Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
June stared at Dominic, her teacup forgotten between her trembling fingers. The word "episodes" echoed in her mind like a death knell. Not some vague future threat, then, but something real, something happening now.
Her husband of mere hours was already experiencing the symptoms that had claimed his father, his grandfather, generations of Blake men. The knowledge settled into her chest with painful weight, constricting her breathing until she had to force herself to inhale.
"It might be nothing," she said finally, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears. "Perhaps you're merely overworked, or—"
"June." Dominic's voice was gentle, but it cut through her desperate rationalizations like a blade. "I know what I feel. I have seen it before."
She set down her teacup, afraid she might drop it. "Tell me more about these... episodes."
Dominic leaned back in his chair, his long fingers drumming absently on the arm.
"They come without warning. My heart seems to forget its purpose—it races, then stops, then races again.
Sometimes my vision darkens at the edges.
I feel a pressure in my chest, as if something is squeezing the very life from me. "
"And there's no treatment?" June asked, clinging to the faintest hope. "Surely medical science has advanced since your father's time."
A sad smile crossed Dominic's face. "My mother consulted every physician in England after my father died.
Specialists from Edinburgh to Paris examined me throughout my youth.
They found nothing they could name, nothing they could cure.
" He shrugged, the casual gesture at odds with the grave subject.
"It's like a family curse, I suppose. Few of the past dukes have lived past five-and-thirty, and none past forty. "
June's mind raced through calculations. Dominic was thirty now. Five years, perhaps ten at most. The brevity of it stole her breath.
"And you truly believe your days are numbered?" she asked, unable to keep the slight quaver from her voice.
"I know they are." His blue eyes held hers with startling intensity. "As are all of ours, I suppose, though some with more precision than others."
She looked down at her hands, noting with distant surprise that she had twisted her new wedding ring around her finger so tightly that the skin beneath was white. "Why tell me this now? You could have let me live in ignorance, at least for a while."
Dominic rose from his chair and moved to the window, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the fading daylight.
"Because I don't wish to waste the time I have with fights and unspoken confessions.
I have lived too long keeping people at a distance.
" He turned to face her, his expression more open than she had ever seen it.
"If my time is to be short, I want to spend it savoring every moment. "
The raw honesty in his voice made something shift inside June's chest—a softening, a yielding.
"Is that why you rejected me?" she asked quietly. "At Oxford, all those years ago?"
Dominic's eyes widened slightly, as if surprised by her directness.
"Yes," he admitted after a moment. "Though I wasn't entirely conscious of it at the time.
" He crossed back to the table, taking the seat beside her rather than across.
"I was three-and-twenty when I first understood what my bloodline meant—that I would likely die young, that any wife I took would be widowed before her time.
I made a vow then to never marry, to never inflict that fate on a woman I cared for. "
"So you pushed away anyone who showed interest?"
"Every time," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Including a bright-eyed girl with a passion for ancient texts and a smile that haunted me for years afterward."
June's heart skipped a beat at his words, at the way his eyes held hers as he spoke. "I wasn't very bright-eyed after that day," she murmured.
"No, I imagine not." Regret shadowed his features. "I was unnecessarily cruel. For that, I am truly sorry."
The apology, so simply offered, soothed a wound June had carried for years. She found herself wanting to share something in return, to match his vulnerability with her own.
"I was mocked often as a child," she said, the words emerging before she could reconsider.
"For being bookish, for preferring libraries to ballrooms. When I first visited August at Oxford, I was entranced by the library there.
I told my friends about it—how grand it was, how it smelled of leather and wisdom, how I'd found texts on Roman architecture that no one had touched in decades. "
She paused, the memory still capable of stinging after all these years.
"They laughed at me," she continued. "Said I would die a spinster if I couldn't converse on more appropriate topics. That no gentleman wanted a wife who could translate Latin better than he."
Dominic's hand found hers on the table, warm and steady. "Your friends were foolish."
