Chapter 9
Nine
What manner of confounding attraction is this?
Dominic paced the winding garden paths, his jaw clenched tightly. His mind, which was usually so disciplined, refused to focus on anything but her—June, with her sharp tongue and sharper mind, who had somehow burrowed beneath his carefully constructed defenses.
He tugged at his cravat, suddenly finding it too constraining. This attraction was inconvenient at best, cruel at worst. What right had he to pursue her, knowing what awaited him?
Dominic paused beside a marble fountain where water trickled musically over carved cherubs. He dipped his fingers into the cool basin, willing the sensation to clear his thoughts.
It did not.
You're being absurd, he told himself sternly. She's merely a woman. One of many you've encountered.
But that was the trouble. She wasn't merely anything.
From that first encounter in his bedchamber—her bravado, her kiss, her devastating dismissal—June had proved herself utterly unique.
She didn't simper or flirt. She challenged him, matched him wit for wit.
And when she'd so effortlessly partnered with him at whist, anticipating his every move as if they'd played together for years. ..
Dominic shook his head and continued walking, his pace increasing with his agitation.
Around a bend in the path, the gardens opened to a small clearing centered around an ancient oak.
Stone benches curved beneath its spreading branches, and the late sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns on the ground.
And there she was.
Dominic stopped abruptly, one foot half-raised.
June sat alone on the farthest bench, a book open in her lap.
She was utterly absorbed, her profile to him, completely unaware of his presence.
For once, her features were relaxed, free from the guarded expression she wore in company.
One slender finger traced a line of text as she read, her lips moving slightly with the words.
He should leave. Turn around before she noticed him. Walk away and put her from his mind.
Instead, he stood frozen, drinking in the sight of her.
She wore a simple day dress of pale green, far less elaborate than the fashionable frocks her sisters had pressed upon her in the modiste's shop.
Her hair was pinned up, but several strands had escaped, curling against her neck in the warm breeze.
The golden afternoon light caught those loose tendrils, turning them to amber, the same extraordinary color as her eyes.
A magnolia tree bloomed above her, its waxy white flowers gleaming against dark leaves. As Dominic watched, a petal detached and drifted down, landing on the open pages of her book. June brushed it away absently, never looking up from her reading.
She's beautiful, he thought, the admission catching him by surprise. Not in the conventional way of society beauties, with their practiced smiles and artful curls. June possessed something rarer—a quiet intensity, an intelligence that shone from within.
His gloved hand clenched at his side, the creaking softly. He should approach her. Apologize for his behavior in the modiste's shop yesterday. Clear the air between them.
His foot shifted forward, and the small sound seemed thunderous in the quiet garden, but June didn't look up. The breeze turned a page of her book for her, and she smoothed it down with careful fingers.
Dominic's chest tightened. What was he doing here? Did he truly want to make amends with her and get out of her way? Was he after more amusement with her?
June turned another page, completely unaware of the battle raging within him mere yards away. A small smile played across her lips at something she read. Dominic found himself desperate to know what had caused it. Was it poetry? History? One of her agricultural treatises?
He took another step forward. Then stopped.
This path led nowhere but torture for both of them. Better to maintain his distance, to enjoy her company at a safe remove. The verbal sparring, the shared moments of intellectual connection, these he could permit himself. But anything more would be selfish beyond measure.
He had spent his life making the most of limited time. Climbing the highest peaks in Switzerland, racing the fastest horses in France, savoring the finest wines in Italy. He had lived each day with the knowledge that his allotment might be shorter than most men's. And he had made peace with that.
Or so he had believed.
But June made him suddenly want more time. Made him rage against the unfairness of it all. Made him wish, for the first time, that he could change what seemed inevitable.
Dominic's heart thundered in his chest, so loudly he wondered she didn't hear it. He took a half-step backward, retreating into the shadow of a tall hedge.
The decision settled over him like a shroud. He would maintain his distance. Treat her with cordial politeness. Perhaps even encourage the attachment between her and Lord Blackwood that Lady Worthington had been hinting at.
No. Better this way.