Chapter 12
Twelve
"Has anyone ever told you that you look positively ghastly in the morning?
" April announced cheerfully, bursting into June's bedchamber without so much as a knock.
She swept toward the windows and yanked open the curtains, flooding the room with mid-morning light that made June groan and bury her face in her pillow.
"Come now, you'll want to make yourself presentable. Mother and Father have arrived."
June bolted upright, all traces of drowsiness vanishing in an instant. "What did you say?"
"Mother and Father," April repeated, moving to June's wardrobe and flinging the doors open with theatrical flair. "They've just arrived. Theo is seeing to their trunks now."
"I thought they were to travel the Continent?
" June swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her mind racing.
After last night's encounter with Dominic in the kitchen, she'd hoped for a quiet day to gather her thoughts.
The arrival of her parents—especially her observant mother—complicated matters considerably.
April laughed, holding up a blue morning dress against June's nightdress-clad form.
"They're attending the party before beginning their journey.
Mother says they couldn't possibly sail to France without seeing all three of their daughters first." She tilted her head, examining the dress critically.
"This will do. You'll need to look your best—Mother will notice if you don't."
June rose, allowing her sister to help her dress. "How does Father look?" she asked, unable to keep the note of concern from her voice. Their father's health had been precarious for years, though he'd shown marked improvement in recent months.
"Better than I've seen him in ages," April assured her, fastening the tiny buttons at the back of the dress. "He walked from the carriage without his cane."
A genuine smile spread across June's face. "That is excellent news."
"Indeed. Now sit so I can do something with this rat's nest you call hair," April commanded, steering June toward the dressing table. "I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd think you'd spent half the night wandering the grounds."
June caught her sister's eyes in the mirror, suddenly wary. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing at all," April replied, too innocently to be believed. She began brushing June's hair with quick, efficient strokes. "Though I did hear someone moving about the house well past midnight. The servants will talk, you know."
The servants. Of course. June felt a flush creeping up her neck. Had someone seen her with Dominic in the kitchen? The thought was mortifying.
"I was hungry," she said, which was not a lie. "I missed dinner."
"Mmm," April murmured noncommittally, twisting June's hair into a simple but elegant knot. "There. Presentable enough for Mother's inspection."
June stood, smoothing the skirt of her dress. "I suppose we shouldn't keep them waiting."
They descended the main staircase together, June mentally preparing herself for her mother's inevitable questions about her marriage prospects. Dorothy Vestiere, Duchess of Wildmoore, had been remarkably patient with June's reluctance to wed, but that patience was not inexhaustable.
Her parents were in the drawing room, her father seated comfortably by the window while her mother chatted animatedly with May. At June's entrance, both looked up, their faces brightening.
"There she is!" her father called, making to rise.
"Don't get up, Papa," June said quickly, crossing the room to embrace him. He smelled of pipe tobacco and the leather-bound books he loved so well. "I'm so pleased to see you looking well."
"Better every day," he assured her, patting her hand. "Though your mother insists on treating me like an invalid."
"I merely suggested you might want to rest after the journey," Dorothy said, coming to wrap June in a warm embrace. "My darling girl. Let me look at you."
June submitted to her mother's inspection, turning obediently when instructed. Dorothy's keen eyes missed nothing—not the slight shadows beneath June's eyes, nor the careful way she held herself.
"You look tired," Dorothy pronounced. "Are you not sleeping well?"
"I was reading late," June replied, which was true enough, if incomplete.
Before her mother could press further, a commotion at the door drew their attention. June turned, and her stomach dropped as Theodore entered, followed by none other than Dominic Blake.
He looked as though he'd stepped from the pages of a fashion plate, his dark blue coat fitting his broad shoulders to perfection, his cravat arranged in a complex knot that somehow managed to appear both immaculate and casually achieved.
His dark hair curled slightly over his forehead, as if daring someone to push it back.
June became aware of a sudden silence and glanced at her mother, only to find Dorothy staring at Dominic with undisguised interest. Slowly, a smile spread across the duchess's face—a smile June recognized all too well.
