Page 25

Adelaide broke the quiet as the carriage turned onto Park Lane. Outside the window, the afternoon light faded into a dense London haze while streetlamps were lit along the avenue, casting amber pools across the damp cobblestones.

Cassian let out a low chuckle, the sound muffled by the rhythmic clatter of hooves. "I was not surprised in the slightest, Adelaide."

"You might have affected some mild astonishment for the sake of propriety."

"My dear cousin, I have spent two years watching Julian Hawthorne study your marginal notes with an intensity most men reserve for romantic verse," Cassian remarked, turning to face her.

"I watched him reject every established scholar in London because none possessed your standard of intellect. I watched him ride through a driving tempest to reach Ashwood Manor two days ahead of schedule because he could not bear further delay."

He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "The only matter that surprised me was that he managed to articulate a formal proposal before you corrected another of his botanical errors."

"He spoke with complete seriousness," she noted softly.

"As well he should."

Adelaide looked out the window as the grand facades of Mayfair townhouses passed by in orderly succession. "You believe we are well suited, then?"

"I believe you are exceptionally well matched," Cassian answered, his tone dropping its teasing edge. "Both of you are governed by steady devotion and an understanding of what truly matters. You will make him a magnificent duchess, Adelaide, and he will prove an exceptional husband."

The words were intended to reassure her, carrying the genuine affection of a cousin who had watched her set aside her own desires for thirty years. Yet the phrase an exceptional husband provoked a sudden, sharp anxiety in her thoughts.

She harbored no doubts regarding Julian's honor, integrity, or determination to protect Thomas's legacy and secure her own future. In the quiet library, meeting his blue-gray eyes and feeling his thumb trace her wrist, she had felt the profound sincerity of his offer. It had warmed her and prompted her acceptance before uncertainty could intervene.

Now, in the dim interior of the moving carriage, cold doubt began to reassert itself.

Julian was actively preparing to set sail for the hazardous Lycian coast in nine days' time.

She had understood this reality when she accepted his proposal; he had admitted as much at Ashwood Manor, acknowledging his declining health and the physical toll of his previous fever. She had reviewed his expedition charts, noted the treacherous terrain marked along the Mediterranean coast, and read his accounts of storms, disease, and political instability abroad.

Yet understanding a peril in theory while examining maps in a library differed vastly from confronting its reality in the quiet of the evening.

A good husband who will depart soon. A good husband who may never return.

Adelaide watched the streetlamps pass in steady sequence, their flames flickering behind glass before dissolving into shadow.

Thomas had perished upon a cold Scottish slope thirteen years ago. Julian had carried that guilt ever since, constructing his life around relentless travel, distant continents, and continuous discovery. He had returned to England not out of a desire for domestic quiet, but because physical exhaustion had forced him to halt his movements temporarily.

Now he was preparing to embark once more—one final journey to excavate the ancient ruins at Xanthos, gather rare botanical specimens, and complete the labor Thomas had initiated.

One final expedition.

Years ago, Adelaide had refused Captain Whitmore's proposal because she could not bear the prospect of waiting indefinitely for a man serving in India who might never return. She had confessed as much to Julian in his library, explaining how she had chosen safety over uncertainty and domestic duty over foreign horizons.

Yet now she had bound her future to Julian Hawthorne.

The carriage turned onto a narrower street, the iron wheels jostling against a rut in the paving stones. Cassian fell silent beside her, respecting her quiet reflection as the vehicle approached their destination.

She recalled the thin scars marking Julian's right hand and the lingering weakness from the fever that had nearly taken his life two years prior. She thought of the Lycian coast with its rugged mountains, endemic fevers, and immense distance from England.

At thirty years of age, she had finally been chosen for herself, stepping beyond the quiet confines of Ashwood to assume a life of purpose.

Yet she could not banish the chilling vision of herself at thirty-one or thirty-two, standing alone in the grand hallway of Ravensmere House, holding a black-bordered letter confirming that the Duke of Ravensmere had been lost upon distant shores.

The carriage rolled to a halt before the Ashbourne townhouse, where warm candlelight glowed behind the tall windows. The sounds of her family gathering for dinner drifted from within—the voices of her cousins and the quiet authority of her aunt, representing an ordinary world untouched by ducal covenants or perilous voyages to the East.

Cassian reached for the door brass, pausing to look back at her with gentle concern. "Adelaide?"

Gathering her composure, she straightened her posture and placed her gloved hand in his, allowing him to assist her onto the pavement.