Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Awar raged within Dominic’s chest as he stood rigidly before the window overlooking the gardens in their bedchamber.
Duty lashed against desire, protection against passion.
He had carried June from those ruins, held her trembling body against his own, and in that moment understood with terrible clarity what losing her would feel like.
"Dominic?"
Her voice, soft with sleep, lanced through him like a blade. He did not turn, could not. If he saw her there—warm and alive, hair tumbled around her shoulders, amber eyes blinking away dreams—his resolve would crumble like the ancient ruins that had nearly claimed her.
"Dominic, what troubles you?" June's voice grew stronger, more alert. The rustle of bedclothes indicated she was sitting up. "You've been standing there for an age."
He forced his shoulders straighter, his spine stiffer. "You should rest. Your ribs…"
"My ribs are perfectly fine for a conversation," she countered. "And clearly one is needed."
She deserves better than this, he thought, better than a husband with one foot already in the grave.
The realization felt like a physical blow.
His mother had survived losing his father, but at what cost?
Years of hollow smiles and empty rooms, of memories that cut like knives with each passing season.
He could not do that to June.
Drawing a steadying breath, Dominic turned to face her.
Just as he'd feared, the sight of her nearly undid him.
She sat propped against the pillows, his coat still wrapped around her shoulders despite the warmth of the room.
A single tendril of hair curled against her cheek in the firelight.
The intimacy of the scene—his wife in their bedchamber, awaiting his return to her side—struck him with brutal force.
"I believe we must part ways," he said, the words falling between them like stones.
June went utterly still. "I beg your pardon?"
"Our marriage was a mistake," he continued, each syllable measured and cold. "A hasty solution to a temporary problem."
She sat up straighter, the quilt falling away as her cheeks flushed with angry color. "And you've determined this now? After carrying me from those ruins as though I were precious? After tending me as though I mattered?"
"An instinctive response to danger," Dominic replied, deliberately looking past her shoulder rather than meeting those intelligent eyes that saw too much. "I would have done the same for anyone."
"Liar."
The single word, delivered with quiet certainty, shook him more than any angry tirade could have done.
"Why are you doing this?" June demanded, wincing slightly as she shifted position too quickly for her bruised ribs. "If you truly wish to end our marriage, I deserve to know why."
Dominic moved to the fireplace, needing distance, needing something to occupy his hands. He took up the poker and jabbed unnecessarily at the logs, sending sparks swirling up the chimney.
"I would rather you hate me now than encourage deeper feelings between us," he said to the flames. "Feelings that can only lead to pain."
"That is not an explanation," June countered. "That's a cryptic pronouncement worthy of a fortune-teller."
Despite everything, a corner of his mouth twitched at her sharp tongue. How quickly he had grown to treasure her wit, her refusal to accept nonsense even from a duke.
"I told you before our marriage that I have no intention of siring children," he said, setting the poker back in its stand with deliberate care. "I mentioned my family's history."
"Yes, this mysterious 'Blake curse' that supposedly dooms all Blake men to early deaths." June's voice held a note of frustration. "Yet you offer no details, no explanations. Your mother doesn't behave like a woman expecting to lose her son imminently."
Dominic's head snapped up. "What has my mother said to you?"
"Nothing specific. But she speaks of our future as if it stretches decades ahead. She mentions grandchildren." June leaned forward, her eyes bright with challenge. "Tell me the truth, Dominic. What are these feelings you're so determined to prevent?"
He turned away sharply, unwilling to speak the words that pressed against his throat. To name them would make them real, would make them impossible to deny. And he must deny them, for her sake.
"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "What matters is that I cannot give you what you deserve—a husband who will grow old beside you, children who will carry your blood into the next generation. I cannot promise you anything beyond a few uncertain years."
"So you presume to decide for me?" June's voice hardened. "You've appointed yourself the sole arbiter of what I deserve, what I should want?"
"June—"
"No." She cut him off with a single sharp syllable. "You don't get to make that choice for me, Dominic."
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts.
"From what? From loving you? From being loved in return?" Her words hung in the air between them, dangerous in their directness.
Dominic turned back to her, his face a careful mask. "There are worse fates than being a duchess without a duke's constant presence. You would have freedom, resources, position—"
"Stop." June held up a hand, her face undergoing a transformation that pierced him to the core.
The open vulnerability, the righteous anger—all of it receded like a tide, leaving behind the cool, detached woman he'd first encountered at Stone Manor.
Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and her eyes—those expressive amber eyes that had softened so wonderfully in recent days—turned to polished stone.
"Do you love me?" she asked, her voice clipped and precise.
The question struck him like a physical blow. Three small words that demanded everything he was fighting to deny.
"It doesn't matter," he repeated, unable to meet her gaze.
"I see." June nodded once, sharply. "Very well."
