Chapter 6
Six
“Do you still remember how to shoot, Icemere?” Theo asked as he proffered Dominic a bow.
"I spent years on the Continent, not in a jungle, Stone," Dominic replied, accepting the bow.
He tested the string with practiced fingers, the motion as natural as breathing, though his mind remained stubbornly fixed on the events of the previous night in the library—and the lady who had fled from him without explanation.
"One never knows what skills might fade with disuse," Theo replied with a good-natured shrug. "Last month I attempted to fence with Lord Pembroke and discovered muscles I'd forgotten existed. Couldn't lift my arms for days."
Dominic surveyed the field where servants had arranged targets at varying distances.
The day was uncommonly fine for Norfolk, sunlight streaming across the manicured lawns where the house party had gathered for the impromptu tournament.
Ladies in pastel dresses sheltered under parasols along the sidelines, while gentlemen clustered in small groups, wagering on the outcome with quiet enthusiasm.
April and May stood together beneath a maple tree, their identical faces animated in conversation. Their mother hovered nearby, no doubt plotting matrimonial ambushes for unsuspecting bachelors. But the third sister—the one whose absence Dominic felt with unexpected keenness—was nowhere to be seen.
Where is she? he wondered, scanning the crowd again.
June's departure from the library had been abrupt, almost hostile, though he couldn't fathom what he'd said to offend her.
One moment they'd been engaged in the most stimulating conversation he'd had in years, and the next she'd closed herself off like a flower at dusk.
"Care to make a small wager?" Theo asked, interrupting Dominic's thoughts. "Five pounds says you can't hit three bullseyes in succession."
"Ten says I can," Dominic countered, grateful for the distraction. He stepped up to the line drawn in the grass, selecting the farthest target to quiet the restlessness in his blood. He nocked an arrow, drew the string back to his cheek, and—
"It is rather pathetic to aim for a closer target."
The voice at his shoulder nearly caused him to release the arrow prematurely.
He turned to find June standing beside him, dressed in a dress of deep green that made her amber eyes appear almost gold in the sunlight.
Her hair was arranged with more care than usual, soft brown curls framing her face in a way that drew attention to the elegant line of her jaw.
August, who had appeared at his sister's side, burst into laughter. "You've been challenged, Blake! My sister believes you're taking the easy shot."
Dominic raised an eyebrow, his focus shifting entirely to June. "Does she indeed?"
"I merely observe that a man of your... extensive experience should find little challenge in that particular target," June said, the curl of her lips suggesting both amusement and disdain.
He met her gaze steadily, refusing to be baited. Without looking away, he drew the bow again and loosed the arrow. It struck the center of the target with a satisfying thud.
"Your observation is noted, Lady June," he said, offering her the bow with a slight bow. "Perhaps you would care to demonstrate the proper level of challenge? I can teach you, if you don't mind."
"You needn't trouble yourself, Your Grace," she replied, accepting the bow with a graceful turn of her wrist. "I find I learn best through observation rather than instruction."
"Then observe away," he said, gesturing toward the target. "Though I dare you to hit the farthest one. Even accomplished marksmen find it a challenge."
Something sparked in her eyes—determination, perhaps, or the thrill of proving him wrong. "A dare, Your Grace? How very schoolboy of you."
August snorted. "Careful, Blake. When June was twelve, she accepted a dare to climb the tallest oak on our estate and ended up higher than the birds."
"Did she indeed?" Dominic murmured, watching as June selected an arrow from the quiver. "And did she succeed?"
"Spectacularly," August confirmed. "Father nearly had an apoplexy when he looked out his study window and saw her waving from the topmost branches."
June ignored their exchange, positioning herself with the calm precision of someone who had done this many times before.
Her stance was perfect—feet shoulder-width apart, back straight, shoulders relaxed.
She nocked the arrow, drew back the string with surprising strength, and took a single, measured breath.
The arrow flew true, striking the center of the farthest target with a decisive thwack.
