"The physician said you'll be well enough to travel within a few days," she remarked, moving to the latticed window where the afternoon light provided enough illumination for her work. She settled into the chair, withdrawing a small embroidery hoop from her workbasket.
Dominic watched as she threaded her needle with practiced ease. "I wasn't aware you enjoyed needlework."
"Enjoy might be overstating the matter," June replied, her focus on the fabric stretched before her. "But one cannot always be reading ancient texts or exploring Roman ruins. Society expects a lady to have certain accomplishments."
"And what accomplishments would you prefer, if society's expectations were no concern?" Dominic asked, genuinely curious.
June's hands stilled, her amber eyes lifting to meet his. "I would study languages—not merely French and Italian, but Greek, Arabic, perhaps even hieroglyphics." Her voice grew animated, her usual restraint giving way to genuine passion. "I would travel to excavation sites in Egypt and Greece, document findings that men have misinterpreted or overlooked entirely. I might even publish scholarly articles, beyond the reach of a husband's whims."
"Most men would scoff at such notions," she murmured without looking up, resuming her stitching with methodical precision.
"Most men are fools," Dominic replied simply. The intensity of her ambitions struck him forcefully. While other women spoke of fashion or gossip, June dreamed of ancient languages and academic recognition.
"What did you dream of as a child?" he asked. "Before society's expectations took hold?"
A small smile touched June's lips as she worked her needle through the fabric. "I wanted my own library—not a lending library, but a room filled with books that belonged to me alone. Books on history and archaeology and natural philosophy." She paused, glancing up at him. "My father found me once, having crawled beneath his desk with a volume on Roman aqueducts. I was seven."
Dominic smiled at the image. "And now? Do you still harbor such ambitions?"
"Dreams change shape as we age," she said carefully. "But they rarely disappear entirely."
The wax candle on the bedside table burned lower as she spoke of dusty libraries and sun-bleached ruins, of discoveries waiting to be made and knowledge yet uncovered. Dominic found himself comparing her fervor with his own pursuits—cards played until dawn, races won and forgotten by midday, conquests whose faces blurred together in memory. What had any of it yielded beyond momentary distractions from the specter of mortality that had haunted him since boyhood?
The shuttered window creaked as a wind picked up outside, punctuating their conversation like the ticking of a clock counting down hours he suddenly wished would stretch indefinitely.
The following day brought steady improvement. Dominic sat up in bed unassisted, his back against the headboard and a residual cough occasionally rasping through him. The worst of the illness had passed, leaving behind a weakness that frustrated him more than the fever had done.
June entered carrying a china cup of strong bergamot tea, its aromatic steam curling in the cool air of the chamber. She perched on the mattress beside him, her movement smooth and assured, no longer the hesitant bride of days earlier.
"I suppose you'll claim this is an elixir for both body and soul," he said, cradling the cup in hands that no longer trembled.
She smiled, a genuine expression that reached her amber eyes. "Only if you promise to repay me with better health." She slid closer to tuck his elbow beneath a bolster, the domesticity of the gesture both foreign and strangely comforting.
The tea was perfectly brewed, strong enough to revive his spirits but sweetened just as he preferred. June knew his tastes already—had observed and remembered without his noticing. The realization stirred something warm in his chest that had nothing to do with the hot beverage.
When she turned down the blankets, checking that the linens remained fresh, Dominic found himself struck by a question that had been forming since their conversations began.
"And all those nights of gambling and bottles of brandy—what did they yield?" he asked, the words emerging before he could reconsider.
June met his gaze directly. "Little more than hollow victories."
Dominic inhaled sharply, surprised by the truth in her assessment. "Nothing of value," he admitted quietly.
Her eyes widened slightly, perhaps at his candor, but she didn't press further. Instead, she straightened, gathering her shawl around her shoulders. "The innkeeper says a storm is approaching. You should rest while you can—the rain will likely keep us awake tonight."
She was right, as she often seemed to be. By dusk, rain hammered the windowpanes with relentless fury, the wind howling around the eaves of the old inn. The sound reminded Dominic of winters at Icemere Castle, where the Yorkshire moors offered no protection against nature's tempers.
When June completed her evening rituals and slipped beneath the covers beside him, Dominic felt a curious sense of rightness, as if they had been sharing this space for years rather than mere days. She rested her head on his shoulder with tentative familiarity, and he found himself wondering how he'd ever thought her plain or unremarkable.
The rain continued its assault long after June's breathing had softened into sleep, her body warm against his side. Dominic remained awake, tracing the rim of his empty cup with one finger as he contemplated the woman beside him and the unexpected turn his life had taken.
The gambling tables of London, the racing courses, the endless bottles of fine brandy—all seemed hollow now, pointless diversions that had filled his days without nourishing his spirit. None of those pursuits called to him anymore, not when compared to the simple pleasure of watching June's mind work, of engaging with her sharp wit and genuine passions.
The realization both terrified and exhilarated him. Wrapping an arm around her, he pulled her close and sighed into the darkness.
Twenty-Five
#Scene 1 - from June Vestiere's point of view
