Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Dominic's lungs burned as if he'd swallowed fire.
Each cough tore through his chest, ripping away his breath and leaving him gasping in the darkness.
He clutched at the bedsheets with desperate strength, his knuckles white against the linen as he fought for air that would not come.
This was it, then—the family curse claiming its due, just as it had claimed his father and grandfather before him.
The cruel irony of timing did not escape him, even as his body betrayed him on his wedding night.
"Dominic!" June's voice came to him as if from a great distance, though she sat beside him on the bed. Her hands gripped his shoulders, warm and steady against his trembling frame. "Please, tell me what to do!"
He wanted to answer, to reassure her, but another fit seized him, wracking his body until his ribs ached with the strain.
A cold sweat broke over his skin, chilling him despite the heat he felt burning from within.
He pressed a palm against his chest, feeling the erratic pounding beneath—too fast, then too slow, a heart forgetting its steady rhythm.
June's palm came to rest against his forehead, her touch blessedly cool against his fevered skin. "You're hot," she said, her voice trembling slightly. In the dim light, he could see her eyes wide with fear, her lower lip caught between her teeth.
She shouldn't have to witness this, he thought, shame mingling with his fear. Not so soon. Not on our first night as husband and wife.
"Water," he managed to gasp between coughs. "Please."
June moved with surprising efficiency, reaching for the ceramic pitcher on the nightstand. The sound of water pouring into a glass seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room. She returned to his side, slipping an arm behind his shoulders to help him sit upright.
"Small sips," she murmured, bringing the glass to his lips.
The water felt like heaven against his parched throat, though it triggered another coughing spell that nearly made him drop the glass.
June caught it deftly, setting it aside before supporting him through the fit.
Her nightdress was now damp where his sweat had soaked through, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.
Even in his distress, Dominic couldn't help but notice how beautiful she looked, how utterly different from the composed, sharp-tongued woman he'd first encountered at Stone Manor.
When the coughing subsided momentarily, June pressed the glass to his lips again. "Try a little more," she urged. "It will help."
He obeyed, managing a few more sips before shaking his head. The water had soothed his throat, but the pressure in his chest remained—that familiar, terrible tightness that had begun appearing with increasing frequency over recent months.
June set the glass down and stood, gathering her wrapper around her shoulders. "I'm going to call for help."
"No," Dominic protested weakly, reaching for her hand. "It will pass. It always does."
"Not this time," she said firmly, evading his grasp. "You need a physician."
Before he could argue further, she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
Dominic fell back against the pillows, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
The familiar terror gripped him—not of death itself, but of leaving things unfinished.
There was so much he hadn't told June, so much they hadn't experienced together.
The unfairness of it crushed down on him with greater weight than the pressure in his chest.
Not yet, he pleaded silently to whatever power might be listening. Not when we've only just begun.
The door burst open, admitting June and a plump woman in a hastily donned dressing dress—the innkeeper's wife, he presumed. The woman's face puckered with concern as she took in the scene.
"My husband needs a physician immediately," June said, her voice carrying an authority Dominic had never heard from her before. Gone was the uncertain bride of hours earlier; in her place stood the Duchess of Icemere, brook no argument.
"At this hour, Your Grace?" the woman asked, glancing toward the window where night still pressed against the glass.
"If you value your establishment's reputation, you will send for one this instant," June replied, her tone glacial. "The Duke of Icemere requires medical attention, and he shall have it, regardless of the hour."
The woman curtseyed hastily. "Of course, Your Grace. I'll send my son immediately. Dr. Forrest lives but two streets away."
"Good." June turned back to Dominic as the woman hurried from the room. "Help is coming," she assured him, returning to his side.
While they waited, June transformed into a whirlwind of competence.
She moved to the small hearth where embers still glowed faintly, adding fresh logs and stoking the fire until warmth began to spread through the chilled room.
She rearranged the pillows behind his back, helping him to sit more upright, which eased his labored breathing somewhat.
