Dominic stood mere feet away, his face half-illuminated by the distant glow from the terrace lanterns. The shadows accentuated the sharp planes of his face, the strong line of his jaw. He wore no hat, and a lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less guarded.
"Your Grace," she managed, hating how breathless she sounded. "You startled me."
His mouth curved into a slight smile. "Not my intention, I assure you. Though I must say, you seem remarkably easy to startle for someone deliberately hiding in the shadows."
"I am not hiding," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. "I am merely..."
"Lurking? Skulking? Conspiring with the night creatures?" He offered, stepping closer. "Planning a midnight abduction of the butler's prized silver?"
Despite herself, June felt a smile tug at her lips. "Why does everyone ask me what I'm doing here? Is it so strange to prefer starlight to candles and conversation?"
"I am not everyone," he corrected her, moving to stand beside her, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of sandalwood that clung to him. "And yes, it is unusual for a young lady to abandon a gathering where she is admired, to stand alone in the dark."
June turned back to the stars, using them as a shield against his too-perceptive gaze. "I'm gazing at the stars, if you must know. Though I fear my knowledge of them comes primarily from books."
"Books are excellent teachers," he said, surprising her with the lack of mockery in his tone. "But the sky itself can be difficult to read without a guide."
"And you consider yourself such a guide?" She meant the words to sound challenging, but they emerged softer than intended.
"I've sailed under many skies," he replied simply. "After enough nights on the open sea, the stars become as familiar as old friends."
June glanced at him, struck by this glimpse of a life so different from her own. "I've never been to sea."
"No?" He tilted his head to look at her, his expression thoughtful. "I think you would enjoy it. The vastness of the ocean matches the reach of your mind."
The unexpected compliment rendered June momentarily speechless. She turned her face upward again, hoping the darkness concealed the color rising in her cheeks.
"You mentioned the Great Bear," she said when she'd recovered her composure. "I've read about it, but I can never quite find it among so many stars."
Dominic stepped closer, so close that his arm nearly touched hers. He raised his hand, pointing upward. "There—do you see those seven stars forming a shape like a ladle or dipper?"
June followed the direction of his gesture, squinting slightly. "I think so."
"That's part of it. Now, if you follow those two stars at the end of the dipper upward..." His arm shifted, and she found herself leaning closer to align her gaze with his. "You'll find Polaris, the North Star."
"The star that never moves," June murmured, remembering her reading.
"Not precisely," Dominic corrected gently. "It does move, but so slightly it appears fixed from our perspective. For centuries, sailors have used it to guide their way across trackless seas."
His voice had dropped lower, and she was acutely aware of his proximity, of the way his breath stirred a loose strand of her hair when he spoke. June should have stepped away, maintained a proper distance, but something in his words held her in place.
"How remarkable," she said softly. "To find your way home by looking at the stars."
"More than that," Dominic continued, and there was something in his tone—a sincerity, a quiet passion—that she'd never heard from him before. "The stars remind us of our place in the universe. When you stand on the deck of a ship in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but water to the horizon and stars overhead, you understand both your insignificance and your connection to everything that exists."
June turned to look at him, startled by the unexpected depth of his words. His face was closer than she'd realized, his blue eyes reflecting pinpricks of starlight. In that moment, he didn't looklike the rakish duke whose reputation preceded him into every room. He looked like a man who had contemplated the vastness of existence and found both wonder and melancholy in it.
"That sounds...lonely," she ventured.
"Sometimes," he acknowledged with a slight nod. "But also freeing. There's a certain peace in recognizing how small our troubles are against the backdrop of eternity."
His gaze met hers, and June felt something shift between them—a barrier lowering, a glimpse offered of the man behind the carefully constructed facade. This wasn't the charming rake who flirted with every woman in sight, nor the sardonic duke who parried her verbal thrusts with practiced ease. This was someone else entirely—thoughtful, vulnerable, genuine.
"Look there," he said, breaking the moment to point toward another section of sky. "Cassiopeia. The queen who boasted of her beauty and angered the gods. They placed her in the heavens as punishment, forced to circle the pole in an awkward position for all eternity."
"A harsh sentence for vanity," June observed, grateful for the return to safer territory.
"The Greeks were not known for proportional justice," Dominic replied, and she could hear the smile in his voice. "Though I suppose there are worse fates than becoming a constellation."
