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At that instant, she wished to open her heart for him, tell him everything she felt.
Yet fear would not allow her.
CHAPTER 24
Adelaide's palm was warm against his cheek.
Julian stood motionless as the woodland stream ran beside them, every barrier he had built across thirteen years of distance and discipline trembling beneath her gentle touch.
She had demanded nothing, yet her tenderness unraveled his composure far more completely than any argument could.
Stop. You must stop. She does not know what she is reaching for, and you cannot afford to let her find it.
He felt the warmth of her fingers seep into his skin, penetrating the place behind his ribs where he kept his grief locked away. Her hazel eyes met his with steady, profound kindness, looking at him as though he were worthy of regard, as though his sorrow was not something to flee from, but a sadness to share.
The realization terrified him.
A sudden gust of wind tore through the tree canopy, stripping a handful of leaves from the branches to scatter across the stream. The sky above had darkened to a heavy, bruised purple, and the rising wind bent the tall grass along the bank flat against the earth.
"We must go." Julian stepped back from her hand, the sudden absence of her touch landing in his chest with unexpected force. "Now. The weather is turning."
Adelaide looked up at the darkening sky. "The storm approached remarkably fast."
"It will pour within the hour. We must ride back to Mayfair before the roads turn to mud." He moved toward the horses, his riding boots crunching over the fallen leaves. "Come, Adelaide."
She followed without objection, her quiet compliance revealing how much she had observed in his face.
The return ride proceeded in absolute silence.
It was not the easy, open silence of their journey out, when the autumn air had eased the quiet reserve between them, and he had laughed with uncharacteristic freedom. This silence was heavy and charged with unspoken thoughts. Julian kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his hands firm upon the reins, acutely conscious of Adelaide riding beside him.
She did not press him for explanations or ask what had caused his sudden retreat. She simply rode with composed posture, his wool greatcoat still draped over her shoulders.
He felt grateful for her restraint, yet furious with himself for relying upon it.
The first heavy drops struck the cobblestones of Grosvenor Square just as the groom took their horses. By the time they crossed the threshold of Ravensmere House, the rain had begun in earnest.
Rain hammered against the tall library windows in sheets. The storm had arrived in full force, turning the afternoon dark as evening, while the fire in the library hearth burned high against the damp chill. Julian sat in an armchair near the hearth, balancing a teacup on his knee as he watched Adelaide arrange herself on the sofa with a volume she had no intention of reading.
"You were wise to insist upon returning when you did," she remarked, glancing toward the rain-streaked glass. "We would have been thoroughly drenched."
"I possess remarkable foresight on occasion."
"Foresight?" She raised a brow teasingly. "
"You are relentless, Duchess."
"I am thorough."
Julian offered a faint smile. The familiar banter offered welcome distraction, settling over the raw vulnerability of their encounter by the stream. He preferred not to dwell on what had transpired at the water's edge: her hand against his cheek, her quiet question, and his stubborn silence.
Setting his teacup aside, he asked, "What did you make of the third cairn? The one marked with the twig cross?"
"I found it touching," she admitted softly. "Three children marking a spot in the woods as though it held great significance."
"It did hold significance."
"To whom?"
