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"You are a romantic."

"I am a realist who has seen it happen." Charlotte offered a gentle smile. "Lord Pembroke's marriage was arranged over a card table. They are deeply devoted now. It took two years and a great deal of stubbornness, but they arrived."

"I do not have two years. Julian sails for the Lycian coast in weeks."

"Then you have weeks." Charlotte's grip tightened on her hand. "Use them."

The drawing room door opened. Mr. Danvers stood at the threshold, his silver-thread hair immaculate, his posture as formal as stone. He bore a silver tray upon which rested a single letter, heavy parchment folded and sealed with dark wax.

"A missive for Your Grace," he announced politely.

Adelaide took the letter from the tray. "Thank you, Mr. Danvers."

She set the letter on the side table without opening it while Charlotte watched her with open curiosity.

"Are you not going to open it?"

"Not before I have walked you to your carriage. You did not come all this way to watch me read correspondence."

Charlotte rose, gathering her reticule and gloves. "I came to ensure you are well."

"I am well."

"You are not. But you will be." Charlotte pulled on her gloves and kissed Adelaide's cheek. "Write to me. And Adelaide?"

"Yes?"

"Expect more. Expect anything. Even if it frightens you."

Adelaide walked her friend through the entry hall and out to the front steps, where the carriage waited. Charlotte climbed in, waved once, and the carriage pulled away.

Adelaide stood on the steps until the carriage turned the corner. Then she turned and walked back inside.

She crossed to the side table and picked up the letter. The crest on the seal had her brows drawn. It was the Hawthorne family crest. There was no address, however.

My dear duchess,

I have only just received word of your marriage to my brother, and I confess the news reached me with a force I had not anticipated. It was not surprise, for I am not at all surprised Julian chose you.

You must permit me to explain.

Years ago, when Julian returned home after spending his boyhood summers near Ashwood Manor, he would speak of nothing else. Not the specimens he had gathered, the sketches he had drawn, and not the expeditions he was already planning in that restless mind of his. He spoke of you.

He spoke of you with a warmth I had not heard in his voice for any other person. I remember it clearly.

I write this not to intrude upon your new life, but to introduce myself if you will allow me.

You are his wife now and my sister.

With warmth and hope,

Lady Helena Hawthorne

Adelaide stared as the letter trembled between her fingers. The words blurred. She blinked, and they sharpened again.

She set the letter on the cushion beside her and pressed her palms flat against her knees. Helena had written to her, opening a door wide open.

Three paths lay before her, and each one frightened her in a distinct way.