"I have never been so far north," June admitted.
"Then we shall make an adventure of it." The way he said it—as if their marriage might truly be something to look forward to rather than endure—sent a curious warmth spreading through her chest.
The afternoon lengthened into evening as their carriage continued eastward. When they finally stopped at a coaching inn, June was surprised to find that Dominic had arranged for a private parlor rather than immediately retiring to their chamber. A maid brought tea and biscuits, setting them on a small table before curtsying and departing.
June stood uncertainly in the center of the room, watching as Dominic removed his greatcoat and draped it over a chair. The enormity of their situation—alone together for the first time as husband and wife—suddenly pressed upon her with all its implications.
"Are you hungry?" Dominic asked, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort as he poured tea into two cups. "The kitchen here is surprisingly decent. I've stopped on previous journeys."
"Tea is perfect," June managed, seating herself across from him. "Thank you."
Dominic handed her a cup, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that slight contact sent awareness skittering along her skin. She took a sip too quickly and nearly scalded her tongue.
"I have a suggestion," Dominic said, settling into his own chair with a grace that belied his tall frame. "What if we were to introduce ourselves anew? No titles, no past misunderstandings. Simply June and Dominic, beginning from this moment."
June lowered her cup, studying him with cautious interest. "How would that work, exactly?"
"Like this." He extended his hand across the table. "Good evening. I'm Dominic Blake. I enjoy sailing, have an unreasonable fondness for orange marmalade, and can recite most of Milton's Paradise Lost from memory, though I often confuse the rebellious angels."
Despite herself, June smiled, placing her hand in his. "June Vestiere—Blake," she corrected herself, the surname still unfamiliar on her tongue. "I read ancient Greek, am hopeless at needlework, and have never been able to appreciate the taste of oysters, though I've tried on three separate occasions."
Dominic laughed, a rich sound that transformed his face and made June's heart perform a curious little skip. "I find I like you already, June Blake."
"And I find you less intimidating than rumor would suggest, Dominic Blake."
Something in his expression shifted at her words—a shadow passing briefly across the blue of his eyes. "Ah, but we've only just met. I may yet live up to my fearsome reputation."
June sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of her cup. "Somehow I doubt that."
"There are things about me you don't yet know," Dominic said, his tone lightening though his eyes remained serious. "Things that might make you reconsider your assessment."
"Such as?"
Dominic set down his cup, his fingers tapping a restless pattern against the tablecloth. "My father died when I was fourteen," he said, the abrupt change of subject catching June by surprise. "I found him in his study. He was thirty-eight years old and had seemed in perfect health that morning."
June's chest tightened at the unexpected confidance. "I'm so very sorry."
"He left my mother a widow far too young," Dominic continued. "She never recovered from the loss. Never remarried. Spent the rest of her life as half a person." He picked up a biscuit, turning it in his fingers without eating it. "It destroyed her, watching him die. I vowed I would never do that to a woman."
"And yet, here we are," June said softly.
Dominic met her gaze directly. "Here we are indeed. Which is why you deserve to know the truth, June. My father's death was not an isolated tragedy. My grandfather died at thirty-five. Hisfather at forty. There is a sickness in our bloodline that takes Blake men young—a weakness of the heart that eventually fails."
A chill swept through June despite the warmth of the tea in her hands. "That's what August meant," she whispered. "When he said you would be dead soon."
Dominic's smile was grim. "Your brother has never been one for gentle phrasing, but yes. That's what he meant."
June set down her cup with a hand that suddenly trembled. "And you? Are you ill?"
The pause before his answer stretched unbearably. Then, a single nod. "I've begun to experience symptoms. Nothing severe yet, but... familiar. The same patterns my father described before his collapse."
Fear, cold and absolute, gripped June's heart. She stared at the man across from her—her husband of mere hours—and saw not the notorious Duke of Ice but a young man facing his mortality with a courage that stole her breath.
"How long?" she asked, the question emerging as barely more than a whisper.
Dominic shrugged, the gesture heartbreakingly casual for the weight it carried. "A year, perhaps. Two if I'm fortunate. No Blake man has lived to see his forty-first year in five generations."
June's mind raced, calculating with horrible precision. Dominic was thirty. Perhaps a decade left, at most. The knowledge pressed against her chest like a physical weight, making it difficult to breathe.
