"Here we are, Junebug," Dominic said, his face brightening as Icemere Castle came into view beyond the carriage window. The morning light caught in his blue eyes, lending them a warmth that contradicted everything she'd ever heard about the Duke of Ice.
June turned from the impressive sight of the castle to fix him with a pointed look. "Don't call me Junebug, you will sound like August." Despite her protest, she couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at her lips. After their extended stay at the inn while Dominic recovered, the teasing familiarity between them had become a comfort rather than an irritation.
"I rather like it," Dominic persisted, his smile widening to reveal a dimple she'd only recently discovered. "It suggests something small and delicate, yet with a certain sting when provoked."
"I assure you, Your Grace, there is nothing delicate about me," June retorted, lifting her chin in mock hauteur. "And if you continue with such absurdities, I shall be forced to devise an equally ridiculous name for you."
Dominic leaned forward, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I eagerly await your creativity, Duchess. Though I warn you, I've been called many things in my day, and few have managed to perturb me."
"Challenge accepted," June replied, surprised by how easily the banter flowed between them now. Just two weeks ago, she would have sooner bitten off her tongue than engaged in such playful conversation with the Duke of Icemere.
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as they approached the impressive structure. Icemere Castle rose before them, its ancient stone walls the color of weathered bone against the crisp blue autumn sky. Towers and turrets reached skyward, their windows glinting like diamonds in the morning sunlight. Despite its imposing size, there was something oddly welcoming about the place—perhaps the smoke curling from numerous chimneys, or the late roses still clinging to life along a southern wall.
"It's beautiful," June murmured, genuinely awed by the sight. She had expected something colder, more forbidding—a physical manifestation of Dominic's nickname. Instead, the castle seemed to embrace the landscape around it, settling into the rolling hills as if it had grown from the Yorkshire earth itself.
"It can be rather drafty in winter," Dominic admitted, watching her face closely. "And the east wing leaks abominably when the rain comes from the north. But yes, I've always found it beautiful."
The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and June felt a curious warmth spread through her chest. This was his home, the place where generations of Blakes had lived and loved and, if the stories were true, died too young. Yet he spoke of it with undisguised affection rather than the weary obligation many nobles reserved for their ancestral seats.
The carriage rolled to a stop before wide stone steps that led to massive oak doors. Before the footman could assist them, Dominic had opened the carriage door himself and stepped down. He turned back to offer June his hand, his movements still bearing a hint of the weakness from his recent illness, but his grip remained steady as she placed her fingers in his.
"Welcome to Icemere, Duchess," he said formally, though his eyes held that private warmth she was beginning to treasure.
June descended from the carriage, grateful for the support of his hand. The journey from the inn had been long, broken into stages to accommodate Dominic's recovery, and her limbs felt stiff from too many hours confined to the carriage. The crisp Yorkshire air filled her lungs, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and distant woodsmoke.
Before she could properly take in her surroundings, June noticed a neat line of servants arranged on the steps, theirfaces a mixture of curiosity and respect as they awaited formal introductions to their new mistress. June straightened unconsciously, smoothing her traveling dress and hoping she appeared more duchess-like than she felt.
"May I present Mr. Winters, our butler," Dominic began, gesturing to a tall, dignified man whose silver hair belied the alertness in his dark eyes. "He has managed Icemere's household since before I was born, and knows more of its secrets than I ever shall."
"Your Grace," Mr. Winters said, bowing deeply. "It is our great pleasure to welcome you to Icemere."
"Thank you, Mr. Winters," June replied, pleased when her voice emerged steady and clear despite her nervousness. "I look forward to learning those secrets myself, in time."
A ghost of a smile touched the butler's austere features before he resumed his proper expression.
"Mrs. Fairchild, our housekeeper," Dominic continued, indicating a plump woman with rosy cheeks and keen eyes. "She rules the household with an iron hand in a velvet glove, and has never once lost a battle with the laundry maids."
"Your Grace," Mrs. Fairchild curtseyed, her eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth at Dominic's description. "I've prepared the Duchess Suite for you, though I hope you'll tell me if anything is not to your liking."
"I'm certain it will be perfect," June assured her, charmed by the woman's maternal air.
One by one, Dominic introduced the rest of the staff: the cook, Mrs. Braithwaite, whose plum pudding was reportedly worth dying for; the head groom, Mr. Cooper, who had taught Dominic to ride; Miss Perkins, the quiet, mouse-like head housemaid who nonetheless managed to keep the entire castle spotless; and a dozen others whose names and positions June hoped she would remember.
What struck her most was not the number of servants—Stone Manor had just as many—but rather the way they regarded Dominic. There was the expected deference, of course, but beneath it lay something rarer: genuine affection. They smiled when he spoke to them, their eyes following him with the fond indulgence one might show a beloved but occasionally troublesome son. Even Mr. Winters, whose dignity seemed carved from the same stone as the castle itself, softened visibly when Dominic clapped him on the shoulder.
"They adore you," June murmured as they climbed the steps toward the entrance.
Dominic glanced at her in surprise. "Do they? I hadn't noticed."
"Either you're remarkably unobservant or deliberately modest," June replied. "I suspect the latter, though it hardly fits your rakish reputation."
"Perhaps my reputation has been greatly exaggerated," he said, his hand settling at the small of her back as they approached the great doors. The warm weight of it sent a pleasant shiver through her despite the layers of fabric between his palm and her skin.
"Or perhaps you're simply different here," June suggested. "At home."
Something flickered in his eyes at that—a brief vulnerability quickly masked. "Perhaps I am."
As they crossed the threshold, June felt the weight of history press around her. The entrance hall soared upward, its ceiling lost in shadow despite the morning light streaming through tall windows. Ancient battle standards hung from the walls alongside portraits of stern-faced Blakes stretching back centuries. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, large enough that June could have stood upright within its arch.
