Page 54

The logic was sound, yet he suspected it remained incomplete. The warmth in her eyes owed nothing to mere gratitude. He had observed it at dinner, in the opera box, and in the gentle defiance with which she corrected his taxonomy.

Still, he could not trust his own judgment while his longing remained so sharp.

Releasing her fingers, he offered a quiet, formal nod.

"Goodnight," he said softly.

Turning on his heel, he stepped through his adjoining doorway and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

The bedchamber was dark, and he made no move to light a candle.

He stood motionless in the blackness, his palm flat against the cool oak panel of his door. On the opposite side, he caught the faint rustle of silk as Adelaide moved through her chamber. He heard a drawer opening, followed by the soft clink of what sounded like a hairbrush being set down upon the dressing table.

He pushed away from the door and unknotted his cravat with stiff fingers. Stripping off his coat, waistcoat, and riding boots, every movement felt mechanical and deliberate—the actions of a man executing an evening routine without any of the rest it was meant to bring.

He had made progress tonight. His wife had smiled at him with genuine warmth—a look meant for him alone. She had expressed a desire to repeat the outing, and she had leaned toward him during the performance, her hand resting comfortably in his grip.

Yet he had walked away.

Julian sat on the edge of his mattress, the springs yielding beneath his weight. He stared at the floor, watching the thin line of candlelight glowing beneath the adjoining door.

He ought to feel encouraged, yet a familiar sense of self-loathing took hold of him instead. After thirteen years of continuous travel, he had returned to find a woman who reviewed his field journals with sharp intellect and smiled at him as though he possessed real worth. She had married him for reasons both practical and unspoken, and he had responded by standing at her doorway like a coward, offering polite pleasantries before retreating into the dark.

His fear was not of Adelaide herself, but of what she awakened within him: a desire for a home, a domestic future, and a life anchored to another person rather than defined by constant motion. He had spent thirteen years perfecting the art of departure, and learning to remain in one place exhausted his spirit.

Lying back upon the bed, his head rested against the pillow as he stared up at the dark ceiling.

He knew that the moment he closed his eyes, the nightmare would claim him. It arrived with absolute reliability: the Highland rain, the bitter cold cutting through wool and bone, and Thomas's voice calling down from the ridge above, bright and confident.

I will be right back. Stay here.

Then followed the long, terrible silence that had stretched into hours, into the arrival of the search party, and into the discovery of the body at the base of the crag, Thomas's fingers still clutching his field journal.

Julian's hands gripped the counterpane, his knuckles turning white from the pressure.

He stared into the darkness until, beyond the adjoining door, Adelaide's candle guttered out, and the thin line of light beneath the threshold faded into nothing.

She lay asleep in the chamber he had prepared for her, resting peacefully in the house he had avoided for thirteen years, trusting him completely.

Meanwhile, he lay awake in the dark, afraid to close his eyes because a dead boy's voice still echoed from the Highland mountains—a memory that no amount of distance, time, or ducal titles could ever silence.

Sleep, he commanded himself.

Yet sleep did not come.

"Is the suite on the east wing aired and dusted regularly, Mrs. Rutherford?"

Adelaide sat in the morning room, a cup of tea cooling between her hands as the morning sunlight fell across the carpet in long, golden rectangles. Mrs. Rutherford stood near the sideboard, her hands folded over her apron, her posture formal.

"Indeed, Your Grace. The suite is cleaned every fortnight—the linens refreshed, the furniture wiped, and the draperies aired." She paused briefly. "We take great care with those bedchambers."

Adelaide set her teacup onto the saucer.

"Those bedchambers?" she asked gently. "You said those."

Mrs. Rutherford's hands tightened over her apron as her gaze drifted toward the window before returning to meet Adelaide's.

"I beg Your Grace's pardon. I spoke loosely."