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A fresh jolt sent Adelaide's head knocking into the wall. She hissed, then immediately clamped her lips shut, unwilling to provide entertainment for the lady's maid who sat opposite with her knitting and her endless, maddening contentment. Adelaide envied the maid's ability to turn misery into routine, envied her even more for the utter indifference she displayed toward the state of her mistress's heart.

Outside, the fog intensified, turning the pastures to a single, unbroken sea of gray. Even the sheep had the sense to vanish. Adelaide pressed her forehead to the glass and closed her eyes, wishing with all her remaining strength to be anyone but herself, and anything other than the woman who had thought for even a moment that she could be loved for her own sake.

The carriage braked violently, accompanied by a male bellow and the curses of at least two grooms. A shout rang out, sharp and loud. The horses stamped and reared; the carriage rocked as though preparing to roll.

Adelaide's heart leaped into her mouth. She looked across at the maid, who had set aside her knitting and was now gripping the seat with considerable alarm.

"Wait here," Adelaide said, already fumbling for the door latch.

She shoved it open just as a streak of motion hurtled through the mist; tall, black-coated, hatless, and very much alive. Julian. He was on horseback.

He was out of the saddle before the carriage had finished lurching, his boots hitting the muck with a sodden thud. He strode to the door, brushed right past Adelaide's half-startled, half-furious stare, and leveled his gaze at the lady's maid.

"Please, excuse us," he said.

The maid, no fool, scurried out of the carriage.

Adelaide drew back into the carriage, her pulse a hammer-blow in her chest. Julian climbed in after her, slammed the door, and sat, bracing his forearms across his knees as the interior filled with the scent of wet wool, mud, and his cedarwood soap.

The next several seconds were so dense with silence, it was as though the world itself had stopped to observe them.

He started. "You are not permitted to run away from me, Adelaide."

She let out a laugh, brittle as icicles. "You made it fairly clear there was nothing left to run from."

He shook his head. "Let me explain."

"You said everything that needed saying." She kept her chin high, every muscle in her face arranged for combat. "You said no. It was a complete sentence."

He looked away, jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth would splinter. "You misunderstand. I said no because I could not say yes—not with the truth you deserve not to be kept from you."

She shot him a look so withering it might have wilted the curtains. "What truth, Julian? That you wish to punish yourself until you are completely hollow? That you are incapable of accepting affection from anyone not buried under a marble slab?"

He winced. "No." He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. "Adelaide. There was a letter."

He waited for her to speak, and she did not.

He tried again, voice low and rough. "I found it in Thomas's journals. Addressed to Helena, but never posted. In it, he…he wrote of his intention to propose to you. He had planned the words, even chosen the ring. He said you were the only person who had ever truly understood him, that he would have given his life to make you happy. I read it, and it was as if the ground opened beneath me. I realized I had no right, no claim⁠—"

He broke off, his eyes squeezed tight as if he could push the memory away.

Adelaide stared numbly. "He never said a word. Not once, not to me."

"I know," Julian whispered. "He meant to, and then he died. And all I could do was try to bring him home, to keep every promise he made. Even the ones he never spoke aloud."

Adelaide felt the old pain bloom, then fade, then settle as a weight behind her ribs. "You married me out of duty."

He shook his head violently. "No. I married you because I am in love with you. I am so desperately in love with you that it is nearly unbearable. But when I realized I had stolen you from him, from the dead, I lost myself. Every word I spoke after was wrong. Every single one."

He met her eyes then. His were red-rimmed, brimming with the pressure of too many unshed tears. "In the library, when you asked if I felt anything for you, I said no because I could not breathe. I could not breathe, Adelaide. It was as if the walls closed in and all I could think was that if I let myself have you, even for a moment, it would mean betraying my brother all over again."

"Then why did you come after me?" she whispered.

He reached for her hand and then pulled back at the last instant, as if afraid he might fracture her if he touched her. "Because I could not let you go, even if it ruined me. Because I have spent my whole life running from what I want most. And because I am a coward, but I am also a fool, and I would rather be a fool with you than a coward alone."

She did not know when she had begun to cry. Her cheeks were wet, her gloves spotted. Adelaide turned away, hard, unwilling to let him see her break.

“You are not Thomas," she said. Julian's breath left him in a ragged rush. "You never were," she added.