"This will help," she murmured, dipping a cloth into the water pitcher and wringing it out before placing it against his forehead. The cool dampness against his heated skin was blissful, and Dominic closed his eyes briefly, grateful for the small comfort.
When he opened them again, he found June watching him, her amber eyes dark with worry in the firelight.
She dipped the cloth again, this time pressing it gently against his neck, then his chest where his nightshirt gaped open.
Her touch was tender, careful, as if she feared he might break under her hands.
Perhaps I will, he thought grimly. His father's collapse had been swift and merciless once the symptoms progressed this far. The Blake men never lingered long after the first serious episode.
"You shouldn't have to do this," he said, his voice rough from coughing. "Not what you imagined for your wedding night, I'm sure."
June paused in her ministrations, meeting his gaze directly. "I agreed to be your wife," she said simply. "In sickness and in health, as they say."
"But so soon," he protested.
"Would it be easier if it came later?" she asked, resuming her gentle bathing of his heated skin. "After I'd grown more accustomed to you? I think not."
There was something in her pragmatic response that comforted him more than false reassurances would have done. June was not given to hysterics or empty sentiments. It was one of the qualities he admired most in her.
Still, as he watched her through fever-glazed eyes, Dominic couldn't shake the certainty settling into his bones.
This was not a simple illness, not some passing affliction that would fade with proper care.
This was the beginning of the end—the hereditary disease that had stalked the Blake men for generations, finally catching up to him.
He had known it was coming, had felt the warning signs for months.
The shortness of breath while climbing stairs.
The strange, fluttering sensation in his chest when he exerted himself.
The occasional dizziness that came without warning.
All the same symptoms his father had described in the months before his death.
And now, on what should have been one of the happiest nights of his life, the curse had shown its hand at last. The cruel timing seemed almost deliberate, a final mockery from whatever malevolent fate had condemned the Blake men to early graves.
As another fit of coughing seized him, Dominic caught sight of June's face.
Beneath her composed exterior, fear shone in her eyes—fear for him.
It was that, more than his own suffering, that cut him to the quick.
He had done this to her. In his selfishness, in his weakness for her, he had condemned her to watch him die.
A sharp knock at the door preceded the arrival of the physician—a portly, gray-haired man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose and a worn leather medical bag clutched in his hand.
He entered with the confident stride of a man accustomed to being summoned at unreasonable hours, nodding briefly to June before turning his attention to Dominic.
"Dr. Forrest at your service, Your Grace," he said, setting his bag on the bedside table. "I understand you're experiencing some difficulty."
Dominic attempted to sit straighter, only to be seized by another coughing fit. The physician waited patiently for it to subside, his expression revealing nothing beyond professional interest.
"How long has this been troubling you?" he asked when Dominic could breathe again.
"It began several hours ago," Dominic replied, his voice rasping painfully. "Though there have been... other episodes in recent months."
The physician nodded, opening his bag to extract a small glass bottle. "And these other episodes—were they similar to this one?"
"No," Dominic admitted. "Different. Palpitations. Shortness of breath. Dizziness at times."
Dr. Forrest hummed noncommittally as he withdrew a stained wooden ear trumpet from his bag. "I'll need to listen to your chest, Your Grace. If you wouldn't mind sitting forward."
Dominic complied, wincing as the cold metal touched his heated skin. The physician moved the instrument methodically across his back and chest, his brow furrowed in concentration. June hovered nearby, her hands clasped tightly before her, her knuckles white with tension.
"Deep breath, if you please," Dr. Forrest instructed.
Dominic tried to obey, but the effort triggered another round of coughing that left him doubled over, gasping for air. The physician waited, then placed the trumpet against his chest once more.
"Your pulse, now," he said, taking Dominic's wrist between practiced fingers. He counted silently, eyes fixed on the pocket watch he held in his other hand.
"You mentioned palpitations," Dr. Forrest said as he released Dominic's wrist. "Describe them, if you would."