Chapter 14
Fourteen
Dominic woke to sunlight streaming across his bed, dust motes dancing in the golden beams like spirits caught between worlds.
For one blissful moment, he existed only in the comfortable warmth of half-slumber, his mind mercifully blank.
Then, as consciousness fully claimed him, memories of yesterday's rain-soaked retrieval of June from the ruins flooded back.
Her fury, her defiance, the weight of her across his shoulder—all of it returned with painful clarity.
He smiled despite himself, recalling her indignation. No doubt she would avoid him entirely at breakfast, or perhaps skewer him with that razor-sharp tongue. Either prospect held a strange appeal.
Throwing back the coverlet, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood—
The world tilted violently. His vision swam, darkening at the edges as if a black fog had crept into the chamber. Dominic's hand shot out, finding the bedpost and gripping it with such force his knuckles turned white against the carved mahogany.
His heart slammed against his ribs, not the pleasant acceleration of anticipation but the desperate, panicked pounding of a creature sensing danger. Each beat felt wrong—too hard, too fast, then sickeningly slow.
This is it. The thought crystalized with terrible clarity. It's beginning.
His father's face appeared in his mind—ashen, lips tinged blue, eyes wide with the knowledge of what was happening. Dominic had been just fourteen when he'd found him collapsed in his study. Too young to understand, yet old enough to recognize death when it stared back at him.
"Breathe," he commanded himself, the word barely audible. His lungs burned as if he'd been running for miles, yet he'd only taken two steps from his bed.
He forced himself to draw air in slowly, deliberately, while his pulse thundered in his ears. One breath. Another. The bedpost beneath his fingers was the only solid thing in a world gone suddenly unstable.
Not yet. Please, not yet.
The moment stretched, his mortality pressing against him like a physical weight. Then, gradually, the darkness receded. His vision cleared. The violent hammering in his chest eased to merely concerning rather than terrifying.
Dominic straightened, though he kept one hand on the bedpost. A cold sweat had broken out across his brow, and his nightshirt clung damply to his back. In the aftermath of fear came anger—at his body, at his bloodline, at the unfairness of it all.
Twenty-four years since he'd watched his father die. How many times since then had he imagined this moment? How many nights had he lain awake, wondering if he would rise again with the dawn?
A soft knock preceded the entrance of Hastings, his valet, bearing a silver tray with morning tea.
"Good morning, Your Grace," Hastings said, setting the tray on a small table by the window. He paused, his keen eyes taking in Dominic's pallor, the uncharacteristic disarray of his appearance. "Are you quite well, sir?"
Dominic released the bedpost, willing his hand not to tremble. "Perfectly," he replied, summoning the easy smile that had charmed ladies across three countries. "Though I believe I may have overindulged at dinner. The wine was particularly excellent."
"Indeed, sir." Hastings's expression remained carefully neutral, though the slight tilt of his head suggested he was not entirely convinced. "Shall I prepare your bath?"
"Later, I think. Just help me dress for now." Dominic moved toward the washbasin, relieved when his legs obeyed without further betrayal. "I understand we're riding to the village this morning."
"So I've been informed. Lord Stone has arranged it." Hastings moved to the wardrobe, selecting garments with the solemn attention of a general planning a campaign. "The blue coat, I think. It suits your complexion particularly well."
Dominic splashed cold water on his face, hoping it might restore some color to his cheeks. The phantom ache lingered in his chest—not pain, precisely, but a wrongness he could not ignore.
"The blue will do admirably," he said, drying his face on a linen towel. "Though I doubt the villagers will care what I'm wearing."
"Perhaps not the villagers," Hastings remarked with delicate emphasis, laying out a pristine white shirt. "But there are others who might appreciate the effort."
Dominic knew precisely who "others" referred to. June Vestiere, with her clever amber eyes that saw too much, with her sharp tongue that cut through pretense like a blade. What would she see if she looked at him now?
He reached for his shirt, dismayed to find his fingers still trembling slightly. The fine linen betrayed each small tremor as he attempted to fasten the buttons. After a moment of struggle, Hastings stepped forward.
