"Excuse me, dear sisters," she said, smoothing her skirts with determined hands. "I believe I need to speak with the Duke."
May and April exchanged triumphant smiles as June walked across the lawn. The children spotted her approach and scattered like startled birds, their instinct for adult privacy remarkably well-developed. Dominic turned, his eyes findinghers with an expression that transformed from playfulness to cautious hope in an instant.
"Lady June," he said, bowing slightly.
"Would you care to walk with me, Dominic?" she asked, deliberately using his given name.
His smile was slow and sweet, warming his blue eyes. "Nothing would please me more."
They fell into step along a garden path, gravel crunching beneath their boots. Dormant rosebushes lined the way, their thorny branches bare but promising future blooms.
"You're good with children," she observed after a moment.
"They're easy company," he replied. "No pretense, no hidden agendas. Just pure joy or straightforward displeasure."
"Unlike adults."
"Unlike most adults," he agreed. "But not you. You've always been refreshingly direct."
They reached a small stone bench partially sheltered by a yew hedge. June paused, gesturing for him to join her. When they were seated, she turned to face him fully.
"I have a confession," she said, her voice steady despite the nervous flutter in her stomach. "I fell in love with you years ago. At Oxford, when I was sixteen."
Dominic's eyes widened. "What?"
"I visited my brother at university. He brought me to the library because he knew how much I loved to read. You were there, studying ancient texts. I watched you from between the shelves."
"I don't remember?—"
"Why would you?" She smiled, a little sadly. "I was just a girl, and you were... you. But I wrote your name in my diary, with hearts around it like a silly schoolgirl. My brother found it and confronted you."
Understanding dawned on Dominic's face. "That's what he meant! August accused me of leading you on, of filling your head with romantic notions."
"And you denied it. Vehemently. You said—" June swallowed hard. "You said you wanted nothing to do with me."
Dominic reached for her hands, holding them tightly in his own. "June, I never knew it was you he was talking about. He spoke of his 'sister' but never specified which one. I thought he meant April or May."
"I know that now," she said softly. "But at sixteen, overhearing that rejection... it crushed something in me. I built walls to protect myself from ever feeling that way again."
"And I gave you more reason to fortify those walls when I pushed you away at Icemere," he said, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. "June, I'm so sorry."
She nodded, turning her hands to clasp his. "I cannot imagine living with the burden you carried all these years, Dominic. Believing death awaited you at every turn, structuring your entire existence around a borrowed time that wasn't actually borrowed at all."
"It shaped every choice I ever made," he admitted. "Until you."
"Until me?"
"When I met you—truly met you, not just glimpsed you in a library—I began to want things I'd never allowed myself to want before. A future. A partner. A lifetime, however short I believed mine might be."
June felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "I don't know how long either of us have," she said, looking down at their joined hands. "But it doesn't matter. What does is how happily and fully we live our lives until then."
Dominic's hand came up to cup her cheek, tilting her face toward his. "Does this mean you forgive me?"
"It means I understand you," she corrected. "Forgiveness might take a bit longer."
But she smiled as she said it, and Dominic must have seen the softening in her eyes because he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was gentle at first, a question more than a demand, but when June's hands came up to frame his face, it deepened into something that made her heart race and her mind forget all the reasons she had kept him at arm's length this past week.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, June pressed her forehead against his. "If you ever part with me again, or do not trust my judgment, I will make this week's groveling feel like afternoon tea!"
