"No, Your Grace. Not since morning."
Dominic nodded. "She's likely in the library. Thank you."
The library, too, was empty—no June curled in the window seat with a volume of Roman history, no notes scattered across the reading table. Strange. Dominic moved through the adjacent morning room, the music room, even the conservatory where she sometimes sketched. No sign of her.
"Curious," he murmured, a small furrow appearing between his brows.
He encountered Mr. Winters in the main hall, the butler as impeccably composed as always.
"Winters, have you seen Her Grace this afternoon?"
"I have not, Your Grace. Shall I inquire among the staff?"
"Please do," Dominic said, that small furrow deepening. "She wasn't in the library or drawing room."
As Winters departed on his mission, Dominic climbed the grand staircase to check their chambers. Perhaps June had retired with a headache. She wasn't prone to such feminine complaints, but it would explain her absence.
Their rooms, like the public spaces below, stood empty—bed neatly made, no sign of recent occupation. June's cloak was missing from its hook, he noted, which suggested she had gone outside. But where? And why hadn't she mentioned her plans?
When he returned downstairs, Winters awaited him with a growing contingent of staff—footmen, maids, even the cook's assistant.
"No one has seen Her Grace since midday, Your Grace," Winters reported, his normally impassive face showing the first hints of concern.
"She must be on the grounds somewhere," Dominic said, his voice sharpening. "The gardens, perhaps, or the stables."
"I've just come from the stables, m'lord," a groom said, forgetting proper address in his haste. "No sign of Her Grace, and all horses accounted for."
"The kitchen gardens are empty as well," added Mrs. Braithwaite. "I checked when sending the boy for herbs."
Something cold and unfamiliar twisted in Dominic's chest. June wouldn't simply disappear. Not without telling someone. Not when she knew they took tea together daily.
"Search every room," he ordered, his voice crisp with authority that masked his growing unease. "Every closet, every unused chamber. Perhaps she's exploring the east wing."
The staff dispersed instantly, sensing their master's concern. Dominic paced the entrance hall, each minute that passed adding weight to his worry. This wasn't like June. She was practical, sensible. She wouldn't wander off without word, not on an estate still unfamiliar to her.
Unless...
"She wouldn't," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "She's too intelligent for such recklessness."
But even as he reassured himself, doubt crept in. June's curiosity was boundless. Her scholarly passion often overrode caution. And hadn't he himself pointed out every interesting feature of the estate during their rides?
Winters returned fifteen minutes later, his face grave. "We've searched every room in the main building, Your Grace. Her Grace is not within the castle."
The cold thing in Dominic's chest spread outward, reaching tendrils into his limbs. "Gather the groundskeepers and anyable-bodied men. Search the formal gardens, the woods, the lake—everywhere."
"At once, Your Grace."
"And send riders to check the roads leading from the estate," Dominic added, his voice tightening with each word. "She can't have gone far on foot."
As Winters moved to execute his orders, Dominic strode to the great hall windows, staring out at the darkening grounds. Twilight was approaching fast, the days growing shorter as autumn deepened toward winter. If June was outside somewhere, lost or—he couldn't bear to complete the thought.
"She must be found before dark," he said to no one in particular, his hands clasped behind his back with such force that his knuckles whitened.
Footmen hurried past with lanterns, heading out to join the search. Dominic watched them go, fighting the urge to race after them. He needed to coordinate, to think logically. June would expect no less from him.
But logic was increasingly difficult to maintain as minutes stretched into an hour with no word.
"Your Grace," a footman approached, breathless from running. "We've checked the gardens, the stables, the gardener's cottage—nothing."
