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"Then the arrangement is settled—the opera first, followed by Lady Calliwelll's ball." He picked up the remaining cards, leafing through them. "The rest of these we may review at our leisure or set aside entirely, according to your preference."

"You are remarkably indifferent regarding seventeen formal invitations."

"I remain indifferent toward most matters society considers essential," he replied smoothly before adding, "yet London anticipates our formal debut as the Duke and Duchess of Ravensmere, and I intend to ensure your first Season is exceptional."

Adelaide looked across the drawing room at him. Though his eyes showed deep weariness and his jaw was set with fatigue, his smile remained genuine, and his gaze held hers with steady focus.

"Exceptional," she repeated with a faint smile. "That is a demanding standard."

"I am accustomed to meeting demanding standards," he replied, holding open the drawing room door for her. "Come, let us discuss our arrangements over dinner. I prefer not to enter a ballroom without understanding the social landscape."

"Social landscape?" she teased softly, moving past him. "It is a ball, Julian, not a military maneuver."

"Every London ball functions as a strategic maneuver," he countered smoothly. "Only the tactics vary. After you, Duchess."

As she passed him in the doorway, Adelaide caught the distinct scents of cedar and leather that accompanied his presence.

Nineteen invitations, she thought as she walked down the hall. London is watching. Let them watch.

"Have you determined which of those invitations we ought to accept first, Adelaide?"

Candlelight cast a warm glow across the white linen tablecloth and silver service in the dining room. Julian sat back in his chair, studying his wife across the table. She had changed for dinner into a simple dress of soft dove-gray silk that caught the flickering light at her shoulders.

"Lady Calliwelll is hosting a grand ball in three days' time," Adelaide replied, setting down her fork to select an invitation from the stack she had brought with her. "I believe it offers the proper venue for our formal debut."

"You possess sound judgment in such matters," Julian turned his wine glass between his callused fingers. "Yet I believe we ought to attend the opera first—just the two of us—before we face the crowded ballrooms."

Adelaide tilted her head, a faint, playful smile touching her lips.

"And since when, pray tell, has the Duke of Ravensmere concerned himself so deeply with the expectations of society?"

Julian stilled his hand on the glass, maintaining his quiet smile while a sharp anxiety stirred within him.

Since I realized I have six weeks to sire an heir before I set sail for Xanthos, leaving you alone with a title, an estate, and no husband.

The cold reality of his legal duty disturbed him deeply. Adelaide was not a mere titleholder's obligation or a practical means to secure succession. She was brilliant, generous, and had bound her life to his inside a house heavy with old grief. Approaching her with cold marital demand aroused a strong inner resistance within him.

He wished to court her with proper devotion—through quiet evenings at the opera, walks through the conservatory, and dinner conversations where they debated botanical taxonomy while the candlelight highlighted her dark hair. He wished for her to look at him with the same warm anticipation she had shown in the drawing room an hour earlier—a look that revealed a flicker of authentic desire.

He wanted her to choose this closeness freely.

Because she chose me.

"Julian?"

He blinked, returning to the present. Adelaide was observing him with quiet attention, her hazel eyes searching his face as her smile faded into a guarded stillness.

"Your thoughts seemed far away just now," she noted softly. "Where were you?"

"Nowhere distant," he set down the glass, choosing his words carefully. "I was considering how long travel caused me to neglect my domestic responsibilities, and I wish to fulfill them properly before departing for Xanthos."

The mention of his departure fell heavily between them. Adelaide's hand stilled on her fork, her posture straightening as her warm expression retreated into quiet reserve.

She dreads the departure.

The realization struck him deeply. She was no longer contemplating the opera or the social invitations; her thoughts had turned entirely to the chartered vessel, the hazardous Lycian coast, and the dangers he had faced for thirteen years. She was recalling Thomas, who had planned his return only to perish on a cold Highland slope.

She wishes I would remain safe in England—with her.