Chapter Six #3
“You’re forever whispering to one another,” Jennings said. “Are you looking to be second author on his paper?”
That, Oliver had to laugh at. “Second author? On Rafiq’s paper? Don’t be ridiculous.”
I hardly understand what she’s on about on the best of days.
“No? It would elicit quite a reaction if it ever made it into the journal.”
“Indeed.” Oliver brushed by Jennings and alerted the barkeeper to his presence. “And all accolades would be Rafiq’s.”
“What accolades?” a voice questioned.
Oliver turned to see Rafiq, who had come to stand in front of himself and Jennings.
“Nothing important,” Oliver said, not wanting to expose her to Jennings’s pettiness.
He handed her a glass of brandy, feeling a tiny bit of devilish satisfaction as she peered hesitantly at the liquid.
No doubt she was used to champagne. She took a sip, barely masking the twinge of distaste on her face.
Brave girl.
“It wasn’t nothing,” Jennings said. “We were talking about your paper.”
She perked, her interest plain. “Oh?”
“In all its unconventional magnificence,” Oliver said. He was rewarded with a glare.
“One wonders if that’s what you really think,” Jennings interjected. Oliver shook his head in warning, a gesture he hoped communicated that he was not above giving Jennings a good punch to the jaw.
“How do you mean?” Rafiq inquired, taking another sip of brandy. She’d overcome the taste of it quickly, and the realization didn’t surprise Oliver in the slightest. Clearly there was nothing she could not adjust to.
“Why, it was Booth who insisted we extend you an invitation to the lectures,” Jennings said.
Snake.
Rafiq’s face fell, and her marvelous eyes fluttered in confusion. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Her voice had grown small. So small, that Oliver struggled to hear it over the din of the pub and the distant, joyous cheer that came from the billiards room.
“That’s enough, Jennings,” Oliver said, tone sharp and deathly cold.
“No, please.” Rafiq placed her glass down on the bar with a hard clunk. “What did you mean, Jennings?”
“Rafiq—”
She spoke over him. “I want to know.”
“Surely you know you were by no means one of the most qualified candidates,” Jennings said. “You’ve never even published.”
“Neither have you,” Oliver pointed out.
“I am a permanent member, not an applicant,” Jennings shot back. “It was Booth who insisted we extend you an invitation. He fought us tooth and nail until we agreed.”
Rafiq turned to Oliver and, for the first time, her gaze was unguarded. Hurt flickered in its depths, and he wanted to throttle Jennings right there in the pub. “Is that true?”
“No, I—” Oliver began.
Jennings cut him off. “Ask Dunn, if you like. Hell, ask Comerford.”
Rafiq pulled at the cuffs of her shirt, seeming to shrink into her suit. “I should go.”
“Well done, Jennings,” Oliver snapped, watching her weave her way through the crowd. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”
“It was nothing but the truth,” Jennings said with a shrug. “The both of you needn’t be so sensitive.”
Oliver trailed after Rafiq, hoping to catch her before she escaped. There was no doubt she was embarrassed. He would be, if someone had told him he hadn’t been accepted on his own merit, but rather because of a member’s morbid, stupid fascination with him.
God, he hated that he’d been the member in question. But he’d just been—curious. Either that, or Comerford was right in saying that Rafiq’s work made Oliver feel invariably unintelligent, and that all of this had been some great crusade to prove something to himself.
Which was—
He left the pub and caught sight of Rafiq walking away. Picking up his pace, he darted in front of her with relative ease. She came to a sudden stop, her brow crinkled in confusion.
“What is it, Booth?”
“You’re upset,” he said.
“I am not.” She brushed past him. “I’m expected at home.”
Oliver trotted to keep up with her tiny, fast footsteps. “Ignore Jennings, won’t you?”
She came to a halt again. “Should I? Why was I invited to the university?”
“I—” Oliver hesitated. “I don’t—I shouldn’t lie to you. I did play a role in it.”
“Why?”
“I—don’t know,” he said, speech stilted, even though deep down he did know. “Curiosity, I suppose.”
She resumed her journey down the pavement. “You shouldn’t have intervened. I should have been invited on my own merit or not at all.”
“But you do have merit,” Oliver protested as heat began to rise to his cheeks. “That is—your work has merit.”
She shot him a sardonic scowl. “Oh? Is that why you always leave such intelligent comments on it?”
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t pleaded with anyone since childhood, and he’d certainly never had to do it with a woman. “Look, Rafiq—”
“It doesn’t matter, I suppose,” she said, shoving her hands in her coat pockets. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye. “Will you do something for me, Booth?”
“Yes,” he said, a touch breathless. The first word on his tongue had, ridiculously, been anything, but he felt the abrupt need to respect her disguise and treat her like he would Dunn, Talbot, or Young.
“Next time I submit my work to the Society,” she said, “do not take it upon yourself to review it. I think I have had more than enough of your input.”
With that, she left Oliver in the middle of the pavement, shame ricocheting through him as he watched her retreating form.