Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Dominic paused mid-stride, bracing one gloved hand against the stable wall as a wave of dizziness washed over him.
The familiar pressure squeezed at his chest, like some invisible hand clutching his heart and giving it a warning twist. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a measured breath of hay-scented air.
When he opened them again, he straightened his shoulders with deliberate effort, refusing to surrender to the weakness that had pursued him since their arrival at Icemere. The stable hands must not notice, June must not suspect. He was master here, not some invalid to be coddled and pitied.
He resumed his pacing along the row of stalls, nodding to the grooms while inspecting each mount.
His body betrayed him with every step—muscles aching without cause, lungs struggling for air as though he'd run for miles rather than merely walked the length of the stables.
Dominic rolled his shoulders, grimacing at the unexpected stiffness.
Was this new, this bone-deep ache? Or merely another manifestation of the curse that stalked the Blake men?
"Will Dancer be ready within the hour?" he asked the head groom, forcing steadiness into his voice.
"Yes, Your Grace. He's been brushed down and is eager for a run. Been restless since your return."
"As have I," Dominic murmured, reaching out to stroke the velvet nose of his black stallion. The horse nudged his palm, a gesture so familiar it settled something within his restless spirit.
"And the chestnut mare? Has she been prepared as I requested?"
"Gentle as a lamb, Your Grace, but spirited enough for a lady who knows her seat," the groom assured him. "Perfect for the Duchess."
Dominic nodded, pleased. He'd spent nearly an hour that morning selecting just the right mount for June—one that would challenge her enough to be interesting but not so much as to endanger her. He'd finally settled on Marigold, a sweet-tempered chestnut with intelligent eyes and a smooth gait.
A gust of cold air announced a new arrival, and Dominic turned toward the stable entrance.
June stood framed in the doorway, her slender figure almost lost within the folds of an enormous woolen cloak lined with what appeared to be fox fur.
Only her face was visible, her cheeks and the tip of her nose already pink from the brief walk from the castle.
His heart performed that troublesome skip again as their eyes met—a flutter that had nothing to do with his condition and everything to do with the woman before him.
Three weeks of marriage, and still the sight of her caught him unawares, still the amber warmth of her gaze made him forget, momentarily, the limits of his existence.
"Are you expecting a blizzard, darling?" he called, a smile tugging at his lips. "The snow hasn't arrived yet. Why are you dressed for a Siberian winter?"
June stepped into the stables, raising a single eyebrow with that imperious look he found impossibly endearing. "Have you stepped outside today, Dominic? It's absolutely frigid."
"Is it? I hardly noticed." He closed the distance between them, lowering his voice to a more intimate register. "I know several ways to keep warm that don't require quite so much fabric."
A delicate blush colored her cheeks, but her gaze remained steady. "Do you indeed? Perhaps you should write a treatise on the subject. I'm certain it would be most educational."
"Oh, I much prefer practical demonstrations to written instruction." He offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "Come. I've chosen a mount for you, unless you'd prefer to select your own?"
"I bow to your superior knowledge in this arena," June replied, placing her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. "Though I reserve the right to form my own opinions once introduced."
"I would expect nothing less," Dominic said, leading her to Marigold's stall. He felt the subtle shift in June's posture as she caught sight of the mare—the slight straightening of her spine, the quick intake of breath that signaled genuine delight.
"She's beautiful," June murmured, extending her hand toward the horse. Marigold snuffled at her glove, then allowed June to stroke her forehead. "What's her name?"
"Marigold," Dominic answered, watching June's face rather than the horse. "Five years old, trained by Cooper himself. She has a smooth gait and a steady temperament, but enough spirit to make the ride interesting."
"Much like her rider, one hopes," June said with a small smile.
Dominic laughed, the sound echoing off the stable rafters. "I've never been accused of a steady temperament, but I appreciate the comparison." He gestured to the groom. "Saddle her, please. We'll ride within the quarter-hour."
As the groom led Marigold away to be prepared, Dominic guided June toward his own stallion. "And this is Dancer. Far less steady, I'm afraid, but loyal to a fault."
June studied the massive black horse with appreciative eyes. "He suits you," she said simply.
