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Yet as she climbed the stone steps toward the entrance, the unspoken dread remained heavy in her heart.

Can I truly bear to marry him, only to face the agonizing prospect of being left behind forever in the shadows of an empty house?

CHAPTER 9

"Getting married?"

Lady Beatrice Lupton sat bolt upright in her armchair, the silk embroidery hoop tumbling from her lap to roll across the drawing room carpet. Her pale eyes widened, her hand pressing flat against her throat as though caught off guard.

"Adelaide, you... are getting married?"

Adelaide folded her hands calmly in her lap. "Yes, Aunt."

"To the Duke of Ravensmere?" Her cousin, Sarah gasped.

"Yes."

Beatrice turned her sharp gaze to Cassian, who sat in the armchair nearest the hearth with his legs crossed, his features settled into serene composure.

"You were aware of this," Beatrice declared.

"I was," Cassian admitted quietly.

"You knew, yet you chose not to inform me?"

"I believed the announcement belonged to Adelaide."

Beatrice's hand pressed harder against her throat. She turned back to her niece, her voice rising in pitch. "I left you behind in Kent to manage estate ledgers, and now you arrive in London engaged to a duke!"

"I am well aware of the sequence of events, Aunt."

"How did this occur? When did this happen? You were in Kent cataloging herbs and settling drainage disputes with tenant farmers, and now you are engaged to the most sought-after nobleman in England!"

Adelaide opened her mouth to respond, but Beatrice was already on her feet, pacing before the marble mantelpiece in short, agitated turns.

"Three weeks," Beatrice muttered, her dress rustling. "Three weeks I have spent in London with the girls, attending assemblies, securing Almack's vouchers, and cultivating introductions. Meanwhile, you sit in a country library for a fortnight and secure a duke."

"I did not seek to secure anyone, Aunt."

"Then how do you explain this development? You are thirty years of age, Adelaide. Thirty! I had abandoned all hope of seeing you established. I had quite resigned myself to your remaining an unmarried lady at Ashwood with nothing but pressed leaves for company."

"They are botanical specimens, not common leaves."

"I care nothing for their taxonomy! You are marrying a duke!" Beatrice stopped pacing, her eyes narrowing with sudden calculation. "Duke Ravensmere no less!"

"That is the man," Adelaide confirmed.

"Ravensmere," Beatrice repeated the title slowly. "Julian Hawthorne. The explorer. The man who has been abroad for thirteen years, whom every ambitious mother in London has sought to recruit for her drawing room since he set foot on English soil."

"The very same," Cassian confirmed.

Beatrice sank back into her armchair, fanning her flushed face with her handkerchief. "Merciful heavens."

A prolonged silence fell over the room. Adelaide observed her aunt's expression shift rapidly through disbelief, confusion, and a burgeoning, feverish delight.

"I must write to everyone immediately," Beatrice announced, surging to her feet once more. "Lady Cowper, Lady Sefton, and the patronesses at Almack's. Every acquaintance, connection, and member of the family."

"Aunt Beatrice⁠—"