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Adelaide released a quiet sigh. "It holds no affection for me."

"It simply does not know you yet," Thomas answered with his warm, familiar smile. "You must practice patience, Adelaide. Remarkable things require time before they settle."

At fourteen, she had assumed he spoke merely of wild insects. Now, at thirty, the memory carried a far deeper truth.

Beautiful things take their own time coming to you. And sometimes they never come at all.

The vivid memory receded, leaving Adelaide in the quiet stillness of her dark bedchamber with Thomas's diary resting in her lap. The candle had burned down near the socket, its flame wavering against the darkness.

Thomas promised to bring me a bloom from every country. He promised to tell me about the color of my eyes. He promised, and then he died before he could keep a single word of it.

Closing the journal, she ran her thumb along the cool leather binding.

Julian kept this.

He kept it for thirteen years. He carried it with him while he traveled the world, and then he brought it back to me.

She recalled the raw vulnerability in Julian's blue-gray eyes as he handed her the book.

You should have done many things thirteen years ago, Julian Hawthorne. You should have written. You should have come back. You should have told me that you were still alive.

Yet anger proved difficult to sustain against the reality of his return.

He's come back now. He came to find me. He said he needed me.

Placing the volume upon the nightstand, she watched the pale blue ribbon trail over the dark wood.

He does not need me. He needs a scholar. A cataloger. A woman who reads four languages and corrects his errors and presses flowers between the pages of his books. That is not the same as needing me.

While logic insisted he merely required a skilled botanical scholar to catalog his collection, his presence in her library had suggested a far deeper reliance. He had rejected the established scholars of London, ridden hard to Ashwood Manor, and entrusted her with his late brother's private journal.

That was not a gift. That was a confession.

Reclining against her pillows, Adelaide resolved to defer any decision until morning, requiring time to consider her options with a clear mind.

I will not decide tonight. I will not decide tomorrow morning. I will not decide until I have had a full night's sleep and a cup of tea and a walk through the garden without my thoughts chasing each other in circles.

As the candle flickered out and the scent of wax lingered in the quiet room, she reached out one last time to touch the leather binding before closing her eyes and forcing herself to rest.

No decisions until morning.

Eventually, just as dawn began to break, Adelaide slept.

"The permits are completely in order, and I shall not delay departure by a single day."

Julian's declaration echoed sharply across the quiet Mayfair meeting room. The solicitor flinched at his tone, though the trustees remained entirely impassive.

"Your Grace, the board merely requests time for proper verification—" the solicitor offered nervously.

"Verification was concluded six weeks ago." Julian remained standing at the head of the mahogany table, resting his palms flat against the polished surface. "The vessel is chartered, the crew contracted, and the Lycian coast becomes impassable by late autumn. If we do not set sail in two months' time, the entire expedition season is lost."

The lead trustee, a severe man with sharp features, folded his hands over a leather folio. "We are well aware of the calendar, Your Grace."

"Then you comprehend that further delay is impossible."

"We comprehend that you consider it impossible," the trustee countered evenly. "That is not quite the same matter."

Julian drew a slow, controlled breath, steadying his temper against the stale air of the unventilated room.