Dominic wasn't certain if he should be flattered or offended. "Mercurial and difficult to manage?"
"Powerful," June corrected, meeting his gaze directly. "And perhaps not as untamed as he'd like people to believe."
Something warm unfurled in his chest at her assessment—a dangerous tendril of hope he'd been trying to suppress since the moment she'd agreed to become his wife. Before he could respond, the groom returned with both horses saddled and ready.
"Shall we?" Dominic asked, gesturing toward Marigold.
June nodded, moving toward her mount. Dominic followed, positioning himself to assist her. As she prepared to mount, he stepped closer, slipping his arms around her waist from inside the voluminous cloak.
"Allow me," he murmured, his mouth suddenly dry as the wool parted to reveal her form, wrapped in a deep green riding habit that clung to the graceful curves of her body.
She stilled at his touch, her breath catching audibly. They stood frozen for a moment, her back pressed against his chest, his hands spanning her waist. Through the layers of clothing, he could feel the warmth of her, the slight tremor that passed through her body at his proximity.
"Thank you," she whispered, turning her head slightly. The movement brought their faces mere inches apart, her amber eyes wide and searching.
Dominic swallowed hard, fighting the urge to turn her in his arms and claim her mouth as he'd been aching to do since their arrival at Icemere. Instead, he lifted her with careful strength, setting her gently in the saddle.
"You look perfectly at home there," he observed, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "As if you were born to ride Icemere horses."
June arranged her skirts with practiced ease. "I haven't been on horseback since we left Stone Manor. I've missed it."
"Then we shall make this a regular activity," Dominic promised, moving to mount his own stallion. The simple action sent a bolt of pain through his chest, and he paused, gripping the saddle until the spasm passed. When he glanced up, June was watching him with a slight furrow between her brows.
"Are you well, Dominic?" she asked.
"Perfectly," he lied smoothly, swinging himself into the saddle with deliberate grace. "Merely eager to show my bride her new domain."
They rode out of the stables side by side, the horses' hooves crunching against the frost-hardened ground. The late autumn air cut like a knife, sharp and clean, but Dominic welcomed it. The cold seemed to clear his head, easing the pressure in his chest that had been building all morning.
"The estate extends to those hills in the distance," he said, pointing northward. "And to the east, as far as the river that marks the boundary with Thornfield."
"It's vast," June observed, her breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. "Larger than I'd imagined."
"Most of it wild moorland," Dominic admitted. "Beautiful in its own way, but hardly the manicured parkland of southern estates."
They rode at a leisurely pace, Dominic pointing out landmarks—a stand of ancient oaks planted by his great-grandfather, the ruins of the original watchtower that had once guarded the castle's approach, the distant spire of the village church where generations of Blakes had been christened, married, and buried.
"And there," he said, gesturing toward a tumbledown structure nearly hidden among gnarled trees, "is what remains of the hunting lodge where my great-great-grandfather supposedly encountered a ghost."
June turned in her saddle, intrigued. "What sort of ghost?"
"A white lady, naturally," Dominic replied with a grin. "These old houses always have one. She's said to be the spirit of a jilted bride who flung herself from the castle battlements."
"How very Gothic," June said dryly. "Did your great-great-grandfather survive the encounter?"
"With nothing worse than a dramatic tale to tell over brandy. The ghost apparently criticized his shooting form, then vanished into the mist."
June laughed, the sound bright against the stark landscape. "A helpful spirit, at least."
Dominic guided Dancer toward a ridge that offered a sweeping view of the surrounding countryside. "From here, you can see almost the entire estate," he said, his voice faltering slightly as his lungs protested the exertion of speaking while riding uphill.
If June noticed his momentary breathlessness, she gave no sign. "It's magnificent," she murmured, gazing out at the patchwork of fields, woods, and moors stretching to the horizon. "I can see why you love it here."
"Can you?" Dominic asked, studying her profile.
"You speak of Icemere differently than you speak of London," she explained. "There's a possessiveness in your voice, a pride that goes beyond mere ownership."
Her perception startled him. "You've been listening quite closely, Duchess."
"I always listen closely to things that matter," she replied, turning to meet his gaze. "And you speak of Icemere as if it matters very much indeed."