Page 50 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke
Under the second column, she wrote more slowly:
No passionate attachment
Would be settling for comfort over love
Might come to resent the arrangement
He deserves someone who can offer whole-hearted affection
She stared at the neat columns, so clear and logical on paper. The first faroutweighed the second in practical terms. Any sensible woman in her position would accept immediately, grateful for such an unexpected rescue from social ruin.
But then, unbidden, came the memory of Adrian's voice, rough with emotion: "I don't know how to be without you anymore."
She crumpled the paper with sudden violence, throwing it into the fire. Lists and logic had no power over the human heart, and hers, traitorous organ that it was, remained stubbornly fixed on a man who'd offered her everything except himself.
Rising from her desk, she went to her small bookshelf and pulled out her worn copy of Ovid. The pages fell open naturally to a familiar passage, one she'd read so often the words were carved into her memory:
"Love is a kind of warfare."
Indeed it was. And she, veteran of this particular campaign, knew that sometimes the only victory lay in choosing which battles to fight. Theodore offered her peace, a cessation of hostilities, a comfortable armistice with life.
But was that what she wanted? Peace? Or did some part of her still crave the glorious conflagration that came with real passion, even knowing how thoroughly it could burn?
The afternoon wore on as she sat with Ovid in her lap, reading about transformations and desire, about gods who became swans and bulls and showers of gold for love. The poet understood what the modern world seemed to have forgotten—that love was meant to transform, to challenge, to remake its victims into something new and strange and wonderful.
Theodore would never transform her. He would preserve her, like one of his carefully maintained manuscripts, valued and protected but essentially unchanged. Was that enough? Could she spend her life being grateful for safety when her heart cried out for something more dangerous?
A passage caught her eye, one she'd overlooked before:
"What is left after love is gone? Only the ashes of a fire that once burned bright."
She closed the book slowly, understanding coming like dawn over a dark landscape. She was already living in the ashes of a love that had burned too bright, too fast. The question was whether she wanted to remain there, sifting through the remnants of what might have been, or whether she could find contentment in Theodore's cooler, steadier flame.
Either choice felt like a betrayal; of Theodore's honest offer, or of her own stubborn heart.
She returned to her desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. This time, instead of lists, she wrote a letter:
"Dear Mr. Browne,
I am deeply honoured by your proposal this afternoon. Your offer is generous beyond measure, and your regard for my scholarly work touches me more than I can express.
You deserve a response as honest as your proposal. I find myself tornbetween profound gratitude for your offer and uncertainty about whether I could fulfill my part of such a bargain. You speak of intellectual partnership, and in that realm, I believe we would indeed be well-matched. But marriage encompasses more than shared scholarly interests, and I fear..."
She paused, pen hovering over the paper. What did she fear? That she would spend her life comparing Theodore's steady presence to Adrian's consuming fire? That she would wake each morning grateful for safety while mourning the loss of passion? That she would become the very thing she'd always despised? A woman who married for convenience rather than conviction?
Or did she fear something else entirely? That in accepting Theodore's offer, she would be closing a door that some part of her desperately wanted to leave open, despite all logic suggesting it led nowhere?
She set down the pen without finishing the letter. Tomorrow she would have to give Theodore some answer, but tonight she needed to sit with her confusion, to try to parse out what she wanted from what she needed, what was possible from what was merely dreamed.
Outside her window, London went about its evening business, careless of one woman's dilemma. Somewhere in this vast city, Theodore Browne was probably reading some ancient text, content in his scholarly pursuits. Somewhere else...but no, she wouldn't think about where Adrian might be or what he might be doing.
She had a decision to make, one that would shape the rest of her life. Theodore offered her a future built on mutual respect and shared interests. It was more than many women got, more than she had any right to expect given her current circumstances.
So why did accepting feel like giving up?
The candle burned lower as evening deepened into night, and still Eveline sat at her desk, the unfinished letter before her, Ovid's words echoing in her mind:
"I can't live with you or without you."
