"Thank you, Thomas," Dominic replied, maintaining a polite smile through sheer force of will. "Dancer will need extra attention after our ride. He's earned it."
"Yes, Your Grace. Right away, Your Grace," the boy said, bobbing his head repeatedly as he maneuvered the buckets toward the stalls.
When Dominic turned back to June, she had already stepped away, adjusting her cloak with careful hands. The moment—whatever it might have become—had passed.
"Shall we walk back to the castle?" he suggested, offering his arm. "The gardens are particularly fine, even in winter."
June nodded, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. They strolled in companionable silence through the formal gardens, now stripped of summer's glory but beautiful still in their stark winter geometry.
"You rode well today," Dominic said, covering her hand with his own. "I should have known you'd be a natural horsewoman."
"Hardly natural," June demurred. "I've simply had excellent teachers. And an excellent mount."
"I'll arrange for Marigold to be yours permanently," he decided. "You suit each other."
June's smile warmed him more effectively than any fire could have done. "Thank you. I'd like that very much."
They continued walking, their breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. Dominic found himself studying her profile,committing to memory the curve of her cheek, the determined set of her chin, the way the cold brought roses to her complexion.
"Should we travel to Greece next summer?" she asked suddenly, turning those amber eyes to his. "You can show me that fishing village you talked about."
Something pierced Dominic's heart at the innocent question—a pain sharper than any physical discomfort he'd experienced. Next summer. Nearly a year away. Would he still be here? Would his heart still beat, his lungs still draw breath? Or would June be left a widow, her dreams of travel unfulfilled?
For an instant, he nearly said it—the cold truth that hung between them like an unspoken vow. But the hope in her eyes stopped the words in his throat. Instead, he forced a smile and nodded, unable to bring himself to extinguish that light.
As they continued their walk toward the castle, its ancient stones glowing golden in the afternoon sun, Dominic allowed himself to imagine it: June beside him on a sunlit Mediterranean shore, her skin bronzed by the Greek sun, her laughter mingling with the cry of gulls and the rhythmic surge of waves against the sand.
I might not be around then, June,he thought, the words piercing his heart like a thousand daggers.
Twenty-Eight
Why must he insist he is dying?
June sighed as she looked out at the gardens she'd walked with Dominic only hours before. His response to her innocent question about Greece lingered between them like a ghost; that barely perceptible pause, the forced smile that never reached his eyes, the nod that meant nothing because she could read what lay behind it. He didn't believe he would live to see next summer. He didn't believe they had a future to plan.
She turned away from the window, pacing the length of her bedchamber with agitated steps. The rooms the dowager duchess had prepared for her were beautiful—all blue silk and polished wood—but at this moment, they felt like a gilded cage. Every luxury seemed to mock her with its permanence while her husband viewed his own existence as fleeting.
"Should we travel to Greece next summer?" she'd asked him, her mind filled with sun-washed shores and ancient ruins they might explore together.
And he'd looked at her with such profound sadness that for a moment she couldn't breathe. Just a tiny hesitation, a shadow crossing his face before he manufactured that smile and gave her that empty nod.
June stopped before her dressing table, staring at her reflection without truly seeing it. The dowager duchess's words from their tea echoed in her mind:"It gives me such comfort to know these walls will witness another generation of Blake laughter."Louisa didn't speak like a woman who expected to lose her son prematurely. She spoke of grandchildren, of futures unfolding, of time stretching comfortably into decades rather than mere months or years.
Which of them is right?June wondered, resuming her pacing.The mother who has known him all his life, or the man himself who feels the rhythms of his own heart?
The uncertainty was maddening. June was not accustomed to puzzles she couldn't solve through study or observation. This was different—a mystery of mortality that couldn't be unraveled through books or logical deduction. It required faith or resignation, and June found herself capable of neither at present.
She needed distraction—something, anything to occupy her mind and hands before she wore a path in the fine Aubussoncarpet. The dinner hour approached, but after their ride, Dominic had mentioned some estate business requiring his attention. June had bathed and changed, and now found herself with unexpected time before they would reconvene.
On impulse, she left her chambers, making her way down the grand staircase toward the lower regions of the castle. At Stone Manor, whenever she'd felt unsettled, she had often visited the kitchens. Something about the warmth, the smells, the practical industry of cooking had always soothed her. Perhaps Icemere's kitchens would offer similar comfort.
The hallways grew narrower as she descended, the elegant wallpaper giving way to whitewashed stone. She followed the scent of something savory—garlic and herbs and some exotic spice she couldn't immediately identify. When she reached the kitchen door, she pushed it open, expecting to find Mrs. Braithwaite and her staff preparing the evening meal.
Instead, she found chaos—and Dominic at its center.
June stood frozen in the doorway, certain she must be hallucinating. Her husband—the Duke of Icemere, notorious rake and society darling—stood at the enormous butcher-block table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, waistcoat smeared with flour, his dark hair falling across his forehead in disheveled waves. He was whisking something in a copper bowl with such concentration that his brow furrowed, his teeth catching his lower lip in an expression of boyish determination.
Pots bubbled on the stove, filling the air with steam. Vegetables lay half-chopped on boards. What appeared to be the remnants of a sauce had splattered across one wall, and at least three different preparations were underway simultaneously on various surfaces.
