Page 64 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke
"I think," Adrian said carefully, "that you were about to accept a position that would waste everything extraordinary about you. I think pride was about to rob the world of a brilliant classical mind. And indeed, I think that sometimes we need others to show us what we're worth when we've forgotten it ourselves."
"I hadn't forgotten my worth. I was being practical about my circumstances."
"Your circumstances." He laughed, though there was no humor in it. "Your circumstances are that you're one of the finest classical scholars in England, reduced to considering governess positions because society is too foolish to see past its own prejudices. Forgive me for trying to change those circumstances."
"By going behind my back? By making decisions without consulting me? By once again swooping in to save the day without considering that perhaps I didn't want..."
"Didn't want what?" He stepped closer still, close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, close enough to catch her scent of lavender and ink. "Didn't want recognition? Didn't want your work published? Didn't want a future that used your abilities instead of wasting them? Tell me, Eveline, what exactly didn't you want?"
She stared at him, chest rising and falling with agitated breaths, and he could see her struggling between fury and something else, something that looked dangerously like hope.
"I didn't want charity," she said finally, her voice breaking slightly. "I didn't want positions created out of pity or guilt or whatever misguided sense of responsibility you're feeling. I wanted to earn my place, not have it handed to me because the Duke of Everleigh commanded it."
"Is that what you think this is? Charity?" Adrian pulled out a sheaf of papers from his coat; Harwick's contracts, Thornbury's letter, Cadwell's publication agreement. "Read these. Really read them. Tell me where you see pity or charity or anything other than recognition of exceptional ability."
She took the papers reluctantly, sinking into a chair to read while he paced to the window, giving her space to process. The late afternoon sun slanted through the glass, painting golden strips across the worn carpet. He could hear her breathing change as she read, sharp intakes that suggested surprise or possibly dismay.
"This is..." She paused, shuffling through the contracts again. "The salary you're proposing is ridiculous. Two hundred pounds per annum?"
"It's what the position is worth. Less, actually, but I thought starting too high might seem..."
"Like charity?" She looked up at him, those remarkable eyes bright with unshed tears. "Adrian, this is a fortune. The museum position, the publishing contract; together they create a future I never dared imagine."
"It's not created," he said, turning from the window to face her fully. "It's recognized. Every one of those men saw your work and immediately understood its value. All I did was make the introduction."
"All you did." She rose, the contracts clutched in her hands like something precious. "You've restructured my entire future in the span of an afternoon."
"Your future was always there, waiting. I simply refused to let you throw it away for the dubious privilege of teaching irregular verbs in Manchester."
They stood facing each other across the small parlor, surrounded by the evidence of her scholarship and the testament to his intervention. The anger had faded from her face, replaced by something more complex—gratitude warring with independence, hope battling with fear.
"Why?" she asked finally. "Why go to such lengths? And don't say it's simple justice or scholarly obligation. Not after this morning, not after..."
"Not after I kissed you like a man drowning and you were air?" He moved toward her slowly, giving her time to retreat. "Not after you told me I make you forget yourself? Not after three weeks of trying to pretend I don't wake up thinking of you and fall asleep dreaming of you?"
"Adrian," she whispered, his name a warning and plea combined.
"I did this because you're brilliant," he said simply. "Because the thought of that brilliance being wasted made me physically ill. Because yes, I'm selfish enough to want you in London where I can see you, argue with you, watch you destroy lesser scholars with a raised eyebrow and a perfectly placed Latin quote. But mostly I did it because you deserve to be recognised for who you are, not diminished for what society thinks you should be."
She was crying now, silent tears that she didn't bother to hide. "I don't know how to do this," she admitted. "I don't know how to accept help without feeling diminished. I don't know how to trust that this isn't just another cage, prettier than Manchester but still confining."
"Then we'll write it into the contracts," he said, producing a handkerchief that she accepted with a watery laugh. "Complete autonomy in your scholarly work. The right to refuse any project that doesn't interest you. The freedom to tell me to leave you alone if I overstep—which, knowing us both, will happen with regrettable frequency."
"Knowing us both," she repeated softly. "Do you know us both, Adrian? Or are we still those strangers who argued over shelf space in Hatchard's?"
"We're not strangers," he said with certainty. "We're two people who've been circling each other like wary cats, so busy protecting ourselves that we forgot what we were protecting against. But I know you, Eveline. I know you bite your lip when you're translating something difficult. I know you get a particular gleam in your eye when you're about to deliver a crushing intellectual blow. I know you laugh at inappropriate moments and cry over damaged manuscripts and make Latin sound like music."
"And I know you," she said, stepping closer. "I know you use sarcasm like armor and hide vulnerability behind perfect tailoring. I know you're brilliant and lonely and kind when you think no one's watching. I know you built walls so high you forgot what the view looked like from ground level."
They were close now, close enough that he could see each individual tear track on her cheeks, close enough that her breath ghosted across his jaw when she spoke.
"But knowing isn't the same as trusting," she continued. "And I don't know if I can trust this, trust us, trust a future built on contracts and scholarly positions when what lies beneath is so much more dangerous."
"Then trust this," he said, and kissed her.
It was different from the morning's desperate passion; softer, deeper, a question rather than a demand. She made a small sound and leaned into him, her free hand coming up to rest against his chest where his heart beat rapidly and probably revealed far more than was wise.
When they parted, her eyes were still closed, lashes dark against her cheeks.
