Chapter 19 #4
"You're not my anything," he said fiercely.
"You're your own person. That's what makes this so impossible.
If you were the kind of woman who would give up everything for a man's protection, I wouldn't..." He laughed, short and bitter.
"But you're not. You're brilliant and independent and stubborn, and I love you for it even as it drives me to distraction. "
"Then we need to be stronger," she said, though every fiber of her being protested the words. "We need to find a way to work together without..."
"Without wanting to kiss you every time you correct my Latin? Without going half-mad when you wear your hair in that particular style that shows your neck? Without spending every night wondering if you're lying awake thinking of me as I'm thinking of you?"
"Yes," she whispered, though they both knew it was impossible.
They stood there in the wreckage of their professional boundaries, hair mussed and breathing unsteady, the taste of each other still on their lips. The week that had started with such careful control was ending in spectacular failure.
"I should go," Eveline said finally. "Take the weekend to... to think. To remember why this arrangement matters more than what we want."
"And Monday?"
"Monday we try again. With better boundaries. Clearer rules. Perhaps... perhaps we shouldn't take meals together. And I could work in a different room..."
"No." The word was flat, final. "I won't have you hidden away like something shameful. You're my Senior Classical Scholar, and you'll work where the materials are. We'll simply have to develop better self-control."
She gathered her things hastily, not trusting herself to linger. At the door, she paused, looking back to find him standing where she'd left him, hands braced on the table as if for support.
"Adrian?"
He looked up, and the raw hunger in his eyes nearly undid her resolve.
"This position, these opportunities—they mean everything to me. You know that, don't you? It's not that I don't want..." She struggled for words. "In another world, another time, if I were a different sort of woman..."
"I don't want a different sort of woman.
" His voice was steady now, the duke reasserting control over the man.
"I want you, exactly as you are. And if that means learning to work beside you without touching you, if that means cold baths and sleepless nights and careful distance, then so be it.
Your work matters. Your future matters and we shall find a way. "
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and fled before her resolution could crumble entirely.
The weekend passed in a haze of translation work and self-recrimination. She threw herself into the Ovid project, trying to lose herself in the familiar rhythms of Latin poetry, but even Ovid's sensuous verses seemed tame compared to the fire Adrian had kindled with his kisses.
Harriet, of course, knew something had happened the moment she saw her.
"You kissed him," she said without preamble when she arrived for Sunday tea. "Don't bother denying it. You have that particular expression of mingled ecstasy and despair that only comes from spectacular romantic folly."
"We kissed each other," Eveline corrected, then buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Harriet, what am I going to do? How can I work there, day after day, when just being in the same room with him makes me forget every sensible resolution?"
"You could marry him," Harriet suggested mildly. "Novel solution, I know, but it has been known to resolve the problem of inappropriate desire."
"And give up everything I've worked for? Become the duchess who dabbles in translation rather than a recognized scholar in my own right?" Eveline shook her head. "You know that's not possible."
"Do I? Because from where I sit, I see a man who's done everything possible to ensure your work is recognized and valued. He created a position that lets you pursue your scholarship. He's supporting your museum work, your publications. How exactly would marriage to him diminish that?"
"Because the world would see me as his wife first, scholar second. Every achievement would be attributed to his influence rather than my ability. I've fought too hard for recognition to give it up now."
Harriet was quiet for a moment, stirring her tea with unusual concentration. "Speaking of giving things up, I have news."
“All talks of me getting married to that old man have been halted.”
"Harriet, that's wonderful!" Eveline reached across to squeeze her friend's hand.
Harriet's expression grew serious. "I wanted to thank you. If I hadn't watched you fight for your independence, refuse to settle for less than you deserve... I might have accepted Malbrooke. I might have convinced myself that security was worth more than happiness."
"You'd have realised the truth eventually. You're far too intelligent to settle for a mercantile marriage."
"Perhaps. But watching you navigate these past weeks, seeing you insist on recognition for your work even when it would be easier to accept protection... it gave me courage." She paused. "Though I do think you're being unnecessarily rigid about the marriage question."