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the spectators. June lowered the bow, her expression one of quiet satisfaction rather than triumph.
"It seems I have a steady hand when I am focused on a clear target," she said, her eyes meeting Dominic's with unmistakable meaning. This wasn't merely about archery—it was a declaration of intent, a promise that she was no easy conquest, no simple diversion.
"Remarkable," Dominic said, genuinely impressed. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"The same place I learned Latin and Greek—in our family library, under my father's tutelage." She handed the bow back to him, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. "He believed daughters should be as accomplished as sons, though Mother disagreed most vehemently."
"One can only imagine the domestic battles that ensued," Dominic said, selecting another arrow. "Though the results speak for themselves."
"Oh, the battles were spectacular," August interjected, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Mother would insist June learn to embroider, and Father would counter with fencing lessons. By the time she was sixteen, June could both stab a man and stitch up the wound afterward."
"A useful combination of skills," Dominic observed, drawing the bow. His arrow joined June's at the center of the target, the two shafts touching.
"Your form is adequate," June remarked, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Though your elbow was slightly high."
"Was it?" he asked, feigning concern. "How fortunate I am to have such an observant critic."
"Indeed you are," she agreed. "Few would take the time to note your... shortcomings."
August glanced between them, clearly enjoying the verbal sparring. "I believe that's a point to June in whatever game you two are playing."
"We're not playing a game," June protested, perhaps too quickly.
"Merely engaging in friendly competition," Dominic added, offering her the bow again. "Another shot, Lady June? Or do you fear your first success was mere chance?"
Her eyes narrowed at the challenge. "I never rely on chance, Your Grace. Precision requires practice."
She took her position again, this time aiming for a smaller target set at an awkward angle. The shot was difficult—requiring adjustment for both distance and wind—yet her arrow found its mark with unerring accuracy.
"Magnificent," Dominic said, unable to contain his admiration. "You put most of the gentlemen here to shame."
"Yet oddly, none seem eager to acknowledge it," she replied, glancing at the cluster of men who were pointedly ignoring her demonstration.
August, who had been keeping informal score of both their shots and verbal exchanges, cleared his throat dramatically. "The score stands thus: Lady June, two perfect shots and three cutting remarks. His Grace, the Duke of Icemere, two perfect shots and two witty rejoinders. Advantage: Lady June."
"You're keeping score?" Dominic asked, amused.
"One must have occupation at these gatherings," August replied with a theatrical sigh. "And watching my friend and my sister attempt to verbally eviscerate each other provides far more entertainment than the usual tedium of country sports."
June shot her brother a quelling look. "Your commentary is unnecessary, August."
"On the contrary," he replied cheerfully, "it's the only necessary thing happening here. The rest is just archery."
Dominic chuckled despite himself. August had always possessed the rare gift of finding humor in tense situations, defusing them with a well-timed jest or observation. It was one of the qualities that had made him such a valued friend at Oxford.
Their repartee was interrupted by the approach of a formidable matron in puce satin, flanked by two young ladies whose expressions suggested they would rather be anywhere else. The girls were nearly identical in their awkwardness—all elbows and ankles, with identical expressions of trepidation.
"Your Grace," the woman said, dropping into a curtsy so deep Dominic feared she might topple forward. "What a pleasure to see such fine marksmanship. My daughters, Miss Henrietta and Miss Penelope, are great admirers of archery."
The girls reddened to the roots of their hair, exchanging looks of pure panic.
"Indeed?" Dominic replied, inclining his head politely. "How fortunate that today provides such opportunity for the sport."
"Oh yes," the woman continued, nudging the taller girl forward. "Henrietta is particularly accomplished. Perhaps you might offer some... guidance?"
The transparent matchmaking attempt hung in the air like a bad note at a musical evening. August, sensing opportunity for mischief, stepped forward with an extravagant bow.
"What an excellent suggestion! The duke was just lamenting the lack of female archers." He gestured grandly toward the targets. "Ladies, would you care to demonstrate?"
