Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
"Here we are, Junebug," Dominic said, his face brightening as Icemere Castle came into view beyond the carriage window. The morning light caught in his blue eyes, lending them a warmth that contradicted everything she'd ever heard about the Duke of Ice.
June turned from the impressive sight of the castle to fix him with a pointed look.
"Don't call me Junebug, you will sound like August." Despite her protest, she couldn't quite suppress the smile tugging at her lips.
After their extended stay at the inn while Dominic recovered, the teasing familiarity between them had become a comfort rather than an irritation.
"I rather like it," Dominic persisted, his smile widening to reveal a dimple she'd only recently discovered. "It suggests something small and delicate, yet with a certain sting when provoked."
"I assure you, Your Grace, there is nothing delicate about me," June retorted, lifting her chin in mock hauteur. "And if you continue with such absurdities, I shall be forced to devise an equally ridiculous name for you."
Dominic leaned forward, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I eagerly await your creativity, Duchess. Though I warn you, I've been called many things in my day, and few have managed to perturb me."
"Challenge accepted," June replied, surprised by how easily the banter flowed between them now. Just two weeks ago, she would have sooner bitten off her tongue than engaged in such playful conversation with the Duke of Icemere.
The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as they approached the impressive structure.
Icemere Castle rose before them, its ancient stone walls the color of weathered bone against the crisp blue autumn sky.
Towers and turrets reached skyward, their windows glinting like diamonds in the morning sunlight.
Despite its imposing size, there was something oddly welcoming about the place—perhaps the smoke curling from numerous chimneys, or the late roses still clinging to life along a southern wall.
"It's beautiful," June murmured, genuinely awed by the sight.
She had expected something colder, more forbidding—a physical manifestation of Dominic's nickname.
Instead, the castle seemed to embrace the landscape around it, settling into the rolling hills as if it had grown from the Yorkshire earth itself.
"It can be rather drafty in winter," Dominic admitted, watching her face closely. "And the east wing leaks abominably when the rain comes from the north. But yes, I've always found it beautiful."
The pride in his voice was unmistakable, and June felt a curious warmth spread through her chest. This was his home, the place where generations of Blakes had lived and loved and, if the stories were true, died too young.
Yet he spoke of it with undisguised affection rather than the weary obligation many nobles reserved for their ancestral seats.
The carriage rolled to a stop before wide stone steps that led to massive oak doors.
Before the footman could assist them, Dominic had opened the carriage door himself and stepped down.
He turned back to offer June his hand, his movements still bearing a hint of the weakness from his recent illness, but his grip remained steady as she placed her fingers in his.
"Welcome to Icemere, Duchess," he said formally, though his eyes held that private warmth she was beginning to treasure.
June descended from the carriage, grateful for the support of his hand.
The journey from the inn had been long, broken into stages to accommodate Dominic's recovery, and her limbs felt stiff from too many hours confined to the carriage.
The crisp Yorkshire air filled her lungs, carrying the scent of autumn leaves and distant woodsmoke.
Before she could properly take in her surroundings, June noticed a neat line of servants arranged on the steps, their faces a mixture of curiosity and respect as they awaited formal introductions to their new mistress.
June straightened unconsciously, smoothing her traveling dress and hoping she appeared more duchess-like than she felt.
"May I present Mr. Winters, our butler," Dominic began, gesturing to a tall, dignified man whose silver hair belied the alertness in his dark eyes. "He has managed Icemere's household since before I was born, and knows more of its secrets than I ever shall."
"Your Grace," Mr. Winters said, bowing deeply. "It is our great pleasure to welcome you to Icemere."
"Thank you, Mr. Winters," June replied, pleased when her voice emerged steady and clear despite her nervousness. "I look forward to learning those secrets myself, in time."
A ghost of a smile touched the butler's austere features before he resumed his proper expression.
"Mrs. Fairchild, our housekeeper," Dominic continued, indicating a plump woman with rosy cheeks and keen eyes. "She rules the household with an iron hand in a velvet glove, and has never once lost a battle with the laundry maids."
"Your Grace," Mrs. Fairchild curtseyed, her eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth at Dominic's description. "I've prepared the Duchess Suite for you, though I hope you'll tell me if anything is not to your liking."
"I'm certain it will be perfect," June assured her, charmed by the woman's maternal air.
One by one, Dominic introduced the rest of the staff: the cook, Mrs. Braithwaite, whose plum pudding was reportedly worth dying for; the head groom, Mr. Cooper, who had taught Dominic to ride; Miss Perkins, the quiet, mouse-like head housemaid who nonetheless managed to keep the entire castle spotless; and a dozen others whose names and positions June hoped she would remember.
What struck her most was not the number of servants—Stone Manor had just as many—but rather the way they regarded Dominic.
There was the expected deference, of course, but beneath it lay something rarer: genuine affection.
They smiled when he spoke to them, their eyes following him with the fond indulgence one might show a beloved but occasionally troublesome son.
Even Mr. Winters, whose dignity seemed carved from the same stone as the castle itself, softened visibly when Dominic clapped him on the shoulder.
"They adore you," June murmured as they climbed the steps toward the entrance.
Dominic glanced at her in surprise. "Do they? I hadn't noticed."
"Either you're remarkably unobservant or deliberately modest," June replied. "I suspect the latter, though it hardly fits your rakish reputation."
"Perhaps my reputation has been greatly exaggerated," he said, his hand settling at the small of her back as they approached the great doors. The warm weight of it sent a pleasant shiver through her despite the layers of fabric between his palm and her skin.
"Or perhaps you're simply different here," June suggested. "At home."
Something flickered in his eyes at that—a brief vulnerability quickly masked. "Perhaps I am."
