Page 3 of The Duke’s Last Chance Bride
Adelaide walked to the window. The garden settled into twilight, the hedges darkening as the first stars appeared above the tree line. Pulling the heavy velvet curtains closed, she shut out the empty drive.
Supper consisted of cold mutton and bread, eaten at the corner of her desk. The single candle flickered in the draft, casting long shadows across the closed ledgers. The house creaked softly as the night air cooled the floorboards.
After finishing her meal, Adelaide stacked the plate by the door for the kitchen maid and walked to the bookshelf. Rows of botanical volumes, travel memoirs, and natural history texts lined the wall, with dried flower specimens tucked between their pages. Her fingers brushed the leather spines before reaching behind the third volume of Cook's voyages to retrieve a small, green velvet box.
She carried it to the desk, sat down, and opened the brass latch.
Inside lay three items: a folded letter with softened creases, a dried rose tied with a scrap of ribbon, and a poetry volume.
Three proposals from three gentlemen who had offered her a life; three gentlemen she had turned away.
The letter had arrived six years ago from Mr. Rochester, the vicar's son, offering a modest living and a quiet hearth. She had declined because her aunt required her assistance, the household depended upon her management, and she could not leave Ashwood while her cousins were so young.
The rose came from Captain Whitmore, and had been presented on the terrace during a country assembly. He had been handsome and kind, but he was departing for India, and she could not bear the prospect of waiting for a man who might never return.
The poetry volume had come nine years ago from Mr. Harrison, a quiet barrister who had served her father. He offered security rather than passion, and she had refused because she was very young and held dear the notion of love.
Adelaide opened the pages.
Was I noble? she wondered silently. Or was I simply afraid?
She had long maintained that her sacrifices were for her family, her aunt, and the estate. All of that was true. Yet beneath those selfless reasons lay a persistent dread—that if she stopped managing, stopped giving, and ceased being useful, no one would find any reason to love her.
Closing her fingers around the ring, she recognized the bitter truth. She had made herself necessary, but being necessary was not the same as being wanted.
The mantel clock struck eleven as galloping hooves echoed down the lane, fast and hard against the wet earth.
Adelaide stood up, dropped the ring into the box, and hurried to the window. A solitary horseman approached the house through the falling rain, the horse's coat glistening under the dark sky. The rider dismounted awkwardly, caught his footing, and strode toward the entrance.
Adelaide recognized his posture before he reached the porch.
Cassian, her favorite paternal cousin.
She reached the hall just as a heavy knock sounded. Pulling the door open, the wind drove a spray of rain across the threshold.
Cassian stood on the step, his coat drenched, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, and his riding boots coated in mud. The sheer urgency in his posture caught her off guard.
"Cassian!"
"Adelaide." He stepped inside immediately, water dripping onto the flagstones as he closed the heavy oak door behind him. "Is anyone else in the house?"
"No. My aunt and the girls departed this morning."
"Good." He leaned back against the wood, his chest heaving from the ride.
Adelaide touched his damp sleeve. "You are soaked through. Come into the study; I shall stoke the fire."
He followed her into the room, his wet boots squelching against the floorboards. Adelaide coaxed the dying embers into a flame, casting a warm glow across his sharp features. He looked exhausted.
"Cassian, what has happened?"
He turned to face her, his expression grim. "I need you to sit down, Adelaide."
"I do not wish to sit. Tell me what is wrong."
"Please," he said quietly. "Sit."
She sat in the armchair, folding her cold hands in her lap.
