"Already?" August followed his gaze to where June was completing the dance. "Ah. I see. My sister appears to have stolen the attention of every eligible gentleman present."
"And several ineligible ones," Dominic muttered, watching as a married viscount approached June the moment the music ended.
August chuckled. "You sound almost disapproving. I thought you of all people would appreciate a transformation of this magnitude."
"Transformation," Dominic repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. "There's nothing transformed about her. She's the same woman she was yesterday, and the day before that. The same mind, the same wit, the same—" He stopped himself, aware he'd revealed too much. "These men are fools who can't see beyond a red dress."
"While you, of course, have always appreciated her for her mind," August said dryly.
Dominic didn't answer. He couldn't admit, even to August, how deeply June had affected him. How their conversations challenged him in ways no one else ever had. How, when she looked at him with those perceptive amber eyes, he felt truly seen for perhaps the first time in his life.
A sudden pressure squeezed his chest, making him draw a sharp breath. Not pain, precisely, but a wrongness that had become familiar over the past days. His pulse quickened, then seemed to pause for a fraction too long before resuming its rhythm. Dominic reached for a nearby column, steadying himself under the pretense of leaning casually against it.
Not now, he commanded his rebellious heart.Not here.
"Blake?" August's voice seemed to come from a distance. "Are you well?"
"Perfectly," Dominic replied, forcing a smile. "The champagne is inferior tonight. It's giving me a headache."
August's brow furrowed with concern, but before he could press further, Dominic straightened and adjusted his cuffs—a gesture calculated to appear nonchalant.
"I think I'll step outside for some air," he said. "The gardens should be less crowded away from the dancing."
"Shall I accompany you?"
"No need." Dominic clapped August on the shoulder. "Enjoy the festivities. I won't be long."
But as he turned to leave, his gaze was drawn once more to June. She had moved to the edge of the dance floor, surrounded by a small court of admirers. She smiled at something one of them said—not the polite, practiced smile she usually wore in company, but something more genuine that transformed her entire face.
That smile should have been for him.
The thought rose unbidden, followed immediately by a wave of self-recrimination. What right had he to claim her smiles? What future could he possibly offer her?
He knew the pattern all too well. His grandfather, dead at thirty-five. His father at thirty-two. And now, at thirty, Dominic had felt the first warning signs of whatever cursed weakness ran in his blood. The occasional dizziness. The strange rhythms of his heart. The creeping certainty that his time was growing short.
What kind of man would he be to pursue June, knowing that? To court her, perhaps even win her, only to leave her a young widow? He had seen what his father's death had done to his mother—how it had hollowed her out, left her a ghost drifting through the rooms of Icemere Castle. He would not inflict that fate on June. She deserved better. Deserved a husband who could promise her decades, not mere years or months.
Lord Pemberton now claimed June's hand for a country dance. Dominic watched as she took her place in the line of ladies, her scarlet skirts a bold stroke of color against the greenery. Pemberton was a decent sort. Wealthy, respectable, unlikely to die before his fiftieth year. Perhaps...
No. The mere thought of June with Pemberton—or any man—sent a spike of jealousy through him so acute it was almost physical pain.
Dominic turned away abruptly. This was madness. He had no business feeling possessive of a woman he could never have. No right to the jealousy that burned through him each time another man claimed her attention.
Better to leave. To remove himself from the sight of her dancing with others, laughing with others, directing those bright, intelligent eyes toward anyone but him.
He moved through the crowd with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to navigating ballrooms, nodding to acquaintances but not stopping to converse. The night air grew cooler as he leftthe lantern-lit center of the garden for the shadowed paths that led toward the house.
This is the right choice,he reminded himself. June's life was her own, her future bright with possibilities. Who she danced with, who she smiled at, who she eventually married—none of it was his concern. Nor should it be.
Especially now. Especially when his own future had never been more uncertain.
As if to punctuate this thought, his heart gave another of those peculiar stutters—a brief cessation followed by a too-rapid series of beats that left him momentarily breathless. He paused on the path, placing his hand against his chest until the rhythm steadied.
It had started. After years of waiting, wondering when the family curse would claim him as it had claimed his father and grandfather, the first signs were unmistakable. How long did he have? A year? Two? Less?
Not nearly long enough to love June Vestiere as she deserved to be loved.
With that sobering thought, Dominic continued toward the house, leaving behind the music, the laughter, and the woman in scarlet who had somehow, against all reason and caution, claimed a place in his heart that he could no longer deny—and could never acknowledge.
