Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Dominic froze as June rushed past him. Her face—pale, eyes wide with something akin to panic—burned into his memory as she disappeared through the drawing room door.
The murmurs began immediately, rising like the tide around him, threatening to drown the moment in speculation and scandal.
He moved to follow her, his body responding before his mind had fully processed her flight, when a firm hand gripped his sleeve.
"Give her a moment, Icemere," her father, Duke of Wildmoore, said quietly, his amber eyes—so like June's—holding a wisdom that brooked no argument. "When the hart runs, pursuing too quickly only drives it further away."
Dominic glanced at the door, every instinct urging him to follow, to find June, to.
.. what? What could he possibly say that would make this situation better?
He had ridden for hours to obtain a special license, had dressed with more care than he'd ever devoted to a royal audience, all for a wedding neither of them had truly chosen.
"With respect, sir," Dominic replied, keeping his voice low, "I believe I should—"
"You should allow her the dignity of gathering herself," Albert interrupted, his tone gentle but firm. "My June has never been one to wear her heart openly. She needs time."
Dominic's gaze swept the room, taking in the sea of curious faces, the barely concealed whispers behind fans and gloved hands.
Lady Worthington looked positively apoplectic, her turban quivering with barely contained outrage.
Dorothy Vestiere was engaged in animated conversation with several ladies, clearly attempting damage control.
August stood by the mantel, his expression darkening by the second.
"Very well," Dominic conceded, though every fiber of his being strained toward the door. "A moment."
Albert nodded, releasing his sleeve. "A wise decision, Your Grace."
The whispers grew louder as Dominic made his way across the drawing room, nodding stiffly to those who caught his eye. The cloying scent of orange blossoms and roses pressed against him like a physical force, making his throat tighten uncomfortably.
"Cold feet, I imagine..."
"Always was a flighty girl..."
"The Duke of Ice, caught at last..."
By the time he reached the hallway, his chest felt tight, his heart performing that now-familiar stutter that reminded him of his borrowed time. He braced one hand against the wall, forcing himself to breathe deeply until the sensation passed.
This is not how I imagined my wedding day, he thought with grim humor. Not that he had ever truly imagined a wedding day at all. Until recently, marriage had seemed as remote a possibility as spontaneously growing wings.
And yet, in the span of days, everything had changed. The moonlight, June's lips, August's fury—all conspiring to bring him to this moment, pacing a hallway while his bride-to-be had fled their own wedding.
He should be relieved, he supposed. This could be his escape from a commitment he'd never sought.
He could claim the insult was too great, that no gentleman could be expected to pursue a woman who had publicly rejected him.
He could return to his carefully constructed life of deliberate impermanence.
The thought left him cold.
The realization struck him with unexpected force: he didn't want an escape. He wanted June. Not merely because of a kiss or a scandal, but because in her amber eyes he'd glimpsed something he hadn't known he was searching for. A challenge. A purpose. A reason to make his remaining time matter.
Albert Vestiere had said to give her a moment. The moment had passed.
Dominic straightened his cuffs and strode toward the garden doors at the end of the hallway. If June had fled the house, she wouldn't have gone far—not in her wedding finery. The gardens, then. A place of temporary refuge.
He found her exactly where something in his heart had known she would be—seated on a stone bench beside the small fountain in the rose garden, her peach dress bright against the greenery.
Her gloved hands twisted together in her lap, her face tilted toward the sky as if seeking answers in the cloudless blue.
She looked beautiful. And terrified.
The sight of her fear pierced him more deeply than her flight had done. June Vestiere—proud, defiant, sharp-tongued June—should never look afraid.
He approached slowly, deliberately allowing his footsteps to sound on the gravel path so as not to startle her. She turned at the noise, her body tensing visibly before she recognized him.
"May I sit?" he asked, stopping several feet from the bench.
She nodded, a single sharp movement. "It's your right, I suppose. As my almost-husband."
Dominic settled beside her, careful to maintain a proper distance. Her scent reached him nevertheless—roses and something uniquely her, a fragrance he'd already begun to associate with desire and comfort in equal measure.