"Harriet..."
"I know, I know. Independent woman, scholarly recognition, can't be seen as trading on your husband's name.
But Eveline, what if you're looking at it wrong?
What if marriage to Adrian wouldn't diminish your work but enhance it?
What if having a partner who understands and values your scholarship would make you stronger, not weaker? "
Eveline wanted to argue, but Harriet's words echoed uncomfortably in her mind for the rest of the weekend. By Monday morning, she'd resolved to maintain stricter boundaries, to prove that she could work alongside Adrian without surrendering to the attraction between them.
The resolution lasted approximately ten minutes.
She arrived to find him in the library, of course, but he wasn't alone. A young man sat at her worktable, sandy-haired and earnest-looking, surrounded by her carefully organized Byzantine notes.
"Ah, Miss Whitcombe." Adrian's tone was perfectly professional, though she caught the tension in his shoulders. "May I introduce Mr. James Morrison? He's a recent Oxford graduate with an interest in Byzantine studies. I thought he might assist with your research."
"Assist?" She moved into the room slowly, trying to process this development. "I wasn't aware I needed assistance."
"Everyone needs assistance sometimes," Adrian said smoothly. "Mr. Morrison comes highly recommended. First in Classics, particular interest in medieval manuscript transmission. I thought an extra pair of eyes might help with your cataloguing work."
Mr. Morrison rose, bowing correctly. "Miss Whitcombe, it's an honour. I've heard about your Byzantine discoveries from Professor Thornbury. Your theory about regional variations is brilliant."
She should have been pleased. Here was recognition of her work, practical assistance that would speed her research, a young scholar eager to learn from her expertise.
Instead, all she could feel was a hot surge of something that felt dangerously like jealousy as Mr. Morrison returned to her worktable, her notes, her carefully organized system.
"How thoughtful," she managed, though the words tasted like ash. "Mr. Morrison, perhaps you could tell me about your particular areas of expertise?"
The young man launched into an enthusiastic account of his studies, clearly eager to impress. He was knowledgeable, she had to admit, his observations about manuscript transmission showing real insight. Any other time, she would have been delighted to have such an able assistant.
But not today. Not when Adrian stood carefully apart, maintaining professional distance with the help of a human barrier between them. Not when she could see through his stratagem as clearly as if he'd announced it; if they couldn't trust themselves alone, he'd ensure they weren't alone.
"Fascinating," she said when Morrison paused for breath. "Your insights on some practices are particularly interesting. However, I wonder if we might adjust the arrangement slightly?"
"Adjust?" Adrian's voice was carefully neutral.
"Mr. Morrison's expertise would be wasted on simple cataloguing. Perhaps he could work on his own project, examining the French manuscript collection, for instance, while being available for consultation on Byzantine matters when needed?"
Morrison's face lit up. "The French collection? Truly? There are some extraordinary thirteenth-century texts I've been longing to examine..."
"Then it's settled." She smiled at the young man, ignoring Adrian's slight frown. "Why don't you take the morning to familiarize yourself with the collection? We can discuss collaboration this afternoon."
Morrison practically bounced from the room, leaving them alone. The silence stretched, filled with everything they weren't saying.
"That was neatly done," Adrian said finally. "Though it rather defeats the purpose of having an assistant."
"The purpose being to keep us from repeating Friday's lapse?" She moved to her worktable, trying not to notice how Morrison had disturbed her carefully ordered notes. "I appreciate the thought, but I don't need a chaperone."
"Don't you?" He moved closer, and she could smell his cologne, that subtle expensive scent that had haunted her weekend. "Because I'm not certain I can trust myself alone with you. Not after..."
"Then we'll have to trust our better natures.
" She forced herself to meet his eyes, to ignore the heat that flared at the memory of Friday's kisses.
"I need this position, Adrian. I need the work, the recognition, the future it offers.
And you need a Classical Scholar, not a.
.. whatever we become when we forget ourselves. "