"Did you expect me to argue about cotton gloves?"
"I expected you to argue about everything. You seem the type."
"I seem the type?" He leaned back, studying her. "And what type is that, precisely?"
"The type who needs to control everything, who can't bear to be challenged, who responds to any questioning of his authority with arctic temperatures and cutting remarks."
"How perceptive. And yet you persist in challenging me anyway."
"Someone has to." She turned back to her notebook. "Otherwise you'd just sit there in your perfectly pressed clothes and your perfectly controlled manner, letting your library rot around you while you pretend not to care."
She will disorder my peace, of that I am certain.
He watched her work, the way she moved through his space like she belonged there, like she had every right to judge his books and his character withequal frankness. Her hair was coming further undone, more curls escaping to frame her face. There was a smudge of dust on her nose that she hadn't noticed and her tongue peeked out slightly when she concentrated on her writing.
But she will not bore me.
Juliette had never challenged him. She'd been perfect, porcelain, agreeable to a fault. She'd never argued about philosophy or corrected his Latin or accused him of emotional restraint. She'd also never looked at books like they were treasures, never gotten genuinely excited about third-century Greek texts, never made him feel anything stronger than mild satisfaction.
And I fear that is far more dangerous.
"Your Grace?" Miss Whitcombe was looking at him expectantly. "I asked if you had any particular preferences for the organizational system."
"Whatever you think best." The words came out more curtly than intended.
"Are you well? You look rather... peculiar."
"I'm perfectly well."
"If you say so." She studied him for a moment longer, then shrugged and returned to her notebook. "I'll start with this room, then move to the adjoining chambers. This is going to take months, possibly years to do properly."
"That's fine."
"You might regret saying that when I start moving everything."
"Miss Whitcombe," he said, suddenly needing to establish some distance between them, "I have correspondence to attend to. Try not to burn the house down in your reforming zeal."
"I make no promises," she said without looking up from her writing. "Some of these arrangements are offensive enough to warrant arson."
He left her there, scribbling and muttering, occasionally pulling out books with little sounds of delight or dismay. He had estate business to review, letters to answer, a dozen things that required his attention.
Instead, he found himself standing in the hallway, listening to the sound of her moving through his library, the occasional exclamation in Latin or Greek, the scratch of her quill pen on paper.
The morning's news about Juliette seemed suddenly distant, unimportant. So what if she was glowing with maternal joy in Rome? He had a bluestocking destroying his library while comparing him to ancient Spartans.
Somehow, improbably, that seemed like the better bargain.
Heavens help me,he thought, running a hand through his hair again.I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow.
The thought should have been alarming. Instead, as he heard her curse creatively in what sounded like three languages simultaneously after discovering another nest of bookworms, he found himself almost smiling.
Dukes of Everleigh did not smile at the linguistic creativity of their employees. Even if those employees had ink-stained fingers and opinions about everything and a way of looking at books like they held all the secrets of the universe.
Even then.
Chapter 5
Two weeks had passed since Eveline began her work at Everleigh Manorf, and she'd settled into a rhythm as comfortable as her oldest pair of slippers. The library had become her domain between nine and four, a kingdom of dust motes and leather bindings where she could mutter in Latin without anyone suggesting she needed medical attention. She'd grown accustomed to the peculiar silence of the place—not empty, but filled with the whispered conversations of thousands of books waiting to be properly organized.
