And all the while, she felt him watching.
Dominic stood across the garden, leaning against a stone column with a glass of champagne in hand. Unlike the other gentlemen, who made no attempt to hide their admiration, his gaze was carefully controlled—a brief glance here, a measured look there. Yet each time their eyes met, even from a distance, something electric passed between them, a current as real as if he'd touched her.
June turned away, focusing her attention on Lord Pemberton, who was regaling her with a tale of his latest hunting expedition. She laughed at the appropriate moments, asked the right questions, but remained acutely aware of Dominic's presence, as if some invisible thread connected them across the crowded garden.
"Lady June."
His voice, so close behind her, sent a shiver racing along her spine. She turned slowly, composing her features into a mask of polite interest.
"Your Grace," she acknowledged with a slight nod.
Dominic's blue eyes swept over her, taking in the scarlet dress, the rubies at her throat, the careful arrangement of her hair. For a moment—just a moment—his carefully maintained expression slipped, revealing something raw and hungry beneath. Then the mask returned, and he offered a bow that was a fraction too shallow to be entirely respectful.
"I believe I should request a dance," he said. "It is the polite thing to do."
The words struck June like a physical blow. Polite. As if dancing with her were some social obligation to be discharged, a courtesy extended not from desire but duty.
The confidence that had buoyed her all evening wavered. Here, in six carelessly spoken words, was confirmation of her deepest fear—that any attention from him was mere politeness, nothing more. That their moment under the stars had meant nothing to him.
She felt the sting of it deeply, but years of practice concealing her feelings served her well. Instead of showing her hurt, June smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Oh, you mustn't be polite, Your Grace," she replied, her voice light. "I have many gentlemen to dance with."
She snapped her fan open with a practiced flick of her wrist, using it to gesture at her filled dance card. "As you can see, my evening is quite spoken for."
Something flickered in Dominic's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or even hurt. Good. Let him feel a fraction of what she had felt at his dismissal.
"Surely you could find space for—" he began, but was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Addington, a young baron with a pleasant, if somewhat forgettable, face.
"Lady June, I believe this is our dance," Addington said, offering his arm with an eager smile.
June turned to him with exaggerated delight. "Indeed it is, Lord Addington. I've been looking forward to it." She placed her hand on his arm, then glanced back at Dominic. "Do excuse me, Your Grace. Duty calls."
She allowed Addington to lead her toward the dancing area, feeling Dominic's gaze burning into her back. Each step carried her further from him, creating a distance that felt both necessary and painful. Better this way, she told herself fiercely. Better to maintain this distance than risk her heart a second time.
Yet even as Lord Addington guided her through the steps of a quadrille, even as she smiled and conversed and played her part to perfection, her mind remained fixed on Dominic and the wounded look in his eyes when she'd rejected him.
Perhaps he had felt something after all. Perhaps?—
No, she corrected herself sharply.This is precisely how he draws women in. With moments of seeming vulnerability followed by careless dismissal. I will not be another conquest, another momentary diversion.
But as the dance continued, June found herself glancing over Addington's shoulder, searching the crowd for a pair of blue eyes that had somehow, against all sense and reason, become her true north.
Dominic watched as Lord Addington—that utterly unremarkable, thoroughly forgettable baronet with nothing to recommend him beyond a decent estate and all his own teeth—led June into the quadrille. She moved with unexpected grace, her scarlet dress swirling around her ankles as she turned, the rubies at her throat catching the lantern light with each movement. The sight of her hand resting on Addington's arm made something dark and possessive stir in Dominic's chest. Ridiculous. He had no claim on her. No right to the jealousy that burned through him like brandy.
Yet there it was, undeniable and fierce.
He drained his champagne glass and set it on a passing footman's tray with more force than necessary. Several heads turned at the sound, but Dominic ignored them, his attention fixed solely on the woman in red who had just rejected him with such cool composure.
She was magnificent tonight. The scarlet silk set her apart from the pastel-draped ladies who populated these affairs, making her a vivid flame among pale butterflies. The color brought warmth to her skin, highlighting the amber of her eyes, the rich brown of her hair. She had arranged those tresses differently tonight—swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck, with a few strategic curls left to frame her face.
Dominic had always found June beautiful, from that first encounter in the library years ago. Not in the conventional, simpering way of society beauties, but in her fierce intelligence, her refusal to diminish herself to please others. Tonight, though, she wore her beauty like armor, dazzling and untouchable.
And these fools, these utter cretins who had ignored her for years, suddenly circled her like bees to honey.
"Blake!" August's voice broke into his thoughts. "You look ready to murder poor Addington. Has he offended you somehow?"
Dominic forced his expression into one of bored indifference. "Not at all. I was merely contemplating an early departure."
