Page 7

"Miss Ashbourne." The formality felt stiff upon his tongue.

She recovered her composure faster than he did. He watched the slight catch of her breath, the subtle lift of her chin, and the polite mask settling over her features.

"Your Grace." She offered a smooth, flawless curtsy. "I understood you were not expected for two days."

"Yes. I... that is, the roads proved better than anticipated, so I pressed forward." He forced his jaw to set firmly. "I apologize for the inconvenience. I can easily wait in the village if you prefer."

"That would be absurd." Her voice held a warmth that did not quite reach her eyes. "Ashwood Manor can certainly accommodate a change of schedule. Will you sit?"

She gestured toward an armchair. Julian sat, relieved to anchor his limbs, while she took the opposite seat and smoothed her skirts. An older woman, who had accompanied Adelaide into the room found a quiet corner and sat, seemingly intent on being invisible.

"Have you been well?" Adelaide asked.

"Quite well. And yourself?"

"Well enough."

The conversation limped forward as if two veterans were exchanging polite formalities over old wounds. Julian found himself cataloging details against his will—the faint line between her brows that suggested she spent long hours over books, and the quiet stillness of her hands resting in her lap.

She inquired after his voyage, and he answered with safe, geographical facts. He asked after her family, and she replied with equal brevity. They circled each other like cautious fencers, keeping their blades politely sheathed.

"Your collection," she remarked eventually. "Cassian mentioned it. It sounds extraordinary."

"It is extensive."

"Extensive." What resembled amusement or perhaps quiet irony flashed in his eyes. "That is one word for thirteen years of effort, I suppose."

Julian heard the edge in her voice beneath her courtesy and knew he deserved it. "I have been fortunate in my travels. The world yields much to those who seek it."

"So I have read."

The words lingered in the air. Julian shifted in his seat, his shoulder aching where an old injury from his travels still bothered him. He was about to offer another polite platitude when his gaze caught the bookshelf behind her chair.

He had noted the shelves upon entering, but these volumes were clearly well read and frequently consulted, their spines worn smooth by handling. Every volume of his published expedition journals was present and arranged in chronological order.

Every single one.

Julian rose without thinking and crossed to the shelf. He drew down the earliest volume—the account of his Sicilian survey published in 1816—its leather binding worn soft at the corners. Opening it at random, his breath stilled.

Her handwriting filled the margins, small, neat, and precise. There were corrections to his botanical descriptions, queries regarding his elevation readings, and a pressed violet tucked against the binding, its color faded to a pale memory of purple. He turned the pages to find more notes, more pressed specimens—a dried fern in his Scottish account, and a pressed orchid petal in the Mediterranean volume. There were further annotations in her hand expanding his observations and correcting his Latin taxonomy.

He pulled down the next volume, and the next, finding the same meticulous care throughout. Thirteen years of his work had been read, questioned, and preserved by her quiet attention.

"You found errors," he said, his voice gravelly.

"Several." She stood up as well, remaining near enough that he caught the scent of lavender and old paper. "Your Sicilian orchid entry, in particular. You placed it below the tree line, whereas the specimen clearly required a higher altitude."

Julian turned to face her, the margin note on that very page confirming her words in crisp, uncompromising script. A sudden, sharp realization took hold of him, dismantling his rigid composure.

"It would appear," he said slowly, "that our thoughts are aligned."

Her hazel eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment her guarded reserve slipped, revealing the girl who had once challenged him to name every constellation above the meadow; the same girl who had wept at Thomas's funeral while he stood frozen and silent.

Then her expression hardened once more. "Alignment is a matter of convenience, Your Grace—for scholarly purposes."

"Julian," he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Her breath hitched slightly, her lips parting in surprise. The name hung between them, intimate and dangerous.