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Julian's stride broke, though he kept his gaze averted.

"The Lycian coast presents severe hazards," he replied. "The terrain is treacherous and the political climate unstable. I have survived thirteen years of travel through fortune as much as skill." He turned to face her fully. "Yet I am no longer young, Adelaide. The tropical fever I suffered two years ago left a lasting toll."

"Cassian mentioned your illness."

"It damaged my strength," he admitted, touching his chest briefly. "I travel to Xanthos because the ancient ruins may reshape our knowledge of historical botany, yet I recognize this may be my final expedition. I cannot leave Thomas's legacy unprotected again—not after I failed to protect him."

The confession hovered between them, heavy with unresolved grief. Adelaide felt her own sorrow rising to meet his.

"You did not fail him," she said gently. "The mountain storm took his life, not your negligence."

"I was his elder brother. I ought to have—" Julian stopped abruptly, his expression twisting as he fought for control. "There are legal requirements and strict covenants I must fulfill before I set sail. I must ensure—" He faltered, his eyes filling with a desperate plea before he forced himself silent.

For an agonizing moment, she sensed he was on the verge of revealing a far more personal truth. Then he clamped his jaw shut, forcing his aristocratic composure to return.

"I require someone who comprehends the value of the collection," he said, his tone turning measured and professional once more. "Someone who will prevent it from being sold, neglected, or mismanaged—someone who sees the world as Thomas saw it."

Adelaide's pulse quickened. For a fleeting second, she had anticipated a very different admission—something personal rather than administrative. The near-slip lingered in the room, hinting at a hidden burden he carried at great cost.

Yet her instinct to offer aid without demanding uncomfortable explanations prevailed. Gazing directly into his blue-gray eyes, she recognized the young man who had sketched in the shade of the oak tree and the brother who had carried a dead man's journal for thirteen years.

The doubts that had kept her awake—the fear of her own unimportance and the reluctance to leave Ashwood—vanished into absolute clarity.

She was not choosing this out of obligation to a duke or deference to his title. She was choosing this for Thomas—for the boy who had coaxed a butterfly onto his finger and the man who had written her name in his final diary.

"I shall go to London," she stated clearly.

Julian went perfectly still. "You will oversee the collection?"

"I will catalog the collection," she replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "I shall ensure that Thomas's legacy is preserved precisely as he envisioned—neither sold, diminished, nor hidden away for the amusement of the wealthy. I do this because he was my dearest friend, and because he deserves to have his life's work completed."

The declaration rang true in the quiet room. For the first time, Adelaide felt she was taking action entirely on her own terms, free from the burden of passive sacrifice.

Julian's expression softened, the rigid line of his mouth relaxing. He took a step toward her before catching himself and halting.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You cannot know what this decision means to me."

"I understand its weight," she answered, a faint, genuine smile appearing on her lips. "It means I must pack thirteen years of botanical notes and convince my housekeeper that I have not lost my mind. It means entering London society as an unmarried woman of thirty attached to a duke's household, inviting endless gossip. It means demanding, tedious, and exacting labor. I trust you are prepared for my standards, Your Grace, for they are considerably higher than Mr. Aldwick's."

A genuine, boyish smile broke across Julian's features, transforming his tired face.

"I am prepared," he assured her. "Having read your marginal notes, Miss Ashbourne, I am well aware of your exacting nature."

"Then we are in agreement."

"We have made a beginning."

He turned toward the doorway, pausing at the threshold with his hand resting on the brass handle. He looked back at her with a profound, solemn intensity that made her breath catch.

"Miss Ashbourne," he said softly. "Adelaide."

The sound of her name on his lips sent a faint tremor through her.

"Prepare to travel to Ravensmere House within three days," he instructed in a low, deliberate tone. "Understand this clearly: Once you step across my threshold in London, there can be no turning back. From the course we are about to set, there will be no retreat. I require you to be entirely certain, for the work will demand everything you have to offer."

Adelaide stood in the center of the drawing room, her hands clasped tightly before her.

"I am entirely certain," she said.