The drawing room fell silent as June entered on her father's arm. Dozens of eyes turned toward her, expressions ranging from curious to knowing. The scent of flowers was overwhelming—orange blossoms, roses, and lilies spilling from every available surface in a profusion that bordered on excessive. June's gaze swept the room, noting familiar faces: her family, close friends of both families, several distinguished neighbors, and?—
"June!" Lady Worthington bustled forward, her elaborate turban wobbling precariously as she moved. "My dear girl, you look absolutely enchanting! Though I must say, this is all rather sudden, is it not? One hears rumors, of course, but I never suspected my nephew was so close to making an offer. And where is the dear boy? Surely the groom ought to be present for his own wedding announcement?"
June froze, her mind emptying of all possible responses. She cast a desperate glance toward her mother, who swooped in with practiced social grace.
"Lady Worthington, how kind of you to join us today," Dorothy said, smoothly inserting herself between June and the older woman. "I believe you've not yet seen the new Chinese porcelain in the small parlor? It's quite remarkable—hand-painted scenes of the imperial court."
"Porcelain?" Lady Worthington's brows drew together in confusion. "My dear Dorothy, I have no interest in porcelain at this moment. I am far more curious about this wedding that seems to have materialized out of thin air. Why, just last week at Lady Pemberton's musicale, there was no hint of an attachment between our families, and now suddenly?—"
"Aunt Agatha," August's voice cut through the older woman's prattle with polite firmness. "Might I suggest we simply enjoy this happy occasion without excessive questions? The explanation is quite simple—my sister and your nephew have developed a mutual regard and see no reason to delay their union."
Lady Worthington looked prepared to argue, but something in August's expression—perhaps the echo of his father's authority—gave her pause. "Well," she said after a moment, her tone slightly chastened. "I suppose a lengthy engagement is not always necessary when two hearts are aligned. Though I do think my sister—the Duke's mother—will be most put out to have missed the occasion."
"We shall host a larger celebration later," Dorothy promised, steering the older woman toward a settee. "Once proper invitations can be sent and adequate preparations made."
June remained rooted by the door, her father a steadying presence at her side. The room seemed to swirl around her—faces and flowers and finery blending together in a dizzying whirl that made it difficult to focus. The sense of unreality that had plagued her all morning intensified. This couldn't be happening. Not like this. Not so suddenly, with so little preparation of heart or mind.
And then—a stir at the entrance. Footsteps in the hallway. The hushed anticipation of guests sensing an arrival.
The drawing room doors opened once more, and Dominic Blake stepped through.
June's breath caught in her throat. She had expected to see him disheveled from travel, perhaps still in his riding clothes after his journey to London and back. Instead, he stood before them impeccably attired in a bottle-green day coat that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, cream breeches, and gleamingHessians. His dark hair was perfectly arranged, his cravat tied in an intricate knot that spoke of careful attention.
He had taken time to dress for their wedding. To make himself impossibly handsome. To appear every inch the duke about to claim his bride.
Their eyes met across the crowded room, and something electric passed between them. For a breathless moment, June forgot the circumstances of their engagement, forgot August's ominous words about Dominic's health, forgot everything except the intensity in those blue eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.
Then reality crashed back upon her with crushing force. This man—this devastatingly handsome, complicated man—was about to become her husband. Not because he had chosen her, but because he had been caught kissing her. Not because he loved her, but because honor demanded it. And she would be bound to him knowing that he harbored secrets he wouldn't share, knowing that he might be torn from her before she'd learned to stop loving him.
I cannot do this.
The thought crystallized with sudden clarity as Dominic moved through the guests toward her, his gaze never leaving hers. June's heart hammered wildly against her ribs. Her lungs seemed unable to draw sufficient air. Her fingers clutched at her skirts as panic rose within her, a tide she could no longer hold back.
Dominic was now mere feet away, his expression unreadable save for a softness in his eyes that made everything worse, somehow. More confusing. More overwhelming. More impossible to bear.
That was all it took and June's carefully maintained composure shattered. Terror gripped her, not of Dominic himself, but of the future stretching before them, filled with uncertainties she couldn't face. Not yet. Not now. Not like this.
Gathering her skirts, she did the only thing she could think of, she dashed past him and ran out the door!
Twenty-One
Dominic froze as June rushed past him. Her face—pale, eyes wide with something akin to panic—burned into his memory as she disappeared through the drawing room door. The murmurs began immediately, rising like the tide around him, threatening to drown the moment in speculation and scandal. He moved to follow her, his body responding before his mind had fully processed her flight, when a firm hand gripped his sleeve.
"Give her a moment, Icemere," her father, Duke of Wildmoore, said quietly, his amber eyes—so like June's—holding a wisdom that brooked no argument. "When the hart runs, pursuing too quickly only drives it further away."
Dominic glanced at the door, every instinct urging him to follow, to find June, to... what? What could he possibly say that would make this situation better? He had ridden for hours to obtain a special license, had dressed with more care than he'd ever devoted to a royal audience, all for a wedding neither of them had truly chosen.
"With respect, sir," Dominic replied, keeping his voice low, "I believe I should?—"
"You should allow her the dignity of gathering herself," Albert interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. "My June has never been one to wear her heart openly. She needs time."
Dominic's gaze swept the room, taking in the sea of curious faces, the barely concealed whispers behind fans and gloved hands. Lady Worthington looked positively apoplectic, her turban quivering with barely contained outrage. Dorothy Vestiere was engaged in animated conversation with several ladies, clearly attempting damage control. August stood by the mantel, his expression darkening by the second.
"Very well," Dominic conceded, though every fiber of his being strained toward the door. "A moment."
Albert nodded, releasing his sleeve. "A wise decision, Your Grace."
The whispers grew louder as Dominic made his way across the drawing room, nodding stiffly to those who caught his eye. The cloying scent of orange blossoms and roses pressed against him like a physical force, making his throat tighten uncomfortably.
