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And in her own chest, Adelaide felt both worry and relief for Julian.

CHAPTER 30

Julian could hardly draw in air without feeling it choke him.

He was a man on the edge, his hands shaking so violently he could barely manage a line of the estate ledgers. And he had been like this since Helena arrived.

Every hour since, the bile in his chest had grown. He could not recall if he wanted to scream or smash the writing desk to splinters.

A sharp knock at the door. He ignored it. The only visitor he would tolerate was a servant with an urgent message, and even then, he might throw the messenger bodily from the threshold.

A softer tap, and then the handle turned. Adelaide stepped in, closing the door gently behind her.

She crossed the room in a few measured paces, her silk skirts brushing the Persian carpet. She wore no gloves, her hands were clasped before her, and her face was set in the calm manner of a woman who had planned every word she meant to say.

He did not rise or acknowledge her.

She spoke first. "I thought you would prefer to see me here, rather than be summoned to the drawing room."

His pen snapped between his fingers. "Did you?"

"I did not wish to disrupt the household." She paused. "I did not wish to disrupt you."

He finally looked up, meeting her gaze with what he hoped was the coldest blue in England. "And yet you manage it all the same."

Adelaide did not wince. "Julian. There was no intention to deceive you. I invited Helena because⁠—"

He cut her off. "Because you assumed your insight into my family outweighed my wishes. Because you believed, in your infinite compassion, that you alone knew what was best."

She shook her head. "Not alone. I merely thought⁠—"

"You thought nothing." He surged to his feet, the desk rattling. "I asked for a single thing, Adelaide. One—single—thing. That you leave Helena out of this."

Her eyes flashed. "You are mistaken. You asked that I never mention her. Not that I stand by and watch you die of pride."

He ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "I am not dying of pride. I am⁠—"

She interrupted, calm but insistent. "Dying of grief, then. Or anger, or guilt. I could not bear it, Julian. I would not."

He came around the desk, hands balled in fists, voice low and sharp. "You had no right to invite her into this house."

She braced herself with a single breath, her eyes unwavering. "You may have asked for silence, but you never truly wanted it. You miss her. You have missed her every day for thirteen years. You hide from it, but it is there. I have lived with grief long enough to recognize it in another."

Julian glared, desperate to wound. "You know nothing of my grief."

Adelaide's mouth drew tight. "I know enough. I know you would rather set yourself on fire than ask for help. I know you have not spent a full night in your own bedchamber since the day she left."

He flinched as though struck. "That is none of your concern."

"Is it not?" She advanced one step, her own anger crackling now. "I am your wife, Julian. You made me your wife. You tasked me with saving your precious estate, your journals, your brother's memory. You trust me with every part of you except the parts that ache the most. And I am weary of being shut out."

Her words landed like stones. For the first time in his life, he felt as though she could see every miserable inch of him—the anger, the guilt, the sheer bone-deep exhaustion.

She dropped her hands to her sides. "If you wish to be alone forever, say so. If you wish to lose your sister forever, say so. But do not stand there and pretend you are a martyr for a cause you have never dared to name."

The silence was suffocating.

He pressed his palms into the edge of the desk until the wood bit into his skin. "It was not your place to intervene," he said, voice shaking. "That was never your decision to make."