had laid out their picnic—a checkered blanket weighted at the corners with stones, a wicker hamper promising delights within, and cushions arranged for comfortable repose.
"Oh, this is lovely," May sighed, hurrying forward. "April, your staff has outdone themselves."
"Cook insisted we take the strawberry tarts," April said, sinking gracefully onto a cushion. "Apparently, they won't be at their peak by tomorrow, and it would be a tragedy to waste them."
June settled beside her sisters, arranging her skirts with less care than either of them would have shown. She reached for the hamper, eager to inspect its contents. "At least we've escaped Aunt Agatha's matchmaking schemes for a few hours. I swear, if she introduced me to one more 'eligible gentleman' with nothing between his ears but air, I might have been forced to do something drastic."
"Such as?" May asked, accepting a plate from June.
"Push her into the fountain," June said matter-of-factly. "Or perhaps lock her in the conservatory with Lord Pemberton's mother. They could compare notes on how to best terrorize unmarried ladies."
April laughed, reaching for a strawberry tart. "Poor Aunt. She means well."
"She means to see me married off by Michaelmas," June corrected, selecting a tart for herself. "Which is not going to happen."
"Speaking of marriage," May said, wiping a crumb from the corner of her mouth with delicate precision, "have you made Dominic regret not remembering you yet?"
June nearly choked on her tart. "I beg your pardon?"
April's eyes gleamed with interest. "Yes, do tell. Has the Duke of Ice begun to thaw?"
