Page 2 of The Duke’s Last Chance Bride

Adelaide stilled, her hands lingering on the wool coat.

"Society would wonder why you never settled," her aunt continued quietly. "They would speculate upon your flaws, and those whispers would inevitably attach themselves to the girls, tarnishing every introduction and invitation."

Adelaide turned to face her aunt, keeping her expression perfectly serene. "I would never wish to draw attention away from them."

"I knew you would be sensible." Lady Beatrice touched Adelaide's forearm, offering a brief, cool pressure. "You have always possessed such good sense."

Sensible. The word tasted bitter. Adelaide had been sensible for thirty years. She had acted sensibly when her parents died, and again when the first, second, and third proposals arrived. She had maintained her sense for so long that the memory of any other inclination had faded completely.

"Enjoy the Season," Adelaide said politely. "Write to me from every ball, for I shall want to hear every detail."

"Of course, my dear." Lady Beatrice turned back to the carriage. "Girls, step inside. We have lost enough of the morning already."

The girls climbed aboard, their blue wool cloaks settling around them. The younger girl leaned out the window, looking down at Adelaide.

"Will you be quite all right here by yourself, cousin?"

"I am never by myself," Adelaide replied with a faint smile. "I have three hundred acres of tenant disputes and a flooded barn to occupy my time."

The girl grinned. "That is hardly the same thing."

"It is far better."

Lady Beatrice settled against the velvet squabs, and the coachman snapped the door shut. The horses shifted impatiently against their harnesses.

Adelaide stepped back onto the firm gravel, away from the wheels. "Drive with care," she instructed the coachman. "The lane remains soft after last night's downpour."

"Aye, miss."

The carriage lurched forward. Adelaide lifted her gloved hand, waving in a smooth, steady arc as the vehicle rolled down the drive. The girls waved back through the window until the carriage turned onto the main road and vanished behind the tall elms.

Only then did Adelaide allow her arm to drop and her polite smile to fade.

The drive fell silent. Beyond the orchard, a dog barked once and went quiet. Adelaide stood alone on the gravel, staring at the empty lane as the familiar realization settled over her: she had been left behind once more.

Straightening her posture, she turned toward the house.

The front door was heavy, its oak frame swollen from the damp weather. She pushed it open, stepping into the cool, dim hall where the familiar scents of beeswax polish and old parchment welcomed her.

"Mrs. Phelps," she called out.

The housekeeper emerged from the kitchen passage. "Yes, Miss Adelaide?"

"I shall be working in the study until noon. Have Cook send up tea and the remaining bread; I do not require a formal luncheon."

"Very good, miss."

Adelaide walked into the study. The room remained precisely as she had left it: the mahogany writing desk covered in household ledgers, the shelves filled with botanical texts and travel accounts, and the wide window overlooking the gardens. She sat down, drew the account book forward, and opened it to the current week.

The afternoon passed in a steady rhythm of calculations. She settled the quarterly accounts, noting which tenant farms had paid their rent and which remained outstanding.

Adelaide worked until the columns of figures blurred before her eyes. Finally, she closed the ledger and stood.

The house had fallen completely still—a hollow silence that settled over the rooms after all the noise had been swept away. No carriage wheels sounded on the drive, no young voices echoed from the upper floor, and no silk skirts rustled along the hallway.

Thirty years old, unmarried, and she had been quietly set aside.

Her aunt had merely spoken aloud what society had implied for a decade. Though expected, the words left an ache that lingered through the falling dusk.