Oh no, no, no.
The man rising from behind the desk was not elderly. He was not wearing spectacles. And his expression, far from disapproving, held a mixture of surprise and something that looked dangerously close to amusement.
It was him. The insufferable man from Hatchard's. The one with the grey eyes and the sardonic smile and the extensive knowledge. The one she'd argued with, insulted rather thoroughly, and then spent the next week trying not to think about.
He was the Duke of Everleigh.
The portfolio slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a thud that seemed to echo through the enormous room. Her carefully prepared speech evaporated like morning mist. All her confidence, manufactured though it had been, vanished with the swiftness of servants hearing the call for chores.
"Miss Whitcombe," he said, and his voice held that same cultured amusement she remembered from the bookshop. "Or should I say, E. Whitcombe? I must confess, when I read your application, I was expecting someone rather more... masculine."
Heat flooded her face. "Your Grace, I can explain..."
"No need." He moved around the desk with that languid grace she remembered, though now it seemed even more pronounced in his own domain. "However I am curious whether you knew who I was at Hatchard's, or if this is merely the universe's idea of an elaborate joke."
"I had no idea," she managed, her voice sounding strangled even to her own ears. "I would never have… that is, if I'd known..."
"You would never have accused me of blocking every volume worth reading? Or suggested I was purchasing books merely for display?" His eyebrow rose in that infuriating way. "How disappointing. I rather enjoyed being taken to task by someone who didn't know I was a duke."
She should apologize and she should probably flee the room and never show her face in polite society again. Instead, her treacherous pride reasserted itself,lifting her chin and sharpening her voice.
"I stand by my assessment of your shelf-blocking tendencies."
Something flickered in his eyes before saying: "Even now? Standing in my library, seeking employment from me, you maintain I'm a literary obstruction?"
"Truth doesn't become less true simply because you've discovered someone's title." The words were out before she could stop them, and she immediately wanted to take them back in. "That is, Your Grace, I merely meant..."
"You meant exactly what you said." He leaned against his desk, studying her with those unsettling grey eyes. "Tell me, Miss Whitcombe, did you think I wouldn't remember you? Or did you hope E. Whitcombe would somehow deceive me?"
"I thought..." She took a breath, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "I thought my qualifications should matter more than my sex."
"They should. Whether they do remains to be seen." He gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Sit down before you fall down. You look like you're about to faint, and Graves would never forgive me if you damaged anything while falling."
She sat, mainly because her knees were suggesting rather strongly that standing was becoming optional. He returned to his side of the desk, though he remained standing, looking down at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"Your application was impressive," he said after a moment that felt like several years. "Your references even more so. I wonder why you did not think that your sex would be revealed through the references. Professor Blackwood doesn't give praise lightly, and Lady Hastings's letter was... illuminating."
That took Eveline by surprise because indeed she had not thought of the references but she could not do anything now. ‘’Lady Hastings was very kind to recommend me."
"She threatened me, actually. Something about the waste of brilliant minds and the tragedy of narrow-minded aristocrats. I'm paraphrasing, but the general tone was clear." He picked up what must have been Lady Hastings's letter. "She also mentioned you once corrected the Archbishop's Latin at a dinner gathering."
"He was misquoting Augustine."
"Naturally. One can't have archbishops running about misquoting church fathers. Think of the scandal." His tone was perfectly serious, but she caught the glimmer of humor in his eyes. "She also says you have a translation in the Classical Quarterly."
"Published under Professor Blackwood's name, but yes."
"Why?"
"Why was it published under his name? Because the Quarterly doesn't accept submissions from women, and Professor Blackwood thought that was idiotic."
"His word or yours?"
"His. Mine was somewhat less polite."
"I imagine it was." He moved to one of the towering bookshelves, running his finger along the spines with casual familiarity. "Do you know why I need a cataloguer, Miss Whitcombe?"
"Because your library is in chaos?"
