Page 74 of The Duke’s Last Chance Bride

He pulled the quilts to her shoulders, his hand lingering briefly at the edge of the fabric.

Adelaide stirred, her eyelids fluttering open, heavy with sleep. She looked up at him in the dim candlelight, her hazel eyes soft and unfocused.

"Julian."

"I am here."

She reached for him, her fingers finding his hand and curling loosely around his wrist.

"Stay with me."

The words were spoken from the edge of sleep where propriety held no sway.

Julian's hand stilled beneath hers. The warmth of her fingers against his skin spread up his arm and into his chest, settling in the place where Thomas's memory lived. A quiet longing settled over him, demanding to be acknowledged—a feeling unlike the sharp pain of guilt, wanting simply to remain.

He wanted to stay. He wanted to sit on the edge of that bed, hold her hand until morning, and let the rest of the world wait outside the door.

She does not know what she asks. She sleeps. She dreams. She speaks without waking. Tomorrow she will not remember saying it, and I will carry it for the both of us.

He lifted her hand gently from his wrist. Her fingers resisted for a moment before relaxing as sleep reclaimed her.

Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a quiet kiss to her knuckles, holding her fingers there for a long breath.

Then he set her hand down upon the quilt, drew the covers to her chin, and stood.

He crossed the room, opened the door, and stepped out into the dark hallway.

CHAPTER 22

The sharp crash shattered the quiet like a gunshot through the house.

Adelaide sat upright, her heart pounding against her ribs. The bedchamber lay in darkness save for the dying embers in the grate, and for a disorienting moment she could not identify her surroundings: the carved oak canopy, the unfamiliar counterpane, and the silk dressing dress she had not removed over her evening frock.

Fragments of memory surfaced through the fog of sleep: the library, the fire burning low, the Incan journal unrolled across her lap, and then Julian's arms beneath her shoulders and knees, carrying her up the grand staircase with gentle care while the scent of cedar and ink lingered near her cheek.

Stay with me.

She had spoken those words—she remembered saying them, her fingers curling around his wrist, her voice thick with sleep. Yet he had set her hand down upon the quilt and departed.

Another sound reached her from the passage—a heavy oak door slamming shut with a sharp, deliberate echo.

Throwing back the covers, Adelaide swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. The floor felt cool beneath her bare feet as she crossed the bedchamber in quick strides to the adjoining door, pressing the brass handle downward.

The latch yielded without resistance. She pushed the door open.

Julian's bedchamber stood vacant. The bed remained untouched, its sheets smooth and the pillows undisturbed. A single candle burned upon the writing desk, its flame flickering in a subtle draft.

Beside the window, a small side table had been knocked askew. A crystal decanter lay tipped on its side, dark liquid pooling across the Persian rug in a widening stain, while a glass tumbler lay in jagged shards nearby, catching the candlelight.

"Julian?"

No answer came. The room held only silence and the heavy aroma of spilled brandy.

Adelaide stepped back into the dark hallway. The wall sconces had been doused hours earlier, leaving the passage in shadow. Gathering her silk skirts, she moved toward the staircase, guiding her steps with a hand against the paneled wall.

The grand staircase descended in a sweeping curve. Reaching the landing, she paused and gripped the banister as low voices drifted up from the entry hall.

"Shall I instruct Mrs. Rutherford to prepare the herbal draught, Your Grace?" Mr. Danvers's voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the vast foyer.