Chapter 17
Seventeen
June gathered her skirts as she climbed the grand staircase, each step a small victory against the weariness settling in her bones.
The garden party had been a triumph by any measure—her dance card filled, her crimson dress admired, her wit appreciated by a dozen gentlemen whose names blurred together in her memory.
She should have felt pleased, vindicated even.
Instead, a hollow ache had taken residence in her chest, a persistent emptiness that had appeared the moment Dominic Blake had looked at her with those impossibly blue eyes and uttered the word "polite.
" As if dancing with her were some obligation to be discharged, like remembering to compliment the hostess or avoiding the questionable lobster patties.
Polite, she thought bitterly. I believe I should request a dance. It is the polite thing to do.
What a perfect distillation of all her fears—that to him, she was merely one more lady to charm, one more social nicety to observe. Not someone who made his heart race, as hers did shamefully in his presence. Not someone who occupied his thoughts, as he so stubbornly occupied hers.
June turned down the hallway that led to her bedchamber, her fingers trailing along the cool surface of the wall.
The house had grown quiet, most guests having departed or retired to their rooms. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, painting silver paths across the Persian carpets.
She was tired—not merely from dancing, but from the constant performance of being June Vestiere, the woman who needed no one, who remained untouched by blue eyes and careless words.
As she passed an open door, a current of cool night air brushed her skin. June slowed, glancing into what appeared to be a small sitting room. Moonlight poured through open balcony doors, where a man's silhouette stood outlined against the night sky.
She knew immediately, with a certainty that defied reason, that it was Dominic.
Not from his height or the breadth of his shoulders, though both were distinctive.
Not from the way he stood, one hand braced against the stone balustrade.
She simply knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that the solitary figure was the Duke of Icemere.
June's feet stopped of their own accord.
Every logical impulse urged her to continue to her room, to put as much distance as possible between herself and this man who had the power to wound her with a single careless word.
Yet she found herself unable to move, drawn to him by forces she could neither name nor resist.
Before she could reconsider, June stepped into the room. Her slippers made no sound on the carpet, but Dominic turned slightly, as if sensing her presence. He did not speak, did not fully face her, but something in the subtle shift of his posture told her he knew she was there.
June moved toward the balcony, stopping a few feet short of where he stood.
The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that crackled in the night air.
Yet it was different from their usual charged encounters—no verbal sparring, no teasing glances, no calculated moves in the elaborate game they'd been playing.
This moment felt suspended outside of time, fragile and significant.
"The gardens look different by moonlight," she said at last, breaking the silence. "Less orderly. More wild."
Dominic turned to face her fully, and June's breath caught in her throat. His face, usually animated with sardonic amusement or practiced charm, was stripped bare of pretense. In the silver light, she saw weariness etched in the lines around his mouth, a shadow of something like pain in his eyes.
This was not the Duke of Ice who moved through society with effortless confidence. This was not the rake whose reputation preceded him into every drawing room. This was a man with wounds he kept carefully hidden—until now.
"Everything looks different in moonlight," he replied. His voice was low, almost rough. "Even the truth."
The words seemed laden with meaning June couldn't quite grasp. She moved closer, drawn by some instinct to comfort, though she kept a proper distance between them.
"April outdid herself tonight," she offered, searching for neutral ground. "The garden party was lovely."
"It was." He turned back to the view, his profile sharp against the night sky. "Your sisters have a talent for creating beauty wherever they go."
"As do you." The words escaped before June could stop them.
Dominic's head turned sharply, surprise evident in his expression.
"For creating beauty?" A ghost of his usual smile appeared. "I've been accused of many things, Lady June, but never that."
"Beauty of a different sort," she clarified, warmth rising in her cheeks. "You transform rooms when you enter them. People orbit around you like planets around the sun."
"Perhaps they simply fear being burned if they stray too close."
The quiet bitterness in his tone startled her. June studied him, trying to reconcile this man with the one who had dismissed her so carelessly earlier.
"I saw you leave the party," she said. "Before most of the dancing had concluded."
"Did you?" Something flickered in his eyes—a spark of the old Dominic, the one who delighted in catching her in moments of vulnerability. "I'm flattered you noticed my absence."
"I notice everything about you." The admission slipped out, quiet but unmistakable in the night air.
Dominic's fingers tightened on the balustrade, his knuckles white in the moonlight. For a long moment, he said nothing, and June feared she had revealed too much, crossed some invisible boundary between them.
"I asked you to dance earlier," he said finally. "You refused me."
"You said it was 'the polite thing to do,'" June reminded him, unable to keep a hint of hurt from her voice. "As if dancing with me were some duty to be performed."
Dominic turned to face her fully, his expression suddenly intense. "Is that what you thought?"