The girls looked as though they'd been invited to walk a tightrope over a pit of vipers. The mother, however, beamed with triumph.
"How kind! Henrietta, do show the duke your form."
With visible reluctance, the taller girl accepted the bow Dominic offered. She held it as one might hold a venomous snake, arms stiff and face contorted with concentration. When she attempted to draw the string, the arrow clattered to the ground at her feet.
"Oh! I—I don't know what happened," she stammered, bending to retrieve it and nearly toppling in the process.
August's expression of exaggerated encouragement was almost as entertaining as the girl's discomfort. "Never mind! The first attempt is always the most difficult."
The second attempt proved no more successful. The arrow flew wildly off course, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby oak, causing several ladies to shriek and scuttle away.
"Perhaps a different angle," the mother suggested desperately, as if the problem were the target rather than her daughter's complete lack of skill.
The second girl's attempt was equally disastrous. Her arrow soared high over the targets, disappearing into a hedgerow where a gardener had been peacefully pruning. The man's startled cry suggested a near miss.
The girls stood mortified, their mother sputtering excuses about the unfamiliar bow and the brightness of the day. Dominic was about to offer polite reassurances when June stepped forward.
"If I may," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Archery is as much about confidence as it is about technique."
The mother looked as though June had suggested the girls try flying. "Lady June, I hardly think—"
"Miss Henrietta," June continued, ignoring the interruption, "might I show you something?"
The girl nodded gratefully, clearly relieved that someone was intervening in her humiliation.
With calm patience, June adjusted the girl's stance, correcting the angle of her arms and the position of her shoulders. "The bow is an extension of yourself," she explained, demonstrating the proper hold. "Not an enemy to be wrestled with."
Henrietta listened with intense focus, following June's instructions with growing confidence. When she nocked her next arrow, her hands trembled less.
"Now, don't aim for the center," June advised. "Choose any part of the target. Success comes from hitting what you aim for, not from hitting what others expect."
The girl drew a steadying breath, released the arrow, and gave a small squeal of delight when it struck the outer edge of the target.
"I did it!" she exclaimed, her previous embarrassment forgotten in the triumph of modest success.
"Splendidly done," June agreed, turning to the younger sister. "Now, Miss Penelope, shall we see what you can do?"
Dominic watched, transfixed, as June worked the same minor miracle with the second girl.
Her patience never wavered, her encouragement never seemed forced or patronizing.
When Penelope's arrow actually struck the middle ring of the target, June's genuine pleasure in the girl's success was as visible as the sun overhead.
She would be a remarkable mother, the thought came unbidden to Dominic's mind, followed immediately by a vision so vivid it stole his breath: June in a sunlit nursery, surrounded by children with his dark hair and her amber eyes, teaching them with the same gentle firmness she now displayed.
The longing that accompanied the image was so acute, so unexpected, that he physically stepped back as if struck.
What was happening to him? This was not part of his plan—had never been part of any plan.
His future was predetermined: manage his estates well, enjoy what pleasures he could, and ultimately succumb to the same disease that had claimed his father and grandfather before him.
There was no room in that future for a wife, for children, for the kind of happiness that would make his inevitable end all the more cruel for those left behind.
Yet as he watched June laugh at something Penelope said, saw the genuine connection she formed with these awkward girls who had been thrust into social waters too deep for their limited skills, something stirred within Dominic.
A hunger for life—not merely existence, but true living—awakened like a dormant beast, stretching and yawning after a long slumber.
I want more time, he realized, the thought crystallizing with terrible clarity. Not just more years, but more moments like this—moments of unexpected joy, of connection, of meaning.
And that was the most terrifying realization of all. For a man who had spent his adult life preparing for an early death, who had carefully constructed a philosophy around the inevitability of his fate, the sudden desperate desire to live—truly live—was not just inconvenient. It was devastating.
Because wanting to live meant having something to lose. And the cruel irony of his cursed bloodline meant that loss was the only certainty.