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He had lost the right to her the moment he left for his first expedition, and by the time he had returned, Thomas was gone and Adelaide was trapped in a Kentish mausoleum, mummifying herself with duty.

Was she ever really his? Was she ever anyone's, but her own?

He rose and crossed the room to the tall casement. London at night: rain streaking the glass, the pulse of carriage lamps reflected in the puddles on the street, some distant corner-boy whistling a tune that would never be fashionable. He could go out, walk the length of the embankment, let the weather scour the fever from his skin.

He pulled on his greatcoat. One hand rested on the door latch, ready for the familiar ritual of escape.

But he did not move.

Instead, he turned, and let his feet take him down the hall, down the grand staircase that spiraled into the darkness like a fossilized shell.

He walked to the library. The fire was nearly out, only a mound of embers radiating a faint, desolate heat. Julian collapsed into the leather armchair. He leaned forward, head in his hands, and scrubbed at his face until the world blurred to nothing.

He sat that way, listening to the rain and the snap of a dying coal.

"Julian?"

He straightened, heart thumping like he had been caught in a crime. Adelaide stood in the doorway, her white dressing dress lit from behind by the hallway sconces and her hair looking a little wild.

CHAPTER 28

"You could not sleep, Julian?" Adelaide asked as she stepped into the library.

A tiny rueful smile touched the edge of his mouth. She crossed the thick carpet, and stopped just behind him, standing a careful pace away.

"Is it the rain?" she asked, careful so her words could draw him out as she wanted.

"Neither," he said, and after a moment added, "Not entirely."

She lowered herself onto the rug beside him, tucking her feet up beneath her dressing dress. The fire snapped, sending a thin curl of smoke up the chimney. For a long while, neither spoke. Adelaide was surprised to find the silence comfortable. She stared into the glowing coals, waiting for him.

He waited too, as if he did not wish to speak the first word that would shatter the peace.

"Julian," she said, turning her head to study the lines of his face, the shadowed jaw and the hollow beneath his cheekbone, "why can you not sleep?"

He closed his eyes, and in the darkness his lashes threw faint shadows on his skin. "You have a botanist's curiosity," he said.

"I do." She smiled, and when he did not answer, she pressed gently, "You have not slept a full night since our wedding."

He drew his knees up and rested his arms on them, his hands steepled. "Since long before our wedding," he said.

"You are tired," she said. "You carry it on your shoulders."

"Some burdens resist putting down, no matter how long one drags them."

She waited. The silence between them was soft as wool, and the only sound was the pop of resin in the hearth.

At last, he said, "I never meant to speak of it to anyone. Least of all to you."

She turned on the rug to face him more fully. "You may speak to me. I would rather have the truth than the silence."

He let out a breath—so long and so slow it was as if he had been holding it since Michaelmas. "After Thomas died, I could not sleep in Ravensmere House," he said. "The rooms are haunted—not by ghosts, but by memories. He is in every hallway, every window seat, every godforsaken library chair."

"You said he loved this house," Adelaide said.

"He did. He was happiest here." Julian's voice sharpened for a moment, then went flat again. "The night he died, I was in London, preparing for my next expedition. A storm broke over the city—wind, lightning, rain like nothing I have ever seen in England. I was at my desk. I remember thinking I should send a letter reminding Thomas not to go out in such weather. I did not." He paused. "It was not until dawn that the telegram arrived from Scotland. By then, the storm had passed."

Adelaide reached over and covered his hand with hers. He went still, but did not draw away.