No. Please, no.
Dorothy leaned close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Have you been introduced to the Duke of Icemere?"
June pretended to roll her eyes, striving for nonchalance despite the rapid beating of her heart. "Yes, I have been introduced to him."
"He's quite handsome," Dorothy observed, her gaze still fixed on Dominic. "And a duke, no less. His estates in Cornwall are said to be magnificent."
"I have no interest, Mama," June said firmly. "Besides, he is a rake."
Dorothy waved a hand dismissively. "Nonsense! May married a rake and reformed him!"
"Not too loud, Mama!" June hissed, glancing around nervously. The last thing she needed was for Dominic to overhear her mother's matchmaking schemes. Her gaze swept the room and collided with his.
Dominic was looking directly at her, his expression unreadable. Had he heard? June felt her cheeks warm as he turned away to greet her father.
"Duke of Icemere," Albert said, extending his hand. "I've heard much about you from my son. He speaks highly of your friendship."
"Lord Wildmoore," Dominic replied, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "The pleasure is mine. August has often spoken of his father's wisdom and excellent library."
Albert chuckled. "Flattery will get you everywhere, young man. Though I suspect you say the same to all the old bibliophiles you encounter."
"Only those whose collections truly merit it," Dominic assured him with a charming smile.
June watched the exchange with growing dread. Her father already appeared charmed by Dominic, and her mother—
As if on cue, Dorothy beckoned Dominic over. "Your Grace, I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I am the Duchess of Wildmoore."
Dominic bowed elegantly over Dorothy's outstretched hand. "A pleasure, Your Grace. Your daughters speak of you with great affection."
"How kind of them," Dorothy replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I hope you are acquainted with my daughter, June."
Please don't. Please don't. Please don't.
Dominic's gaze shifted to June, a devilish grin spreading slowly across his face. "I have had the pleasure of meeting your daughter, Duchess."
The emphasis he placed on the word "pleasure" was subtle—perhaps imperceptible to anyone who hadn't shared a midnight encounter with him in a darkened kitchen—but to June, it was as good as a shout. Heat rushed to her face, burning all the way to the tips of her ears.
"I—" she began, then faltered. "If you'll excuse me, I believe I left something upstairs."
Without waiting for a response, June turned and fled the room, her mother's puzzled "June?" following her into the hallway.
The absolute nerve of him, she fumed, climbing the stairs two at a time. The unmitigated gall. As if last night wasn't mortifying enough.
Only when she reached the sanctuary of her bedchamber did June allow herself to acknowledge the truth—a truth far more disturbing than Dominic's teasing or her mother's matchmaking: despite everything, despite all reason and propriety, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and go directly back to him.
"If there is anything more tedious than watching a gaggle of society ladies exclaim over ribbons, I cannot imagine what it might be.
" Dominic muttered this observation to no one in particular as he maintained a careful distance behind the party.
His gaze, however, remained fixed on one particular lady who had just separated from the group.
June Vestiere moved with purpose down the village's main street, her destination apparently not the linen draper's that had entranced the others.
Where was she going? And why did he find himself compelled to follow?
He watched as June glanced over her shoulder—checking if anyone had noticed her departure—before slipping down a narrow side lane.
Without consciously deciding to do so, Dominic found his feet carrying him after her, maintaining a discreet distance.
The sounds of the market faded as he turned onto the quieter street.
This is madness, he told himself. Following a woman through village streets like some lovesick swain. But he continued nonetheless, his curiosity—or perhaps something far more dangerous—propelling him forward.
June stopped before a shop with a weathered sign swinging gently in the breeze. Even from where he stood, Dominic could make out the faded letters spelling "Thornfield's Books & Manuscripts." A bookseller. Of course. Where else would June Vestiere go when freed from social obligations?
She disappeared inside, the shop's bell announcing her arrival. Dominic hesitated only briefly before following, nearly hitting his head on the low doorframe as he entered.