Seventeen
June gathered her skirts as she climbed the grand staircase, each step a small victory against the weariness settling in her bones. The garden party had been a triumph by any measure—her dance card filled, her crimson dress admired, her wit appreciated by a dozen gentlemen whose names blurred together in her memory.
She should have felt pleased, vindicated even. Instead, a hollow ache had taken residence in her chest, a persistent emptiness that had appeared the moment Dominic Blake had looked at her with those impossibly blue eyes and uttered the word "polite." As if dancing with her were some obligation to be discharged, like remembering to compliment the hostess or avoiding the questionable lobster patties.
Polite, she thought bitterly. Ibelieve I should request a dance. It is the polite thing to do.
What a perfect distillation of all her fears—that to him, she was merely one more lady to charm, one more social nicety to observe. Not someone who made his heart race, as hers did shamefully in his presence. Not someone who occupied his thoughts, as he so stubbornly occupied hers.
June turned down the hallway that led to her bedchamber, her fingers trailing along the cool surface of the wall. The house had grown quiet, most guests having departed or retired to their rooms. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, painting silver paths across the Persian carpets. She was tired—not merely from dancing, but from the constant performance of being June Vestiere, the woman who needed no one, who remained untouched by blue eyes and careless words.
As she passed an open door, a current of cool night air brushed her skin. June slowed, glancing into what appeared to be a small sitting room. Moonlight poured through open balcony doors, where a man's silhouette stood outlined against the night sky.
She knew immediately, with a certainty that defied reason, that it was Dominic. Not from his height or the breadth of his shoulders, though both were distinctive. Not from the way he stood, one hand braced against the stone balustrade. She simply knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that the solitary figure was the Duke of Icemere.
June's feet stopped of their own accord. Every logical impulse urged her to continue to her room, to put as much distance as possible between herself and this man who had the power to wound her with a single careless word. Yet she found herselfunable to move, drawn to him by forces she could neither name nor resist.
Before she could reconsider, June stepped into the room. Her slippers made no sound on the carpet, but Dominic turned slightly, as if sensing her presence. He did not speak, did not fully face her, but something in the subtle shift of his posture told her he knew she was there.
June moved toward the balcony, stopping a few feet short of where he stood. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that crackled in the night air. Yet it was different from their usual charged encounters—no verbal sparring, no teasing glances, no calculated moves in the elaborate game they'd been playing. This moment felt suspended outside of time, fragile and significant.
"The gardens look different by moonlight," she said at last, breaking the silence. "Less orderly. More wild."
Dominic turned to face her fully, and June's breath caught in her throat. His face, usually animated with sardonic amusement or practiced charm, was stripped bare of pretense. In the silver light, she saw weariness etched in the lines around his mouth, a shadow of something like pain in his eyes.
This was not the Duke of Ice who moved through society with effortless confidence. This was not the rake whose reputation preceded him into every drawing room. This was a man with wounds he kept carefully hidden—until now.
"Everything looks different in moonlight," he replied. His voice was low, almost rough. "Even the truth."
The words seemed laden with meaning June couldn't quite grasp. She moved closer, drawn by some instinct to comfort, though she kept a proper distance between them.
"April outdid herself tonight," she offered, searching for neutral ground. "The garden party was lovely."
"It was." He turned back to the view, his profile sharp against the night sky. "Your sisters have a talent for creating beauty wherever they go."
"As do you." The words escaped before June could stop them.
Dominic's head turned sharply, surprise evident in his expression.
"For creating beauty?" A ghost of his usual smile appeared. "I've been accused of many things, Lady June, but never that."
"Beauty of a different sort," she clarified, warmth rising in her cheeks. "You transform rooms when you enter them. People orbit around you like planets around the sun."
"Perhaps they simply fear being burned if they stray too close."
The quiet bitterness in his tone startled her. June studied him, trying to reconcile this man with the one who had dismissed her so carelessly earlier.
"I saw you leave the party," she said. "Before most of the dancing had concluded."
"Did you?" Something flickered in his eyes—a spark of the old Dominic, the one who delighted in catching her in moments of vulnerability. "I'm flattered you noticed my absence."
"I notice everything about you." The admission slipped out, quiet but unmistakable in the night air.
Dominic's fingers tightened on the balustrade, his knuckles white in the moonlight. For a long moment, he said nothing, and June feared she had revealed too much, crossed some invisible boundary between them.
"I asked you to dance earlier," he said finally. "You refused me."
"You said it was 'the polite thing to do,'" June reminded him, unable to keep a hint of hurt from her voice. "As if dancing with me were some duty to be performed."
