Page 21 of The Duke’s Last Chance Bride

"Miss Ashbourne."

She went quiet at the sudden change in his tone.

"Would you consider marrying me?"

The question hung in the quiet library. The morning light filtered across the mahogany table, illuminating the open journal and the narrow space where their hands had touched.

Adelaide stared at him, her lips parting in silent astonishment.

Julian did not avert his gaze, sitting with his heart pounding as he waited for her response, fully aware that his future and his brother's legacy rested upon her answer.

CHAPTER 7

"Marry me."

The words lingered in the quiet library like smoke. Adelaide stood with her back resting against the mahogany writing desk, holding a specimen catalog half-open in her hands, entirely unable to move.

Julian stood four feet away, his coat still damp at the shoulders from the London weather. He had not yet removed his gloves, and his blue-gray eyes met hers with a piercing intensity.

"I beg your pardon?" Her voice came out thin and scraped.

"You heard me clearly."

"I heard your words, Your Grace. What I lack is an explanation for why the Duke of Ravensmere has entered his own library and proposed marriage as casually as ordering tea."

Julian's jaw set firmly. He removed his gloves, one finger at a time, and placed them on the table beside a stack of botanical plates. The ordinary, domestic gesture only made the absurdity of the moment sharper.

"Sit down, Adelaide."

"I prefer to stand."

"You have been standing since I entered."

"Yes, for it prevents the room from spinning."

A brief flicker of humor touched the corner of his mouth before vanishing. "Will you at least set down the catalog? You are gripping it as though preparing to defend yourself."

"The thought crossed my mind." She placed the leather volume onto the desk, her fingers leaving faint marks on the dust. "Now, explain yourself."

Julian turned toward the high window, where the afternoon sun cast long, amber bars across the floorboards. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back—a posture she recognized as his way of maintaining strict self-control.

"The Hawthorne Educational Trust," he began, "the foundation supporting the collection, the conservatory, and the scholarships, was established by my late grandfather."

"I am familiar with its history."

"Then you understand that charitable endowments carry strict legal covenants."

Adelaide folded her arms over her muslin dress. "Get to the point, Julian."

He turned back to face her. The sound of his name seemed to linger between them; she had spoken it impulsively, the familiarity of their youth surfacing despite thirteen years of formal distance.

"The board of trustees informed me that the trust deed requires the Duke of Ravensmere to demonstrate domestic stability," he explained, his tone measured and controlled. "A duchess, an heir, and a co-governor to oversee the trust and guarantee the collection's survival should I fail to return."

Adelaide stared at him. "They are forcing you to marry?"

"They are enforcing covenants written by my grandfather—provisions no one previously had cause to invoke." He stepped closer, his posture rigid. "If I fail to present an executed marriage contract before my vessel sails for Xanthos, they will freeze the endowment, halt construction on the conservatory, and petition Chancery to appoint an external panel to seize the archive."

The room felt suddenly heavy. Adelaide leaned back against the mahogany desk. "They will seize the entire collection?"