Those two words—delivered with such flat finality—felt like the closing of a door that could never be reopened. Dominic stood frozen, having achieved exactly what he'd set out to do, feeling nothing like the victory he'd told himself was necessary.
She had agreed. She would leave. She would be spared the prolonged agony of watching him deteriorate, of becoming a nurse instead of a wife, of being left alone too soon with nothing but bitter memories.
She would be safe from loving him.
So why did it feel as though he'd just torn out his own heart and ground it beneath his heel?
June adjusted the ribbons of her bonnet.
Her traveling pelise, the same one she'd worn upon arriving at Icemere just weeks ago, hung perfectly pressed against her frame, buttoned to the throat as if the additional fabric might somehow protect her heart.
How strange that dismantling a life took so little time, that hopes could be folded away like linens, dreams tucked into corners like handkerchiefs.
The drawing room felt cavernous this morning as June stood near the center, her posture perfect as it had been during countless society events where she'd hidden her true feelings behind a mask of indifference. She had perfected that skill over years; how fortunate that she could employ it now.
This was for the best, for she had known from the beginning this was not a love match.
"The carriage awaits, My Lady," Winters announced from the doorway, his dignified face betraying nothing of what must be considerable curiosity. The entire household must be wondering why their new duchess was departing mere weeks after arrival.
June nodded. "Thank you, Winters. I shall be out momentarily."
As the butler withdrew, June gathered her reticule and gloves. She had delayed as long as possible, hoping—foolishly—that Dominic might appear. But he had remained absent since their confrontation earlier that morning.
"June, my dear."
She turned to find Louisa entering the drawing room, her pale eyes damp with unshed tears. The sight pierced June's carefully constructed armor. She had not expected the parting from her mother-in-law to be so difficult.
Louisa crossed the room swiftly, taking June's hands in her own. "Is there truly no other way? Must you leave us?"
June squeezed the older woman's fingers gently. "I fear the differences between your son and myself are too great for us to continue living together."
"Differences?" Louisa repeated, her voice soft with disbelief. "I have never seen two people more perfectly matched in intellect and spirit."
The words struck June like a physical blow. She turned away, moving to straighten an already perfectly arranged vase of flowers on a side table.
"Sometimes intellectual compatibility is not enough," she said, focusing on the pale blooms rather than Louisa's searching gaze. "Dominic and I want different things from life."
"And what does he want that you cannot provide?" Louisa pressed. "Or what do you desire that he refuses to give?"
His heart, June thought. His trust. The chance to face whatever comes together rather than being pushed away for my own 'protection.'
But she merely said, "He has made his position clear."
Louisa moved to stand beside her, one hand coming to rest on June's arm. "My son can be stubborn to the point of foolishness," she said. "A trait he inherited from his father, I'm afraid."
"Yes, well, it appears to be a formidable Blake family trait," June replied, unable to keep a note of bitterness from her voice.
"But you are now Duchess of Icemere," Louisa said, her voice quivering slightly. "Why must you leave the castle?"
June finally turned to face her mother-in-law fully. "Dominic offered to leave," she admitted. "But I would prefer it if I do. I also wish to see my family."
The truth was more complex. She could not bear to remain at Icemere, surrounded by reminders of what might have been, watching Dominic avoid her as if she carried some contagious disease.
And, more painfully, she could not stay knowing he believed himself doomed, watching him waste precious time preparing for a death that might be years away rather than living fully in the present.
"Your family," Louisa repeated softly. "Yes, I understand. But I had hoped... I had thought perhaps we might become family to each other."
The simple statement, delivered with such genuine longing, threatened to undo June's careful composure. She swallowed hard against the tightness in her throat.
"I shall write," she promised. "And this separation need not be permanent. You are my family too."
"You must know," Louisa said, "that whatever my son has said or done, he does not wish for your unhappiness."
"No," June agreed, her voice remarkably steady. "He merely wishes for my absence."
Louisa's face crumpled at this, and she pulled June into a sudden, fierce embrace. The unexpected physical contact broke something within June's carefully constructed walls. She returned the embrace, allowing herself this one moment of genuine connection before she departed.
"You are good for him," Louisa whispered against her ear. "Even if he is too stubborn to see it."
When they pulled apart, tears streamed down the older woman's cheeks. June felt her own eyes burning, but she refused to let the tears fall. If she began crying now, she feared she might never stop.
"Until we meet again, Louisa," she said, dropping into a formal curtsy that felt absurdly at odds with the emotional moment they had just shared.
"June—" Louisa began, but June shook her head slightly, needing to maintain what little composure remained to her.
She turned and walked from the drawing room, then from the castle.
Her heart had not simply broken. It had shattered into a million jagged pieces, each one bearing the name of the Duke of Ice who had, against all odds, thawed her carefully guarded heart only to freeze it once again.