Chapter 20 #3
"Insufferably?" She pulled back to see his face. "I'll have you know I plan to be graciously famous. I'll sign books with elegant inscriptions and give lectures without a single controversial opinion."
"Liar." He kissed her nose. "You'll sign books with ink stains on your fingers and give lectures that make senior scholars apoplectic with rage. And I'll be in the audience, applauding every scandalous interpretation."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He kissed her properly then, deep and sweet and full of unspoken vows.
When they finally parted, the clock was chiming nine. "I should go," Eveline said reluctantly. "It's late, and tomorrow..."
"Stay."
The word hung between them, loaded with possibility.
"Adrian..."
"No...not like that." He colored slightly. "Just... stay for dinner. It's late, you haven't eaten, and I want to celebrate with you properly. We'll be perfectly proper. Morrison could join us again if that would make you more comfortable."
She considered the ramifications; staying for dinner, the two of them alone in the intimate setting of his private rooms. It was a line they hadn't crossed yet, for all their acknowledged feelings.
"Just dinner?" she clarified.
"Just dinner. And perhaps some thoroughly academic discussion of Ovid's use of erotic imagery." His grin turned wicked. "For scholarly purposes, naturally."
"Naturally." She found herself smiling back. "All right. Dinner. But I'm choosing the topics of conversation, and they will not include erotic imagery of any kind."
"Joyless."
Dinner was served in the small dining room they used for working lunches, but somehow the evening hour made it feel different. More intimate. The candlelight cast warm shadows, turning the ordinary room into something from a romantic painting.
"So," Adrian said as they were served soup, "tell me about the museum project. What exactly will you be doing?"
She launched into an explanation of her plans for the Byzantine collection, her excitement making her gestures animated.
Adrian listened with that complete attention that had first drawn her to him, asking questions that showed he understood both the scholarly significance and what it meant to her personally.
"You'll need assistance," he said as the main course arrived. "Morrison perhaps, or another student. The scope of work you're describing would challenge a team of scholars."
"Thornbury mentioned the possibility of research assistants." She took a sip of wine, feeling its warmth spread through her chest. "Though I'm not certain how I'd manage them. I've never directed anyone's work before."
"Of course you have. You've been teaching Morrison for weeks now."
"That's different. He just asks questions and I answer them."
"That's teaching." Adrian leaned forward. "And you're brilliant at it. The way you guide him to discoveries rather than simply providing answers is a gift."
"You're biased," she accused, though his praise warmed her more than the wine.
"Completely and utterly biased," he agreed cheerfully. "Also correct. You'll be an excellent project leader. Firm but fair, exacting but encouraging. Your assistants will adore you."
The word hung between them...adore...carrying implications that made her pulse quicken.
"Speaking of adoration," she said, needing to deflect from the intensity in his eyes, "Morrison mentioned something about the French palimpsest. Have you thoughts on how to proceed with it?"
"Changing the subject, Miss Whitcombe?"
"Redirecting, Your Grace. There's a difference."
He laughed, allowing the shift. They discussed the palimpsest through the rest of dinner, debating the best methods for revealing the underlying text without damaging the manuscript.
It was the kind of conversation that had first drawn them together; intellectual equals finding joy in shared knowledge.
By the time dessert was served, a lemon tart that made Eveline close her eyes in bliss, the tension had eased into something warmer, more comfortable.
"This is nice," she said without thinking, then blushed at the admission.
"It is." Adrian's voice was soft. "I could grow very accustomed to evenings like this. Good food, better conversation, and the woman I love across from me."
"Adrian..."
"I know. Too much, too fast." He reached across the table to take her hand. "But Eveline, surely you see where this leads? Not tomorrow or next month, but eventually?"
"I see possibilities," she said carefully. "Beautiful, terrifying possibilities that I'm not ready to fully examine."
"Fair enough." He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that sent heat racing up her arm. "I'm a patient man when the prize is worth it."
After dinner, he walked her home despite her protests about the propriety of a duke strolling through modest neighborhoods after dark.
"Let them talk," he said when she mentioned potential gossip.
"I'm escorting my valued employee home after a late working dinner. Purely professional consideration."
