Page 73 of Tempting the Reclusive Duke
I enclose a small token to help with travel expenses. Use it wisely.
Your loving Mother
Inside there were fifty pounds—likely her mother's entire savings, scraped together from household economies and careful management. The gesture broke Eveline's heart even as it strengthened her resolve.
She wouldn't need travel expenses for Manchester. She wouldn't need her mother's sacrifice or Harriet's pity or society's grudging acceptance of her fall from grace.
She had options. Real, legitimate, earned options.
At her desk, she pulled out fresh paper and began to write:
Dear Mr. Harwick,
I have reviewed the contracts for the position of Senior Classical Scholar and Translation Specialist. After careful consideration and consultation with my own legal advisor, I am pleased to accept the terms as written, with the modifications discussed...
The letter to Mrs. Harrington was harder but ultimately more satisfying:
Dear Madam,
I thank you for your generous offer of the governess position. However, I have accepted a consultancy with the British Museum that will require my presence in London. I wish you every success in finding a suitable instructor for your daughters...
Chapter 19
Eveline stood before her modest mirror, adjusting the new dress she'd purchased. A sensible blue wool that managed to be both professional and flattering without calling undue attention to either quality.
"You look like a woman with serious employment," Harriet declared from her perch on Eveline's bed, where she'd arrived at an ungodly hour to provide moral support. "Intellectual yet approachable. Scholarly but not intimidating."
"I look terrified," Eveline corrected, smoothing her skirts for the dozenth time. "What if I've forgotten everything? What if the contracts were a fever dream? What if I arrive at Everleigh Manor and His Grace looks at me as if I'm a stranger come to steal the silver?"
"Then you'll remind him that he's the one who stole your translations and started this entire enterprise." Harriet rose, moving to adjust a pin in Eveline's carefully arranged hair. "Besides, he probably looked at you like you gave him the world when you accepted his offer. I doubt three days have diminished his enthusiasm."
Three days. It had been three days since she'd sent her acceptance to Harwick, three days since she'd declined the Manchester position, three days of alternating between euphoria at her prospects and terror at what they meant. Today she would walk into Everleigh Manor not as a temporary employee or a woman seeking charity, but as the Senior Classical Scholar and Translation Specialist; a title that still felt too majestic for her tongue.
"What if we can't maintain professional boundaries?" The question slipped out before Eveline could stop it, voicing the fear that had kept her awake past midnight. "What if the moment we're alone in that library, all our careful contracts and conditions crumble like ancient papyrus?"
Harriet's expression softened. "Then you'll remember that you're stronger than your desires, cleverer than your heart, and far too stubborn to let passion derail the future you've fought for." She squeezed Eveline's shoulders. "You've spent years learning to translate the most complex texts. Surely you can translate attraction into collegiality for a few hours a day."
The walk to Everleigh Manor felt both eternal and far too brief. Eveline hadrefused Harriet's offer to accompany her, needing to make this journey alone, to arrive under her own power rather than escorted like a debutante to her first ball. The morning air carried the usual London mixture of coal smoke and damp, but beneath it she caught the faint sweetness of early spring flowers struggling through urban soil.
Graves answered her knock with his customary expression of dignified forbearance, though she thought she detected a slight softening around his eyes as he took her plain wool cloak.
"Miss Whitcombe. His Grace is expecting you in the library. Shall I announce you?"
"No need, Graves. I know the way." The words felt significant, a small declaration of belonging. She did know the way, through the entrance hall with its intimidating portraits, up the imposing staircase she'd once climbed in storm-soaked desperation, down the corridor where Chinese porcelain stood guard like elegant sentinels.
The library doors stood open, morning light streaming through tall windows to illuminate dust motes dancing in the air like tiny scholars at their own private ball. Adrian stood with his back to the door, hands clasped behind him as he studied something on the shelves. He wore a deep green coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and his hair caught the light in a way that made her fingers itch to touch it.
No. Professional. Collegial. Scholarly.
"Good morning, Your Grace."
He turned at her voice, and the smile that spread across his face nearly undid all her careful resolutions. It wasn't the practiced smile of a duke or the sardonic curve she'd grown accustomed to during their verbal sparring matches. This was something younger, more genuine...the smile of a man genuinely happy to see her.
"Miss Whitcombe." He crossed the room in quick strides, stopping just outside the bounds of propriety. "Welcome to your first official day. I trust you found the terms satisfactory after your solicitor's review?"
"Quite satisfactory." She moved toward the large table near the windows where her work materials had been arranged; fresh paper, new ink, a set of reference volumes she recognized from their previous cataloguing work. "Mr. Jenkins was impressed by the thoroughness of the contracts. He said he'd never seen employment terms so carefully structured to protect both parties' interests."
"Harwick takes pride in his precision." Adrian gestured to the table. "I've had everything prepared as we discussed. Your workspace here, with natural light for detailed work. Access to the entire collection, of course, though I've taken the liberty of gathering the volumes you'd marked for priority attention."