June laughed, a short, sharp sound. "They are not my friends anymore."
"Good." He squeezed her hand gently. "Intelligence is nothing to be ashamed of, June. It is one of your finest qualities."
The simple compliment warmed her more than it should have.
She studied his face in the fading light, noting the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the strong angle of his jaw, the unexpected gentleness in his expression.
This was not the Duke of Ice she had imagined, not the heartless rake of reputation.
This was a man—flesh and blood, flawed and complex.
"I once spent a sennight in a small fishing village in Greece," Dominic said suddenly, as if sensing her thoughts had turned too melancholy. "It was on my grand tour, though I had long since parted ways with my tutor—much to his relief, I'm certain."
June leaned forward slightly, drawn by the unexpected tale. "What happened?"
A genuine smile lit Dominic's face, transforming his features.
"A storm drove our vessel to seek shelter in a tiny cove.
While the captain made repairs, I stayed in the village.
The people there had nothing by English standards—tiny homes, simple food, clothes mended until they were more patch than original fabric.
" His eyes took on a faraway look. "Yet I have never met people more content with their lot. "
"What did you do there?" June asked, captivated by the warmth in his voice.
"I fished with them at dawn," he said, his smile deepening at the memory.
"Can you imagine? The Duke of Icemere, up to his knees in the Mediterranean, learning to cast nets with men who spoke no English and laughed at my clumsiness.
We communicated through gestures and the few Greek words I knew.
By the third day, they treated me as one of their own. "
June tried to picture it—Dominic stripped of his ducal trappings, working alongside common fishermen, his skin bronzed by the sun, his hair salt-stiffened, his hands rough from the nets.
"Did you catch anything?" she asked.
Dominic laughed, the sound rich and unexpectedly boyish.
"Nothing but seaweed for the first two days.
On the third, I managed a single fish so small the village children used it as a toy rather than food.
But on the fifth day—" His eyes gleamed with remembered triumph.
"On the fifth day, I hauled in a net so full it nearly pulled me into the sea.
The village feasted that night, and an old woman with skin like parchment declared me blessed by Poseidon himself. "
June found herself laughing with him, charmed by the story and by the animated way he told it. "I can't imagine Society's response if they knew the notorious Duke of Ice had played fisherman."
"I'm not sure which would scandalize them more—the manual labor or the fact that I enjoyed it immensely.
" His expression sobered slightly. "I've often thought of that village in the years since.
Those people understood something I've spent my life trying to grasp—how to live fully in the present moment, how to find joy in simple things. "
"Perhaps you could show me someday," June said without thinking. "Greece, I mean."
A shadow crossed Dominic's face, and June immediately regretted her words. Someday was precisely what they might not have.
"I'm sorry," she began, but Dominic shook his head.
"No, don't apologize. I would like nothing more than to show you Greece." His hand found hers again. "And Italy, and France, and all the places I've traveled. We shall simply have to begin our adventures soon."
The quiet determination in his voice—the refusal to surrender to despair despite everything—touched June deeply. Here was courage of a kind she hadn't expected, not from the man society called the Duke of Ice.
As the evening deepened into night, they continued to talk, their conversation flowing more easily with each passing hour.
June found herself sharing stories of her childhood with her sisters, of mischief and lessons and dreams deferred.
Dominic matched her tale for tale, describing travels and escapades that made her laugh until her sides ached.
When a maid brought supper on a tray, they hardly noticed, too engrossed in their conversation to pay much attention to the food. Only when the candles had burned low and June stifled her third yawn did Dominic glance at the clock on the mantel.
"It's nearly midnight," he said, sounding as surprised as she felt. "We should retire."
The word hung between them, laden with implications. June's cheeks warmed as she realized that retiring meant sharing a bedchamber—sharing a bed—with her new husband.
As if sensing her sudden nervousness, Dominic stood and offered her his hand. "Come," he said gently. "We both need rest after the events of today."