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Julian slowed his pace. His hand lingered at her waist for a breath longer than necessary before releasing her, and the bustling ballroom rushed back into focus—the chatter, the clink of crystal, and the rustle of silk.

Offering his arm, she placed her hand on the crook of his elbow, her fingers still warm from his touch, as he led her off the floor.

They had taken no more than three steps when a gentleman approached them. He was middle-aged and well-dressed, wearing an eager grin that suggested he was waiting for an opportunity to intrude.

"Your Grace," the gentleman bowed to Julian. "What a tremendous pleasure to see you in society at last. I must say, you look happier than I have ever seen you!"

Julian glanced at Adelaide, and she felt the warmth cloak her.

"I’d had the honor of reading your published writings!” the man continued. “Your journals are magnificent, Your Grace. The account of your ascent in the Andes alone is considered the finest expedition narrative of the decade. And your late brother's contributions to the botanical chapters were equally remarkable. An extraordinary body of work, truly."

The mention of Thomas immediately affected Julian’s disposition. Adelaide saw it; his jaw tightened, his shoulders drew back, and the warmth that had lived in his eyes moments before on the dance floor drained away, replaced by a dark, distant expression full of old grief.

His arm went rigid beneath her fingers.

The gentleman continued speaking—praising the expedition journals, the detailed botanical illustrations, and the lasting legacy of Thomas Hawthorne's contributions—yet Adelaide stopped hearing the words. She watched Julian's face close like a door slamming shut. One moment he had been present and alive, looking at her as though she were the only person in the room, and the next, he was gone, retreating behind a wall she could not penetrate.

The gentleman finally bowed and withdrew.

Julian stood motionless, his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the ballroom, the guests, and anything she could see. His arm beneath her fingers had turned to iron, every muscle locked tight.

"Julian?" she whispered.

He offered no response.

"Julian, the gentleman has departed."

A brief, rigid nod was all he offered. He did not look at her or soften his posture. He simply stood there—impenetrable and distant—his hand resting flat at his side where moments before it had been warm against her back.

Adelaide held her breath, waiting for him to return from wherever his mind had fled, waiting for the man who had confessed he never anticipated this feeling to acknowledge her presence.

He did not return.

The orchestra struck up a lively country dance as guests moved past them in bright, laughing pairs. Lady Calliwell's ballroom swirled with color and conversation, and Adelaide stood at the edge of the celebration with her hand on her husband's arm, feeling him slip further away with every passing second.

It was nothing. The waltz was nothing. His words were nothing. He was caught up in the music and the moment, and I was foolish enough to believe it meant something more.

CHAPTER 27

"If one more broadsheet seller shouts our names into the square, I shall be forced to douse him with tea."

Adelaide said it flatly, with her nose pressed to the edge of the drawing room window, eyes narrowed on the chaos outside. Ravensmere House was under siege. The steps and pavement beyond the railings bristled with a crowd of street children, newsboys, and an alarming collection of society gazette writers, all clamoring for gossip about her.

A parade of callers had already braved the gauntlet since breakfast, with more arriving every hour. The butler had stacked their cards on a silver tray, and Adelaide would have wagered her entire estate on the number doubling before noon.

Behind her, the drawing room bustled. Mrs. Rutherford scolded a maid for polishing the tea service with vinegar, a footman dashed between kitchen and foyer ferrying trays and notes, and a steady trickle of flower deliveries piled up on the sideboard.

In the far corner, Julian slouched at the escritoire, one boot braced on the carpet and his arms crossed loosely as he surveyed the action. He did not look particularly alarmed by the invasion.

"They've printed our names above the fold in every paper," Adelaide reported, turning the latest copy of the Gazette in her hand. 'Scandal in Mayfair: Why Did the Duke of Ravensmere Take a Bride in Secret?' A remarkable question, since my wedding was attended by half the parish and a score of blood relations."

"Your cousin Leopold does not count as half a parish," Julian said mildly.

"Neither does your aunt, though she appears to be quoted in every single column." Adelaide set down the Gazette and reached for the Post. "'New Duchess Outshines London's Brightest. Guests speculate: Is this love, or a marriage of convenience?'"

"Which is it?" Julian asked.

Adelaide side-eyed him. "You tell me. They are positively rabid to know if you compromised me in the rose garden."