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It remained closed.

He was not upstairs this morning.

Adelaide sat in the breakfast room, her teacup untouched before her. Morning light poured through the tall windows, warming the white linen tablecloth and highlighting the silver service. She stared at the pale surface of her tea, the realization weighing heavily upon her.

Every morning since her arrival at Ravensmere House, Julian had joined her for breakfast, entering through the front hall fully dressed—his cravat knotted and boots polished. He had not emerged from his bedchamber; he had arrived from outside.

She had attributed his routine to early morning rides, a gentleman's preference, or the habits of an explorer accustomed to rising with the dawn.

She had misjudged the situation entirely.

Muffled voices echoed from the hallway—a footman's polite greeting followed by firm, steady footsteps across the marble foyer.

Julian appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room.

He wore a tailored coat and clean cravat, his dark hair damp at the temples as though he had washed recently. He offered a warm, easy smile that failed to reach his eyes.

"Good morning, Adelaide. Your presence in this room is far brighter than the morning sunshine."

Adelaide offered a faint, tentative laugh. "Are you attempting to charm me, Julian?"

"If I do not charm my duchess, what other purpose does my existence hold?"

He crossed to his customary chair and sat down as a footman stepped forward to serve his plate with eggs, toast, and ham—the quiet, efficient routine of a formal breakfast.

Adelaide observed the footman's hands, Julian's firm jaw as he thanked the servant, and the deep shadows beneath his eyes—bruised hollows that fresh linen and pleasant smiles could not disguise.

As the footman finished, Adelaide spoke quietly. "That will be all for now. Please close the door."

The footman bowed and withdrew, pulling the heavy oak doors shut. His footsteps faded down the passage.

Silence filled the room, punctuated only by the ticking clock on the mantel. Julian lifted his fork and began to eat with the deliberate composure of a man performing a customary routine.

"Julian."

"Mmm?"

"I awoke last night to a noise—a crash."

His fork paused briefly before he resumed eating.

"Did you?"

"I entered your room through the adjoining door," she said calmly. "The bed had not been slept in. A side table was knocked askew, a decanter tipped over, and a glass tumbler lay broken upon the rug."

Julian set his fork down, his gaze fixing upon the high window beyond her shoulder rather than meeting her eyes. The pleasant smile vanished, replaced by a rigid, impassive mask.

"I heard you in the foyer," Adelaide continued softly. "I heard you inform Danvers that the sleep remedy was useless, and I heard the front door close behind you."

A long silence stretched across the table. Julian's hands lay flat on the linen.

Adelaide reached across the table, placing her hand over his to feel the rigid strain in his fingers.

"Will you share what happened with me?"

Julian turned to look at her, his blue-gray eyes meeting hers as a raw, exhausted grief showed in his gaze.

"It is not your burden to carry, Adelaide," he said, pulling his hand away with gentle firmness. "It is mine."