As they crossed the threshold, June felt the weight of history press around her.
The entrance hall soared upward, its ceiling lost in shadow despite the morning light streaming through tall windows.
Ancient battle standards hung from the walls alongside portraits of stern-faced Blakes stretching back centuries.
A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, large enough that June could have stood upright within its arch.
"The oldest part of the castle dates to the Norman Conquest," Dominic said quietly, noticing her wide-eyed gaze.
"Though most of what you see was rebuilt in the fifteenth century after a rather unfortunate disagreement between my ancestor and a neighboring baron. Apparently, artillery was involved."
"How civilized," June remarked, earning a chuckle from her husband.
"Quite. The Blake men have never been known for their restraint.
" His hand pressed slightly more firmly against her back, guiding her toward an archway that led deeper into the castle.
"That portion there—" he pointed to an elaborately carved doorframe "—was added during Elizabeth's reign.
The stone was quarried from our own land, and the carvings represent the various flora found on the estate. "
"You know a great deal about the castle's history," June said, impressed by his evident knowledge.
"When one might not have much future, the past becomes rather important," Dominic replied, his tone light despite the weight of his words.
Before June could respond to this painful reminder of his condition, movement at the far end of the hall caught her attention. A slight woman with silvering dark hair had appeared, her posture erect despite her evident age, her pale blue eyes—so like Dominic's—fixed on them with undisguised joy.
"Mother," Dominic said, his voice warming noticeably. "Allow me to present my wife, June Blake, Duchess of Icemere. June, this is Louisa Blake, Dowager Duchess of Icemere."
The woman glided forward with a grace that belied her years, her arms outstretched in welcome. "My dear, at last we meet. I've heard so much about you in Dominic's letters," she said, taking June's hands in her own. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her skin soft and scented faintly with lavender.
"Dowager Duchess," June began, but Louisa waved away the formality.
"Please, call me Louisa. We are family now." She linked her arm through June's with comfortable familiarity. "And I insist you tell me everything about your journey. Dominic's letters mentioned an inn and some dreadful weather, but little else."
June shot a questioning glance at Dominic, who merely shrugged. "I wrote while you were arranging for fresh linens," he explained. "I thought Mother should know of our delay."
"The weather has been increasingly cold," Louisa continued, leading them toward a doorway on the right. "Especially for late autumn. Mr. Winters says we're in for a harsh winter."
"The servants at the inn said the same," June replied, allowing herself to be guided through the doorway into a surprisingly cozy drawing room.
Unlike the grand, echoing entrance hall, this chamber felt warm and lived-in.
A fire crackled merrily in a hearth of polished granite, and comfortable chairs upholstered in rich blue velvet were arranged invitingly before it.
Bookshelves lined one wall, their contents suggesting actual use rather than mere decoration.
A tea service had been arranged on a low table, steam already rising from the silver pot.
"Please, sit," Louisa urged, directing June to a chair near the fire. "You must be chilled from your journey."
June sank gratefully into the seat, the plush cushions enveloping her tired body.
Dominic took the chair opposite, stretching his long legs toward the hearth.
He still moved with a hint of the caution she'd observed during his recovery, but some color had returned to his face after the pallor of illness.
Rather than summoning a servant, Louisa poured the tea herself, her movements deft and practiced. She handed a cup to Dominic first, studying his face with the keen attention only a mother could employ.
"How are you feeling, my son?" she asked, her light tone not quite masking the concern beneath.
Dominic's eyes shifted briefly to June before he answered, "Much better, Mother. June took excellent care of me." The genuine gratitude in his voice made June's cheeks warm unexpectedly.
"Did she indeed?" Louisa turned her gaze to June, assessing her with new interest as she passed her a cup of tea. "I'm not surprised. You have a certain steadiness about you that I admire."
June accepted the cup, unsure how to respond to such direct praise from a woman she'd just met. "It was nothing extraordinary," she demurred. "Merely what any wife would do."
"Oh, I think not," Louisa replied with a knowing smile. "Many wives of my acquaintance would have summoned a nurse and retreated to safety at the first sign of illness. Particularly one so... unexpected."
"It was merely a severe cold, Mother," Dominic said smoothly. "Though admittedly ill-timed for our wedding journey."
Louisa's expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced, but she nodded. "Well, whatever it was, I'm grateful to June for seeing you safely home."
"The weather seemed determined to stall our journey," June said, eager to lighten the moment. "I began to wonder if we'd ever reach Yorkshire. Each day brought a new deluge or fierce wind."
Dominic chuckled, the sound warming the room more effectively than the fire. "June threatened to abandon the carriage and proceed on foot at one point. I believe the exact phrase was 'even a tortoise would make better time.'"
"I said no such thing," June protested, though her lips quirked in amusement. "I merely suggested that perhaps walking alongside the carriage might warm us better than sitting within it."
Louisa laughed, a bright sound that reminded June startlingly of Dominic's own laughter. "Oh, I can see why you chose her, Dominic. She's not one to mince words."
As mother and son shared their amusement, June found herself studying the dowager duchess more carefully.
Behind the warmth and welcome, she glimpsed something else—a shadow of weariness, perhaps, or a guardedness that seemed at odds with her open manner.
Louisa's eyes followed Dominic's movements with the same acute attention June had observed in herself since his illness—watching for signs of weakness or strain, cataloging each cough or wince.
Did she know? June wondered. Did she live with the same fear that gnawed constantly at June's heart—the dread that Dominic might be taken from them too soon? If the Blake men truly were cursed to die young, then Louisa had already lost her husband to the same fate that now threatened her son.
How did one bear such knowledge? How did one live each day without being consumed by fear of what might come?