Chapter 17 #4
"I did this because you're brilliant," he said simply.
"Because the thought of that brilliance being wasted made me physically ill.
Because yes, I'm selfish enough to want you in London where I can see you, argue with you, watch you destroy lesser scholars with a raised eyebrow and a perfectly placed Latin quote.
But mostly I did it because you deserve to be recognised for who you are, not diminished for what society thinks you should be. "
She was crying now, silent tears that she didn't bother to hide. "I don't know how to do this," she admitted. "I don't know how to accept help without feeling diminished. I don't know how to trust that this isn't just another cage, prettier than Manchester but still confining."
"Then we'll write it into the contracts," he said, producing a handkerchief that she accepted with a watery laugh.
"Complete autonomy in your scholarly work.
The right to refuse any project that doesn't interest you.
The freedom to tell me to leave you alone if I overstep—which, knowing us both, will happen with regrettable frequency. "
"Knowing us both," she repeated softly. "Do you know us both, Adrian? Or are we still those strangers who argued over shelf space in Hatchard's?"
"We're not strangers," he said with certainty.
"We're two people who've been circling each other like wary cats, so busy protecting ourselves that we forgot what we were protecting against. But I know you, Eveline.
I know you bite your lip when you're translating something difficult.
I know you get a particular gleam in your eye when you're about to deliver a crushing intellectual blow.
I know you laugh at inappropriate moments and cry over damaged manuscripts and make Latin sound like music. "
"And I know you," she said, stepping closer. "I know you use sarcasm like armor and hide vulnerability behind perfect tailoring. I know you're brilliant and lonely and kind when you think no one's watching. I know you built walls so high you forgot what the view looked like from ground level."
They were close now, close enough that he could see each individual tear track on her cheeks, close enough that her breath ghosted across his jaw when she spoke.
"But knowing isn't the same as trusting," she continued. "And I don't know if I can trust this, trust us, trust a future built on contracts and scholarly positions when what lies beneath is so much more dangerous."
"Then trust this," he said, and kissed her.
It was different from the morning's desperate passion; softer, deeper, a question rather than a demand. She made a small sound and leaned into him, her free hand coming up to rest against his chest where his heart beat rapidly and probably revealed far more than was wise.
When they parted, her eyes were still closed, lashes dark against her cheeks.
"That's not fair," she murmured. "You can't kiss me into agreement."
"I'm not trying to kiss you into anything," he said, though he kept her close, unwilling to surrender the warmth of her against him.
"I'm trying to show you that whatever else this is, contracts and positions and scholarly recognition, it's also us.
And 'us' is worth fighting for, even if we're both too stubborn and scared to admit it. "
She opened her eyes then, studying his face with that intensity she usually reserved for ancient texts. Whatever she saw there seemed to decide something, because she nodded slowly.
"All right," she said. "I'll consider the positions. All of them. But on conditions."
"Name them."
"First, I maintain the right to refuse any position that feels like charity rather than genuine employment. Second, our personal... whatever this is... remains separate from professional arrangements. I won't have people saying I earned recognition on my back rather than my brain."
"Agreed. Though I should point out that your brain is what got you here, not any other part of your anatomy, delightful though those parts may be."
She swatted his chest, but she was almost smiling. "Third, you stop making unilateral decisions about my life. If we're to be... something... then we're equals. No more theft of translations, no more surprise interventions, no more ducal commandments from now on."
"I can try," he said carefully. "Though you should know that protective instincts, once aroused, are difficult to suppress entirely."
"Then channel them into something useful. Protect me from boring academic dinners or scholars who drone on about their pet theories. Don't protect me from my own choices."
"Even if those choices involve Manchester?"
"Even then." She pulled back slightly, though she didn't leave his embrace entirely. "I need to know I have choices, Adrian. That this isn't just another beautiful cage."
"It's not a cage at all," he promised. "It's a door opening. What you do once you walk through it is entirely your decision."
They stood there in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by books and papers and the evidence of a future reshaping itself around them.
It wasn't perfect; there were still contracts to review, positions to negotiate, and the small matter of their personal relationship to navigate.
But for the first time since that night in the library, Eveline felt something like hope.
"I should warn you," she said finally, "if I accept these positions, I intend to be absolutely insufferable about my scholarly opinions. I've been holding back out of deference to my employer, but if I'm to be a recognized scholar in my own right..."
"Heaven help us all," Adrian murmured, but he was smiling. "Though I look forward to watching you demolish pompous academics at museum gatherings. It will make all those dusty events worthwhile."
"You'll attend museum gatherings?"
"I'll attend garden gatherings on the other end of the world if you're there to make them interesting." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and promising. "Though I draw the line at poetry readings. A man must have some standards."
She laughed then, the sound bright and genuine after so much tension. "What if I'm the one giving the reading? My Ovid translation will need promotion, after all."
"Then I'll sit in the front row and glare at anyone who dares look bored.
" He reluctantly released her, stepping back to a more proper distance as voices in the hallway suggested their privacy was about to end.
"Think about the offers, Eveline. Really think about them.
Not what they mean for us, but what they mean for you.
And if you decide Manchester is truly what you want. .."
"You'll let me go?"
"I'll hate it," he admitted. "I'll probably drink too much brandy and compose terrible poetry about loss and northern industrial cities. But yes, I'll let you go. Because that's what you do when you love someone...you give them the freedom to choose, even when their choice might break your heart."