Chapter 19 #2
The meal was indeed simple by aristocratic standards. A clear soup, cold meats, cheese and fresh bread that was still warm from the oven. Yet it was far finer than anything she'd eaten in weeks, and she had to resist the urge to fall upon it like a starving woman.
"Tell me about your Byzantine theory," Adrian said, spreading butter on his bread with those distractingly elegant hands. "Thornbury was nearly beside himself with excitement when he wrote, but his handwriting deteriorates proportionally to his enthusiasm."
She launched into an explanation of her observations about scribal variations, grateful for a topic that fully engaged her mind.
Adrian listened with an intensity that would have been flattering if it weren't so unsettling, asking questions that showed he understood the significance of her discoveries.
"You're suggesting that what previous scholars dismissed as copying errors might actually be evidence of regional variations in Byzantine scholarly practice?
" He leaned forward, genuine intellectual interest lighting his features.
"That's brilliant. It completely reframes how we understand manuscript transmission. "
"It's just a theory," she demurred, though his praise warmed her more than the soup. "I'll need to examine more manuscripts to be certain. The museum's collection should provide ample evidence either way."
"Thursday can't come soon enough, then." Something flickered in his eyes. "For your research, I mean. The advancement of Byzantine scholarship waits for no one."
The afternoon continued in much the same vein; productive work interspersed with moments of crackling awareness.
They developed a rhythm of sorts, moving around each other in the library with careful choreography, maintaining distance even as every accidental touch sent sparks through her nervous system.
By four o'clock, when tea arrived unbidden, Eveline had made enough progress to feel justified in her employment and enough mistakes in her notations to betray her distraction. Adrian, she noticed, had been reading the same page for nearly twenty minutes.
"Perhaps we should stop for today," he suggested, setting aside his unread book. "First days are always exhausting, and you'll want to be fresh for your museum visit Thursday."
"I've barely started the Plutarch section," she protested, though her eyes ached from maintaining focus through the haze of awareness. "And there are still the manuscripts to review..."
"Which will still be here tomorrow." He rose, moving to the window where late afternoon light painted golden squares on the carpet. "Unless you plan to catalogue the entire library in a week, in which case I'll need to increase your salary again."
"Again?" She looked up from her notes. "The salary is already more than generous."
"Is it?" He turned from the window, and the light was behind him in a way that made him look like something out of a painting. "I've been reviewing comparable positions..."
"There are no comparable positions. You invented this one specifically for..." She caught herself before finishing the sentence, but the words hung in the air anyway. Specifically for me.
"Specifically for a scholar of rare ability who deserved recognition," he completed smoothly, though something heated flashed in his eyes. "The fact that said scholar happens to be you is... fortuitous."
She began gathering her materials, needing the activity to mask her reaction. "I should go. Harriet will be wondering how my first day went."
"Of course." He moved to help her, maintaining that careful distance even as he handed her the portfolio of notes. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and she saw his jaw tighten. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Yes." She clutched the portfolio like armor. "Thank you for... that is, today was..."
"Productive?" he suggested with a smile that didn't quite hide the strain around his eyes.
"Very productive."
She left quickly, not trusting herself to maintain composure if she lingered. The walk home felt like emerging from deep water, her lungs filling with air that wasn't charged with his presence, her skin cooling from the constant flush of awareness.
Harriet was waiting in her lodgings, tea already prepared and an expectant expression on her face.
"Well?" she demanded before Eveline had even removed her cloak. "How was it? Did you maintain professional distance? Did he?"
Eveline sank into a chair, accepting the tea gratefully. "We were perfectly professional. Collegial. Scholarly."
"How disappointing."
"Harriet!"
"What? I was hoping for at least one moment of passion over the Plutarch. A stolen kiss between the stacks. Something to justify all this careful boundary-setting."
"There was no kissing." Eveline took a large gulp of tea to hide her expression. "Though there was... awareness."
"Awareness." Harriet settled back with the satisfied air of a cat with cream. "Do tell."
