Page 65 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke
"That's not fair," she murmured. "You can't kiss me into agreement."
"I'm not trying to kiss you into anything," he said, though he kept her close, unwilling to surrender the warmth of her against him. "I'm trying to show you thatwhatever else this is, contracts and positions and scholarly recognition, it's also us. And 'us' is worth fighting for, even if we're both too stubborn and scared to admit it."
She opened her eyes then, studying his face with that intensity she usually reserved for ancient texts. Whatever she saw there seemed to decide something, because she nodded slowly.
"All right," she said. "I'll consider the positions. All of them. But on conditions."
"Name them."
"First, I maintain the right to refuse any position that feels like charity rather than genuine employment. Second, our personal... whatever this is... remains separate from professional arrangements. I won't have people saying I earned recognition on my back rather than my brain."
"Agreed. Though I should point out that your brain is what got you here, not any other part of your anatomy, delightful though those parts may be."
She swatted his chest, but she was almost smiling. "Third, you stop making unilateral decisions about my life. If we're to be... something... then we're equals. No more theft of translations, no more surprise interventions, no more ducal commandments from now on."
"I can try," he said carefully. "Though you should know that protective instincts, once aroused, are difficult to suppress entirely."
"Then channel them into something useful. Protect me from boring academic dinners or scholars who drone on about their pet theories. Don't protect me from my own choices."
"Even if those choices involve Manchester?"
"Even then." She pulled back slightly, though she didn't leave his embrace entirely. "I need to know I have choices, Adrian. That this isn't just another beautiful cage."
"It's not a cage at all," he promised. "It's a door opening. What you do once you walk through it is entirely your decision."
They stood there in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by books and papers and the evidence of a future reshaping itself around them. It wasn't perfect; there were still contracts to review, positions to negotiate, and the small matter of their personal relationship to navigate. But for the first time since that night in the library, Eveline felt something like hope.
"I should warn you," she said finally, "if I accept these positions, I intend to be absolutely insufferable about my scholarly opinions. I've been holding back out of deference to my employer, but if I'm to be a recognized scholar in my own right..."
"Heaven help us all," Adrian murmured, but he was smiling. "Though I look forward to watching you demolish pompous academics at museum gatherings. It will make all those dusty events worthwhile."
"You'll attend museum gatherings?"
"I'll attend garden gatherings on the other end of the world if you're thereto make them interesting." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and promising. "Though I draw the line at poetry readings. A man must have some standards."
She laughed then, the sound bright and genuine after so much tension. "What if I'm the one giving the reading? My Ovid translation will need promotion, after all."
"Then I'll sit in the front row and glare at anyone who dares look bored." He reluctantly released her, stepping back to a more proper distance as voices in the hallway suggested their privacy was about to end. "Think about the offers, Eveline. Really think about them. Not what they mean for us, but what they mean for you. And if you decide Manchester is truly what you want..."
"You'll let me go?"
"I'll hate it," he admitted. "I'll probably drink too much brandy and compose terrible poetry about loss and northern industrial cities. But yes, I'll let you go. Because that's what you do when you love someone...you give them the freedom to choose, even when their choice might break your heart."
Chapter 18
"Another letter for you, miss. Though this one looks..." Mary hesitated in the doorway of Eveline's small sitting room, holding an expensive-looking correspondence with obvious reluctance, "rather imposing."
Eveline looked up from the contracts spread across her desk, Cadwell's publishing agreement, the British Museum's consulting terms, Adrian's comprehensive position that seemed too generous to be real. She'd been comparing figures and obligations for the better part of the morning, trying to approach her future with the same analytical precision she brought to translation work.
"Imposing or ominous?" she asked, accepting the letter. The paper was indeed fine, cream-colored stock that whispered of wealth and privilege.
"Both, if I'm being honest, miss." Mary twisted her apron between nervous fingers. "The lady who sent her footman to deliver it was in the finest carriage I've ever seen. All matched grays and silver fittings."
The seal confirmed Eveline's suspicions: Mrs. Granger-Ashton, one of society's more formidable matrons. She'd danced around Eveline's father years ago, before settling for a wealthy baronet with convenient habits of absence.
"Thank you, Mary. That will be all."
Eveline waited until the maid departed before breaking the seal, though something in her stomach suggested this would not be pleasant reading. The handwriting was elegantly formed, the kind that came from years of expensive governesses and nothing more taxing to write than invitation acceptances.
