"Speaking of adventures," August continued, apparently satisfied with Dominic's explanation, "Theo has proposed a ride to the village this morning. Something about needing to select a gift for April's birthday."
"How domestic," Dominic remarked, though the prospect of riding suddenly seemed daunting. Would his body betray him again, perhaps while on horseback? The thought sent a chill through him.
"Will you join us?" August asked.
Dominic's instinct was to refuse, to retreat to his chambers where he might suffer any further episodes in private. But that path led to questions, to concern, perhaps even to pity—the one thing he could not abide.
"Of course," he said instead. "Though I warn you, my expertise in selecting lady's gifts is limited to items one wouldn't present to a duchess."
August laughed, exactly as intended. "I'm sure Theo will appreciate your unique perspective."
As they continued their breakfast, Dominic became increasingly aware of every sensation in his body—the slight pressure in his chest when he laughed, the momentary lightheadedness when he turned too quickly to answer a question, the way his heart seemed to stutter and then race to catch up when he rose to refill his coffee.
He surreptitiously pressed his fingers to the inside of his wrist while pretending to adjust his cuff links, counting the beats. Too fast, surely. And uneven, with occasional pauses that made his breath catch.
"Blake, are you counting the threads in your shirt cuff?" Logan's voice broke into his morbid calculation. "You've been staring at your wrist for nearly a minute."
Dominic smoothly transitioned the gesture into straightening his sleeve. "Simply admiring Weston's craftsmanship. The man is a genius with a needle."
"If you say so," Logan replied with good-natured skepticism. "I've never understood the fascination with London tailors. A coat is a coat."
"And a horse is a horse, yet I notice you paid an absurd sum for that Arabian stallion," Dominic countered.
"Touché," Logan conceded with a grin.
The conversation flowed around him, and Dominic found himself participating almost by rote, his wit serving him well even as his mind remained fixated on the workings of his rebellious heart. When had such an automatic function become so terrifyingly unreliable?
The breakfast gathering began to disperse, gentlemen rising to attend to correspondence or prepare for the ride to the village.Logan paused by Dominic's chair, glancing toward the windows where the morning sun now shone brilliantly.
"At least the weather has cleared after yesterday's deluge," he observed. "Should be a pleasant ride. Perfect day for it, in fact."
Dominic looked out at the sunlit garden, the raindrops still clinging to leaves and grass blades glittering like scattered diamonds. How strange that the world could appear so vibrant, so full of life, on the very day he had felt the first touch of his mortality.
"Indeed," he said, rising to stand beside Logan. "We should make the most of fine days. One never knows how many remain in one's account."
Logan gave him an odd look. "That's rather philosophical for breakfast conversation."
Dominic offered a careless shrug and his most disarming smile. "Blame it on the rain. It always makes me contemplative."
As they walked toward the entrance hall, Dominic felt the weight of his secret pressing down upon him. They should make the most of fine days indeed—but only he understood the true urgency behind the sentiment. Only he knew that his account might be running dangerously low.
His hand strayed unconsciously to his chest, feeling the steady—for now—beat beneath his palm. How many more beats remained? How many more fine days?
Fifteen
June tilted her head back, gazing at the canopy of stars scattered above like diamond dust on black velvet. The night air was a welcome relief from the stifling warmth of the terrace where Stone's guests continued their revelry. Music and laughter drifted across the lawn, but here, in this darkened corner of the garden, she had found a moment's peace from watchful eyes and, more importantly, from a certain pair of blue ones that seemed to follow her with unsettling persistence.
She wrapped her arms around herself, grateful for the shawl she'd thought to bring. The garden party would be tomorrow, and then perhaps she could plead a headache and retreat to her chamber. Just a few more days of this careful avoidance, and surely these unwanted feelings would subside.
Foolish girl, she scolded herself.Have you learned nothing in four years?
The memory of that humiliation still burned. Standing outside the library door at Oxford, hearing Dominic's cutting dismissal when August had confronted him about her childish infatuation. The cruel words had sliced through her young heart like a blade.
"Thin as a reed, hair like unpolished brass, eyes too large for her face... I have no interest in schoolgirls with romantic fantasies."
And yet here she was, a grown woman of twenty, and those same fantasies threatened to resurface. Each time he entered a room, her traitorous heart beat faster. When he spoke, she found herself listening not just to his words but to the rich timbre of his voice. When they argued—which was often—she felt more alive than she had in years.
It cannot happen again,June vowed fiercely. She would not give him the power to wound her twice. This time, she knew better. This time, she would protect herself.