"What else was I to think?"
He took a step closer, close enough that she could see the fine lines around his eyes, smell the faint scent of sandalwood that always clung to him.
"I said it was polite because I couldn't bring myself to say the truth."
June's heart stumbled in its rhythm. "And what is the truth?"
"That I've watched you all evening, dancing with men who don't deserve to touch your hand.
" His voice dropped lower, almost a confession.
"That seeing you in that red dress has made it impossible for me to think clearly.
That I've wanted to dance with you since the moment I saw you step onto the terrace, but I was afraid of what might happen if I did. "
June stared at him, her carefully constructed defenses crumbling at the raw honesty in his voice. This was not the practiced charm of a rake. This was something else entirely—something real and fragile and frightening.
"My dance card has a space now," she said softly. "If you're still feeling up to it."
Dominic's eyes searched hers, as if looking for some hidden trap. Then, with a formality that made her heart ache, he bowed and extended his hand.
"Lady June Vestiere, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?"
She placed her hand in his, a simple touch that sent warmth cascading through her. "The honor is mine, Your Grace."
He drew her into the space before the open balcony doors.
There was no music save the distant calls of night birds and the whisper of leaves stirred by the summer breeze.
Yet as his hand settled at her waist, as her fingers rested on his shoulder, June felt as though an entire orchestra had begun to play within her chest.
They moved together in the steps of a waltz, their bodies finding a natural rhythm that required no external guidance. The proper distance between them gradually diminished with each turn, each step bringing them closer until June could feel the warmth of him through the silk of her dress.
"Why did you leave the party?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Dominic's eyes remained fixed on hers, though something shifted in their depths—a vulnerability he seemed reluctant to reveal.
"I found I could no longer bear to watch you dance with others," he admitted. "My own fault, of course. I should have requested a dance earlier, before your card was filled."
"You could have claimed a dance regardless," June pointed out. "You're a duke. No one would have refused you."
"And force you to dance with me against your wishes?" He shook his head. "I may be many things, Lady June, but I am not that sort of man."
They turned again, their steps perfectly aligned, as if they had danced together a hundred times before.
"What sort of man are you, then?" June asked. "Not the rake of rumor, I think. At least, not entirely."
Something like pain crossed his features. "Perhaps I am worse than the rumors suggest. Perhaps that is why I should not be here, with you, like this."
Yet his arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer as they continued to move in perfect synchrony.
"You speak in riddles tonight," June said. "What haunts you, Dominic?"
The use of his given name hung between them, intimate and significant. Dominic's steps faltered for a moment, then resumed with renewed purpose.
"Many things," he replied, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it. "But chief among them is the knowledge that I am not free to pursue what I want most in this world."
June's heart raced at his words, at the intensity in his gaze. "And what is it you want?"
He stopped their dance, though his arms remained around her. One hand rose to touch her cheek with exquisite gentleness, as if she were made of something infinitely precious and fragile.
"You," he said simply. "But I cannot have you. I should not even be here with you now."
June's breath caught in her throat. "Why not?"
Dominic's thumb traced the curve of her cheek, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "Because I will ruin you."
The words were spoken with such conviction, such certainty, that June might have believed them had she not seen the conflict raging in his eyes. This was not the casual dismissal of years past. This was a man fighting a battle with himself, a battle he seemed to be losing with every passing moment.
"Why?" June challenged, her voice steadier than she felt. "I am not saving myself for anyone else."
Something broke in his expression then—restraint giving way to need, caution surrendering to desire. With a sound that was half groan, half surrender, Dominic lowered his head and claimed her lips with his own.
June had been kissed before—chaste, brief encounters that had left her wondering what all the fuss was about.
Nothing had prepared her for this. Dominic's lips moved against hers with a hunger that matched the storm raging inside her, igniting sensations she had never imagined possible.
His arms encircled her waist, drawing her firmly against the solid warmth of his body.
June's hands found their way to his shoulders, then his hair, her fingers tangling in the dark strands as if to anchor herself against the tide threatening to sweep her away.
This wasn't a kiss—it was a revelation. A claiming. A promise made without words.
Her heart pounded so fiercely she wondered if he could feel it where their chests pressed together.
Her knees weakened, but Dominic's arms held her securely, as if he had anticipated this very reaction.
His mouth moved over hers with increasing urgency, teaching her a language of desire she had never spoken before.
June melted into him, surrendering to the intensity of feelings too powerful to resist. She had imagined this moment countless times, but reality surpassed every fantasy.
The solid strength of him against her, the taste of him on her lips, the small sounds of pleasure that escaped him when she responded to his kiss—all of it combined into something so overwhelming she could scarcely breathe.
And yet she never wanted it to end.
"What is going on here?" a voice called from behind them.