"Allow me, Your Grace."
Dominic surrendered to the valet's assistance, hating the weakness yet grateful for the man's discretion. Hastings worked quickly, skillfully hiding any evidence of his employer's diminished dexterity.
"Is there anything else troubling you this morning, sir?" Hastings inquired as he arranged Dominic's cravat in an elegant knot. "You seem... preoccupied."
Yes, Dominic wanted to say. I believe I felt the first touch of death today. The same death that took my father and his father before him. The same death that awaits me, perhaps sooner than I'd imagined.
Instead, he said, "Nothing of consequence, Hastings. Merely contemplating the day ahead."
The valet nodded, completing his work with a final adjustment to Dominic's collar. "There. Most becoming, if I may say so."
Dominic turned to the mirror, studying his reflection with critical eyes.
The face that stared back was handsome enough—the straight nose, the firm jaw, the blue eyes that had earned him admiration from countless women.
But today, those features seemed like a mask worn by a stranger.
His skin held a grayish undertone that hadn't been there yesterday.
Shadows lingered beneath his eyes, despite a full night's sleep.
How long? he wondered, adjusting his cuffs to hide the persistent tremor in his hands. How many more mornings do I have?
The question had haunted him for years, an unwelcome companion that followed him from country to country, from pleasure to pleasure. But today, for the first time, it carried a new weight—a terrible immediacy that turned theoretical dread into imminent reality.
"Will there be anything else, Your Grace?" Hastings asked, breaking into Dominic's dark thoughts.
Dominic squared his shoulders, straightening to his full height. Whatever came, he would face it with dignity. That much, at least, he owed to his title, to his name.
"No, thank you, Hastings. That will be all."
When the valet had gone, Dominic allowed himself one more moment of vulnerability. He pressed his palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath. Normal now, as if the earlier episode had been merely a nightmare.
But he knew better. The clock had begun its final countdown. All he could do now was make each remaining moment count.
Dominic descended the grand staircase with careful deliberation, his hand resting lightly on the banister not for show but from genuine necessity.
Each step downward sent a small jolt through his body, and he found himself counting them—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—as if the mundane tally might somehow distract him from the subtle wrongness he felt in his chest.
Not pain, precisely. More like the awareness of a mechanism that had previously run without conscious thought now requiring his attention to function.
The breakfast room doors stood open, morning light streaming across the polished floor.
Voices and the clink of silver against china drifted into the hallway—normal, everyday sounds that suddenly seemed precious in their ordinariness.
Dominic paused, adjusting his cuffs and straightening his shoulders before striding into the room with his customary confidence.
"Ah, the sleeping duke awakens," August called from his seat near the window. "We were beginning to wonder if we should send a search party."
"The advantages of being a guest rather than a host," Dominic replied smoothly, making his way to the sideboard laden with covered dishes. "One can keep civilized hours."
The room held the usual morning gathering—August and Theo in conversation near the window, Logan buttering a piece of toast while reading correspondence.
Several other gentlemen occupied chairs at the long table, though Dominic noted with a mixture of relief and disappointment that none of the Vestiere sisters were present.
He selected a modest portion of eggs and a slice of ham, uncomfortably aware of his stomach's sudden reluctance toward food. As he took his seat beside August, a slight flutter disturbed the rhythm in his chest. He maintained his expression, though his grip tightened imperceptibly on his fork.
Just breathe. It will pass.
"You missed the excitement this morning," August said, pouring coffee into Dominic's cup without being asked. "Father announced that he and Mother will extend their stay for another fortnight. Apparently, the Continental journey has been postponed until September."
Dominic nodded, taking a careful sip of coffee. "Lord Wildmoore seems in excellent health. The delay is a good sign, I imagine."
"Indeed. Though it means Mother will have more time to plague June about potential suitors." August's eyes gleamed impishly. "Perhaps you should warn Lord Blackwood that he tops her list of candidates."
A peculiar sensation gripped Dominic at the mention of Blackwood in connection with June—something sharp and unpleasant that had nothing to do with his physical condition.