"Are you well?" he asked, though the answer was plainly evident.
June sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of her soul.
"No, Your Grace, I am not well. I am about to marry a man who once described me as 'thin as a reed, with hair like unpolished brass, and eyes too large for her face.
' A man who had 'no interest in schoolgirls with romantic fantasies. '"
Dominic's stomach dropped. "What?"
"You don't recall?" June turned to face him, her amber eyes bright with unshed tears. "At Oxford, when my brother confronted you about my... infatuation. I was outside the library door. I heard every word."
Understanding dawned with sickening clarity. So this was the root of her animosity, the reason for her cool demeanor whenever they met. Not a natural dislike, but a wound he had inflicted without even knowing.
"I remember the conversation with your brother," he admitted quietly. "And I remember you—the girl who loved books more than balls, who spoke of Roman ruins with more passion than most ladies discuss fashion."
"Then you remember your dismissal of me," June said, her voice steady despite the hurt evident in her eyes.
Dominic ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful styling. "I was barely twenty-six, June. Young, arrogant, determined to live each day as if it were my last." He shook his head. "I said many foolish things in those days. Things I regret."
"And now you're to be saddled with the very girl you dismissed," June said bitterly.
"A part of me wishes to run away and never return.
Another part wishes to proceed with this farce and hope that perhaps, in time, we might find some measure of.
.." She trailed off, unable or unwilling to name what they might find.
"Happiness?" Dominic suggested gently.
June's laugh was hollow. "I was going to say 'tolerance.' I know there is no real choice for either of us. The scandal would ruin my family, and your reputation, whatever it may be, would suffer equally. We are both at fault for being caught in such a compromising position."
Dominic studied her profile—the proud tilt of her chin despite her distress, the intelligence in her eyes, the quiet dignity with which she faced an uncertain future. Something shifted within him, a certainty taking root where there had been only chaos.
"We have indeed started this marriage on the wrong foot," he agreed. "But perhaps we might begin again."
June glanced at him, surprise evident in her expression.
"I want to marry you, June Vestiere," Dominic said, the words emerging with a sincerity that surprised even him. "Not because of scandal or obligation, but because for the first time in my life, I want something—someone—for myself. And that someone is you."
Disbelief shadowed her face. "You can't possibly mean that."
Dominic took her gloved hands in his, turning to face her fully. "I have never been more serious about anything in my life."
June searched his eyes, looking for deception or mockery. Finding none, her expression softened almost imperceptibly.
Dominic drew her closer, his heart performing that troublesome skip again—though this time, he suspected it had nothing to do with his condition and everything to do with the woman before him. His lips brushed hers, soft as a promise.
"I truly mean it, June," he whispered against her mouth. "Marry me."
He felt the moment she yielded, her body relaxing infinitesimally against his. She nodded, the movement so slight he might have missed it had they not been so close.
"Yes," she whispered back.
Relief flooded through him, so powerful he nearly pulled her into his arms regardless of propriety or witnesses. Instead, he stood and offered his hand.
"Shall we return? I believe we have a wedding to attend."
June placed her hand in his, rising with newfound composure. "I believe we do, Your Grace."
"Dominic," he corrected her. "If we're to be married, I should very much like to hear my name on your lips."
A faint blush colored her cheeks. "Dominic, then."
They walked back toward the house, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.
Whatever came next—be it scandal, sickness, or something entirely unexpected—Dominic knew with sudden clarity that he would face it with June at his side.
And somehow, that made even his uncertain future seem brighter than it had ever been before.
June leaned out the carriage window, waving until her arm ached and her family became mere specks against the sprawling facade of Stone Manor.
The events of the day—her panic, their conversation in the garden, the hastily performed ceremony—swirled in her mind like leaves caught in an autumn breeze.
As the carriage rounded a bend in the drive, she settled back against the squabs with a small, incredulous sigh. Married. She was married to Dominic Blake, the Duke of Icemere. The thought was so extraordinary she nearly laughed aloud.