"With your arm around my waist?"
"It's cold. I'm being solicitous of your health." But he moved his hand to a more appropriate position at her elbow.
At her door, he caught her before she could flee inside, pulling her into the shadows of the entrance.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying. For trusting me. For being brilliant and impossible and absolutely perfect."
"I'm far from perfect," she protested.
"Perfect for me, then." He kissed her, slow and deep, until she forgot they were standing on a public street where anyone might see.
"Goodnight, Eveline," he whispered against her lips. "Dream of Byzantine manuscripts and publishing contracts."
"And you?"
"I'll dream of you. As always."
She floated up to her rooms in a haze of wine and kisses and impossible dreams suddenly made tangible. The publishing contract lay in her portfolio, real as stone. Tomorrow she would sign it, officially beginning her journey as a recognized translator.
But tonight, she allowed herself to simply be happy. To revel in work appreciated, love acknowledged, a future bright with possibility.
The next morning brought a return to routine, but everything felt different now. She arrived at Everleigh Manor to find Morrison already ensconced in the library, practically vibrating with excitement over the palimpsest.
"I've been researching treatment methods," he announced before she'd even removed her cloak. "There's a new technique using chemical washes that might reveal the undertext without damage."
"Show me," she said, settling at the table as he spread out his research.
Adrian joined them shortly after, and the three of them spent the morning deep in scholarly debate. It was becoming her favorite kind of working day—the three of them united in intellectual pursuit, ideas flowing freely without regard for rank or position.
"We should write to Professor Melville at Cambridge," Morrison suggested. "He's done extensive work with palimpsests."
"An excellent idea," Adrian agreed. "Eveline, would you compose the letter? Your reputation is beginning to carry weight in scholarly circles."
My reputation. The words sent a thrill through her. Not scandal, not notoriety, but genuine scholarly reputation.
She spent the afternoon working on her Ovid translations while Adrian attended to estate business and Morrison catalogued his French discoveries.
The familiar rhythm of Latin poetry soothed her, though she found herself distracted by memories of the previous evening; Adrian's hands on her face, his voice promising patience, the taste of lemon tart and possibility.
"You're smiling at Ovid," Adrian observed, making her jump. She hadn't heard him return. "Either I've been grossly misunderstanding his poetry, or your thoughts have wandered from ancient Rome."
"Ovid can be quite amusing when he chooses," she said primly, though she felt heat rise in her cheeks.
"Mmm. And which amusing passage has you blushing so charmingly?"
"I'm not blushing. The room is warm."
"Of course it is." He leaned over her shoulder, ostensibly examining her work but really just torturing her with his proximity. "This is excellent," he said, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "The way you've handled the wordplay in this section preserves both meaning and music."
"Adrian," she warned as his hand came to rest on the back of her chair, his thumb just brushing her shoulder blade.
"Yes?" All innocence, though she could hear the smile in his voice.
"We agreed to maintain professional behaviour during working hours."
"We did." His thumb traced a small circle against her back, the touch burning through layers of fabric. "Although I don't recall specifically defining working hours. Does that include luncheon? Tea? The moments between one task and another?"
"You're impossible."
"Impossibly in love," he corrected, but he stepped back, giving her space to breathe. "How much more do you have to complete on this section?"
"Another hour perhaps. Why?"
"Because Harriet sent word. She's coming for tea, eager to hear about your publishing contract." He grinned at her surprise. "Did you think I wouldn't write to her immediately? Your dearest friend deserved to know of your triumph."
Before she could respond, Morrison's voice carried from his corner: "Oh, blast!"
They turned to find him blotting frantically at a spreading ink stain, his latest notes ruined.
"I'm so sorry," he stammered. "I knocked over the inkwell reaching for a reference. Your Grace, I'll replace the ink, and of course I'll recopy all the damaged work..."
"Morrison," Adrian interrupted gently. "It's ink, not blood. Accidents happen when we're passionate about our work."
The young man's relief was palpable. "Thank you, sir. I'll be more careful."
"Don't be too careful," Eveline advised, helping him blot the worst of the spill. "Some of the best discoveries come from happy accidents. Though perhaps we should move the inkwell to a safer position."