"Every accidental touch felt like lightning.
He watched me work with an intensity that made my hands shake.
We maintained perfect propriety while the air between us practically crackled with everything we weren't saying or doing.
" She set down her teacup with a clatter.
"How am I supposed to do this every day?
How am I supposed to sit across from him at meals and discuss Byzantine manuscripts when all I can think about is how his mouth felt on mine? "
"Practice," Harriet said pragmatically. "And possibly some very cold baths."
The week progressed in much the same fashion.
Tuesday brought a new level of torture as they worked side by side on a particularly challenging text, their heads bent close together as they debated translation choices.
Wednesday saw them taking luncheon in the garden, the spring air doing nothing to cool the heat that built every time their eyes met.
By Thursday morning, Eveline was almost grateful for the respite of her museum day. She arrived at the British Museum feeling like she'd spent three days holding her breath, her nerves strung tight as violin strings.
Thornbury greeted her with enthusiasm that bordered on the manic, immediately whisking her away to the manuscript room where he'd arranged several Byzantine texts for her examination.
"Your observations about the scribal variations have kept me up at night," he confessed, pulling on white cotton gloves with the reverence of a priest preparing for sacrament. "If you're correct, and I believe you are, it revolutionizes our understanding of Byzantine scholarly networks."
She lost herself in the work, grateful for the pure intellectual challenge without the distraction of Adrian's presence.
The manuscripts yielded their secrets slowly, each notation and variation adding evidence to her theory.
By the time Thornbury called a halt for tea, she had filled a notebook with observations and felt more like herself than she had all week.
"Remarkable," Thornbury said, reviewing her notes while she enjoyed what the museum considered tea; a brew so strong it could strip paint, accompanied by biscuits that had clearly been purchased sometime during the previous century.
"Your analysis of the marginal notations alone would make a significant journal article. "
"Do you really think so?" She tried not to sound too eager, but the prospect of publication under her own name still felt like an impossible dream.
"Without question. In fact..." He set down her notebook, fixing her with those keen eyes that missed nothing despite their owl-like blinking. "I've been discussing your work with the board. There's interest in expanding your involvement with the collection."
"Expanding?"
"Nothing definite yet," he cautioned. "But your insights have already proven valuable. If your theories about regional variation prove correct, we might consider a special project. Proper funding, research assistance, perhaps even a publication under the museum's aegis."
She left the museum floating on air, her mind already racing with possibilities. A special project. Publication with the museum's backing. Recognition as a serious scholar rather than a scandalous woman with pretensions.
The euphoria carried her all the way back to Everleigh Manor, where she'd left some materials she needed for her evening's work.
She'd planned to slip in quietly, retrieve her papers, and leave without encountering Adrian.
The late afternoon hour should have made him safely ensconced in his study attending to estate business.
She should have known better.
He was in the library, of course, standing at her worktable with a peculiar expression on his face.
As she entered, he looked up, and she saw he held one of her translation drafts; a particularly passionate passage from Ovid she’d been wrestling with.
The part about bodies pressed together, about pleasure and ruin tangled in the same breath.
“I apologise,” he said, setting down the page carefully. “I didn’t mean to pry. I was looking for the Thucydides volume we discussed yesterday and saw your draft. The translation is...”
“Rough,” she supplied, though her throat was dry. Heavens, he’d read it. He’d read those lines where even she had blushed at the rawness, the lovers crying out in desperation. Did he picture her when he read them? Did he imagine her mouth gasping those words against his skin?
“It’s magnificent.” His voice dropped to that register that made her stomach clench and her thighs ache. “The way you’ve rendered the Latin...it’s as if you’ve found the heartbeat beneath the words.”
She reached for the draft, needing something, anything, to ground herself before her thoughts went filthier.
If he looked at her like that a moment longer, she’d think about him pushing her against the table, about his hand lifting her skirts, about his manhood sliding inside her as she begged him not to stop.