Chapter 21 #2
Looking up, she found Dominic watching her, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, his posture relaxed despite the gravity of what they had just done. A slanted smile played across his lips, transforming his handsome features into something almost boyish.
"Second thoughts already, Lady June?" he asked, though his tone suggested he knew the answer.
"Duchess," she corrected automatically, then blinked in surprise at her own words.
Dominic's smile widened. "Indeed. Duchess of Icemere. How does it sound to your ears?"
June shook her head, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping her. "Like something from a story someone else is telling. I cannot imagine I shall ever grow accustomed to it."
"You should," Dominic said, his blue eyes holding hers with unexpected intensity. "It suits you. Far better than it has suited any woman in generations of Blakes."
Heat rose to June's cheeks at the compliment, and she turned her attention to the passing countryside to hide her reaction. They rode in comfortable silence for several minutes, the rhythmic clatter of hooves and creak of leather a soothing counterpoint to the tumult of June's thoughts.
"I have a property here in Norfolk," Dominic said at last, breaking the silence. "Though I fear it is not in a state to receive the Duchess of Icemere. The housekeeper writes that the roof in the east wing has begun to leak, and the gardens have grown somewhat wild in my absence."
"I find I rather like wild gardens," June replied, surprised by how easy it felt to converse with him now that they were alone. "They have character that manicured lawns often lack."
"Then you shall adore Icemere Castle," Dominic said. "The formal gardens end where the moors begin, and the boundary between the two is gloriously uncertain. In summer, heather creeps into the rose beds, and in autumn, the whole landscape blazes with color."
June found herself leaning forward, drawn by the evident affection in his voice. "Is that where we are going? To Yorkshire?"
"Eventually. I thought perhaps we might journey in stages, if that suits you. The castle is my ancestral seat, and I believe you will love it, but it is a significant distance."
"I have never been so far north," June admitted.
"Then we shall make an adventure of it." The way he said it—as if their marriage might truly be something to look forward to rather than endure—sent a curious warmth spreading through her chest.
The afternoon lengthened into evening as their carriage continued eastward.
When they finally stopped at a coaching inn, June was surprised to find that Dominic had arranged for a private parlor rather than immediately retiring to their chamber.
A maid brought tea and biscuits, setting them on a small table before curtsying and departing.
June stood uncertainly in the center of the room, watching as Dominic removed his greatcoat and draped it over a chair. The enormity of their situation—alone together for the first time as husband and wife—suddenly pressed upon her with all its implications.
"Are you hungry?" Dominic asked, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort as he poured tea into two cups. "The kitchen here is surprisingly decent. I've stopped on previous journeys."
"Tea is perfect," June managed, seating herself across from him. "Thank you."
Dominic handed her a cup, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Even that slight contact sent awareness skittering along her skin. She took a sip too quickly and nearly scalded her tongue.
"I have a suggestion," Dominic said, settling into his own chair with a grace that belied his tall frame. "What if we were to introduce ourselves anew? No titles, no past misunderstandings. Simply June and Dominic, beginning from this moment."
June lowered her cup, studying him with cautious interest. "How would that work, exactly?"
"Like this." He extended his hand across the table. "Good evening. I'm Dominic Blake. I enjoy sailing, have an unreasonable fondness for orange marmalade, and can recite most of Milton's Paradise Lost from memory, though I often confuse the rebellious angels."
Despite herself, June smiled, placing her hand in his.
"June Vestiere—Blake," she corrected herself, the surname still unfamiliar on her tongue.
"I read ancient Greek, am hopeless at needlework, and have never been able to appreciate the taste of oysters, though I've tried on three separate occasions. "
Dominic laughed, a rich sound that transformed his face and made June's heart perform a curious little skip. "I find I like you already, June Blake."
"And I find you less intimidating than rumor would suggest, Dominic Blake."
Something in his expression shifted at her words—a shadow passing briefly across the blue of his eyes. "Ah, but we've only just met. I may yet live up to my fearsome reputation."
June sipped her tea, watching him over the rim of her cup. "Somehow I doubt that."
"There are things about me you don't yet know," Dominic said, his tone lightening though his eyes remained serious. "Things that might make you reconsider your assessment."
"Such as?"
Dominic set down his cup, his fingers tapping a restless pattern against the tablecloth. "My father died when I was fourteen," he said, the abrupt change of subject catching June by surprise. "I found him in his study. He was thirty-eight years old and had seemed in perfect health that morning."
June's chest tightened at the unexpected confidance. "I'm so very sorry."
"He left my mother a widow far too young," Dominic continued.
"She never recovered from the loss. Never remarried.
Spent the rest of her life as half a person.
" He picked up a biscuit, turning it in his fingers without eating it.
"It destroyed her, watching him die. I vowed I would never do that to a woman. "
"And yet, here we are," June said softly.
Dominic met her gaze directly. "Here we are indeed.
Which is why you deserve to know the truth, June.
My father's death was not an isolated tragedy.
My grandfather died at thirty-five. His father at forty.
There is a sickness in our bloodline that takes Blake men young—a weakness of the heart that eventually fails. "
A chill swept through June despite the warmth of the tea in her hands. "That's what August meant," she whispered. "When he said you would be dead soon."
Dominic's smile was grim. "Your brother has never been one for gentle phrasing, but yes. That's what he meant."
June set down her cup with a hand that suddenly trembled. "And you? Are you ill?"
The pause before his answer stretched unbearably. Then, a single nod. "I've begun to experience symptoms. Nothing severe yet, but... familiar. The same patterns my father described before his collapse."
Fear, cold and absolute, gripped June's heart. She stared at the man across from her—her husband of mere hours—and saw not the notorious Duke of Ice but a young man facing his mortality with a courage that stole her breath.
"How long?" she asked, the question emerging as barely more than a whisper.
Dominic shrugged, the gesture heartbreakingly casual for the weight it carried. "A year, perhaps. Two if I'm fortunate. No Blake man has lived to see his forty-first year in five generations."
June's mind raced, calculating with horrible precision. Dominic was thirty. Perhaps a decade left, at most. The knowledge pressed against her chest like a physical weight, making it difficult to breathe.
"And you feel unwell now?" she asked, searching his face for signs she might have missed—pallor beneath his tan, shadows beneath his eyes.
He nodded again, his expression carefully controlled. "Sometimes. The episodes come and go."
June's hands gripped her teacup so tightly she feared the delicate china might shatter.
This morning, she had run from their wedding out of fear—fear of a loveless match, of an uncertain future.
How petty those concerns seemed now, faced with the knowledge that the future she dreaded might be cruelly brief.
The thought filled her with a terror far greater than any she had known before.