Chapter 19
Eveline stood before her modest mirror, adjusting the new dress she'd purchased. A sensible blue wool that managed to be both professional and flattering without calling undue attention to either quality.
"You look like a woman with serious employment," Harriet declared from her perch on Eveline's bed, where she'd arrived at an ungodly hour to provide moral support. "Intellectual yet approachable. Scholarly but not intimidating."
"I look terrified," Eveline corrected, smoothing her skirts for the dozenth time. "What if I've forgotten everything? What if the contracts were a fever dream? What if I arrive at Everleigh Manor and His Grace looks at me as if I'm a stranger come to steal the silver?"
"Then you'll remind him that he's the one who stole your translations and started this entire enterprise.
" Harriet rose, moving to adjust a pin in Eveline's carefully arranged hair.
"Besides, he probably looked at you like you gave him the world when you accepted his offer.
I doubt three days have diminished his enthusiasm. "
Three days. It had been three days since she'd sent her acceptance to Harwick, three days since she'd declined the Manchester position, three days of alternating between euphoria at her prospects and terror at what they meant.
Today she would walk into Everleigh Manor not as a temporary employee or a woman seeking charity, but as the Senior Classical Scholar and Translation Specialist; a title that still felt too majestic for her tongue.
"What if we can't maintain professional boundaries?" The question slipped out before Eveline could stop it, voicing the fear that had kept her awake past midnight. "What if the moment we're alone in that library, all our careful contracts and conditions crumble like ancient papyrus?"
Harriet's expression softened. "Then you'll remember that you're stronger than your desires, cleverer than your heart, and far too stubborn to let passion derail the future you've fought for.
" She squeezed Eveline's shoulders. "You've spent years learning to translate the most complex texts.
Surely you can translate attraction into collegiality for a few hours a day. "
The walk to Everleigh Manor felt both eternal and far too brief.
Eveline had refused Harriet's offer to accompany her, needing to make this journey alone, to arrive under her own power rather than escorted like a debutante to her first ball.
The morning air carried the usual London mixture of coal smoke and damp, but beneath it she caught the faint sweetness of early spring flowers struggling through urban soil.
Graves answered her knock with his customary expression of dignified forbearance, though she thought she detected a slight softening around his eyes as he took her plain wool cloak.
"Miss Whitcombe. His Grace is expecting you in the library. Shall I announce you?"
"No need, Graves. I know the way." The words felt significant, a small declaration of belonging.
She did know the way, through the entrance hall with its intimidating portraits, up the imposing staircase she'd once climbed in storm-soaked desperation, down the corridor where Chinese porcelain stood guard like elegant sentinels.
The library doors stood open, morning light streaming through tall windows to illuminate dust motes dancing in the air like tiny scholars at their own private ball.
Adrian stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him as he studied something on the shelves.
He wore a deep green coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and his hair caught the light in a way that made her fingers itch to touch it.
No. Professional. Collegial. Scholarly.
"Good morning, Your Grace."
He turned at her voice, and the smile that spread across his face nearly undid all her careful resolutions.
It wasn't the practiced smile of a duke or the sardonic curve she'd grown accustomed to during their verbal sparring matches.
This was something younger, more genuine.
..the smile of a man genuinely happy to see her.
"Miss Whitcombe." He crossed the room in quick strides, stopping just outside the bounds of propriety. "Welcome to your first official day. I trust you found the terms satisfactory after your solicitor's review?"
"Quite satisfactory." She moved toward the large table near the windows where her work materials had been arranged; fresh paper, new ink, a set of reference volumes she recognized from their previous cataloguing work.
"Mr. Jenkins was impressed by the thoroughness of the contracts.
He said he'd never seen employment terms so carefully structured to protect both parties' interests. "
"Harwick takes pride in his precision." Adrian gestured to the table.
"I've had everything prepared as we discussed.
Your workspace here, with natural light for detailed work.
Access to the entire collection, of course, though I've taken the liberty of gathering the volumes you'd marked for priority attention. "
She ran her fingers along the spine of a particularly fine edition of Plutarch, trying not to notice how he watched the gesture with an intensity that suggested he was imagining those fingers elsewhere. "And the Byzantine manuscript collection?"
"In the case by the window. I thought you might want to review them before your first day at the museum. Thornbury mentioned you'd made some preliminary observations he's eager to discuss."
"Thursday," she said, as much to remind herself as him. "My first official museum day is Thursday."
"I know." His voice carried an odd note. "I may have memorized your schedule. Purely for household planning purposes, you understand. Can't have the Cook preparing elaborate luncheons on your museum days."
The mention of luncheon made her stomach perform a small flip that had nothing to do with hunger.
They would be taking meals together. Of course they would as it was part of the position, part of maintaining the fiction that this was a normal employment arrangement rather than an elaborate dance around feelings neither could afford to fully acknowledge.
"About meals," she began, but he was already moving to the bell pull.
"I typically take luncheon at one, but we can adjust to suit your work patterns. Tea at four, though I confess I often forget when deep in research. Perhaps you might help civilize my scholarly habits."
"I'm not certain my habits are particularly civilized. Harriet claims I once went an entire day sustained only by Latin conjugations and righteous indignation."
His laugh filled the space between them, warm and rich. "Then we'll be uncivilized together, though I draw the line at ink stains on the tablecloth. My housekeeper has standards, even for eccentric scholars."
A knock interrupted whatever response she might have made. Graves entered bearing a tea tray that seemed far too elaborate for a morning work session.
"I took the liberty of requesting refreshments," Adrian explained as Graves arranged the service with practiced efficiency. "Thought you might appreciate sustenance before diving into the Byzantine collection."
She watched him pour with those elegant hands that had touched her with such desperate passion now performing the mundane ritual of tea service.
He remembered that she took hers with just a touch of milk, no sugar.
Such a small thing, yet it made her chest tight with something dangerously close to tenderness.
"Now then," he said, settling into the chair across from her with his own cup, maintaining a careful distance that somehow made the space between them more charged than if he'd sat close enough to touch, "shall we discuss your priorities for the cataloguing project?"
They fell into the work with an ease that surprised her.
This was familiar ground; discussing organizational systems, debating the merits of chronological versus thematic arrangement, losing themselves in the minutiae of scholarly pursuit.
For whole minutes at a time, she could forget that this was the man who'd kissed her senseless in a darkened library, who'd declared his love with an openness that still made her breath catch.
Almost.
Because then he would reach for a volume at the same moment she did, their fingers brushing in a contact that sent lightning through her entire arm.
Or he would lean over to examine a notation she'd made, and his proximity would flood her senses with the scent of his cologne.
Something expensive and subtle that made her want to bury her face in his neck and breathe deeply.
Professional. Collegial. Scholarly.
The morning passed in a blur of productive work punctuated by moments of acute awareness.
By the time the clock chimed one, she had made significant progress on the cataloguing system and filled several pages with notes for her Byzantine research.
She'd also developed a fierce crick in her neck from maintaining rigid posture whenever he came near.
"Luncheon?" Adrian suggested, rising and stretching in a way that made his coat pull appealingly across his chest. "Unless you'd prefer to continue working. I'm often guilty of forgetting meals when absorbed in research."
Her stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, making them both laugh and easing some of the tension that had been building like atmospheric pressure before a storm.
The small dining room was intimate without being inappropriate, the table set for two with fine china that managed to be elegant without ostentation. Adrian held her chair, a gesture that should have felt archaic but somehow felt natural, his fingers barely grazing her shoulders as she sat.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, taking his own seat, "but I've instructed the Cook to keep meals simple during work days. Nothing that requires extensive ceremony or interrupts the flow of scholarship."