"Does he?" Dominic kept his tone deliberately casual. "I wasn't aware that Lady June had any particular interest in that direction."
"Oh, she doesn't," August said, cutting into a slice of ham. "But Mother has never let June's preferences interfere with her matrimonial schemes."
Dominic felt a disproportionate surge of relief, followed immediately by self-recrimination. What did it matter to him whom June Vestiere married? He had no right to an opinion on the matter, especially now.
He raised his cup again, and a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him. The coffee trembled dangerously close to the rim, threatening to spill. With effort, he steadied his hand.
"Are you quite all right?" August asked, brows drawing together in concern. "You look rather pale."
"Late night," Dominic replied, setting down his cup with exaggerated care. "I found myself unable to sleep after our adventure in the rain."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He had lain awake far longer than usual, his mind filled with amber eyes and sharp retorts and the curious feeling that had overcome him when he'd carried June from the ruins.
"Speaking of adventures," August continued, apparently satisfied with Dominic's explanation, "Theo has proposed a ride to the village this morning. Something about needing to select a gift for April's birthday."
"How domestic," Dominic remarked, though the prospect of riding suddenly seemed daunting. Would his body betray him again, perhaps while on horseback? The thought sent a chill through him.
"Will you join us?" August asked.
Dominic's instinct was to refuse, to retreat to his chambers where he might suffer any further episodes in private. But that path led to questions, to concern, perhaps even to pity—the one thing he could not abide.
"Of course," he said instead. "Though I warn you, my expertise in selecting lady's gifts is limited to items one wouldn't present to a duchess."
August laughed, exactly as intended. "I'm sure Theo will appreciate your unique perspective."
As they continued their breakfast, Dominic became increasingly aware of every sensation in his body—the slight pressure in his chest when he laughed, the momentary lightheadedness when he turned too quickly to answer a question, the way his heart seemed to stutter and then race to catch up when he rose to refill his coffee.
He surreptitiously pressed his fingers to the inside of his wrist while pretending to adjust his cuff links, counting the beats. Too fast, surely. And uneven, with occasional pauses that made his breath catch.
"Blake, are you counting the threads in your shirt cuff?" Logan's voice broke into his morbid calculation. "You've been staring at your wrist for nearly a minute."
Dominic smoothly transitioned the gesture into straightening his sleeve. "Simply admiring Weston's craftsmanship. The man is a genius with a needle."
"If you say so," Logan replied with good-natured skepticism. "I've never understood the fascination with London tailors. A coat is a coat."
"And a horse is a horse, yet I notice you paid an absurd sum for that Arabian stallion," Dominic countered.
"Touché," Logan conceded with a grin.
The conversation flowed around him, and Dominic found himself participating almost by rote, his wit serving him well even as his mind remained fixated on the workings of his rebellious heart. When had such an automatic function become so terrifyingly unreliable?
The breakfast gathering began to disperse, gentlemen rising to attend to correspondence or prepare for the ride to the village. Logan paused by Dominic's chair, glancing toward the windows where the morning sun now shone brilliantly.
"At least the weather has cleared after yesterday's deluge," he observed. "Should be a pleasant ride. Perfect day for it, in fact."
Dominic looked out at the sunlit garden, the raindrops still clinging to leaves and grass blades glittering like scattered diamonds. How strange that the world could appear so vibrant, so full of life, on the very day he had felt the first touch of his mortality.
"Indeed," he said, rising to stand beside Logan. "We should make the most of fine days. One never knows how many remain in one's account."
Logan gave him an odd look. "That's rather philosophical for breakfast conversation."
Dominic offered a careless shrug and his most disarming smile. "Blame it on the rain. It always makes me contemplative."
As they walked toward the entrance hall, Dominic felt the weight of his secret pressing down upon him. They should make the most of fine days indeed—but only he understood the true urgency behind the sentiment. Only he knew that his account might be running dangerously low.
His hand strayed unconsciously to his chest, feeling the steady—for now—beat beneath his palm. How many more beats remained? How many more fine days?