And yet, as she slipped back into her house and up to her room, the books still clutched against her chest, all she could think about was when she'd see him again.
Tomorrow was Friday. One more day before the weekend would force them apart, give them time to remember all the reasons why whatever had almost happened in that library could never happen again.
One more day.
She wasn't sure if that was too much time or not nearly enough.
Chapter 8
"You will attend the Ashford tea this afternoon, and that is final."
Eveline's mother delivered this pronouncement with the kind of determination usually reserved for military campaigns, standing in the doorway of the morning room with her hands clasped and her expression suggesting that resistance would be met with overwhelming maternal force.
"Mother, I have work to complete," Eveline protested, not looking up from the translation of Plutarch she'd been laboring over since breakfast. "The Duke expects progress on the philosophical texts by Monday, and I've barely begun the Greek section."
"The Duke will have to manage his expectations for one afternoon," her mother replied, sweeping into the room with a rustle that suggested she'd dressed specifically for battle. "Lady Ashford has been kind enough to include us in her monthly tea, and our absence would be noted and commented upon in ways that would do neither of us any favours."
"Our presence will be commented upon regardless, given that half of London appears to believe I'm engaged in some torrid affair with my employer rather than cataloguing his books."
"Which is precisely why you must be seen in respectable company, behaving like a proper young lady rather than hiding away with your dusty tomes like some sort of scholarly hermit." Her mother's expression softened slightly, though her resolve remained firm. "Eveline, darling, I understand your work is important to you, but your reputation..."
"Is already in tatters, according to the gossips, so what difference will one tea gathering make?"
"The difference between recoverable damage and complete social exile," her mother said with the kind of practical wisdom that came from navigating society's treacherous waters for decades. "Now, go upstairs and change into your blue afternoon dress. The one with the lace that makes you look less like you've been wrestling with ancient languages and more like a respectable young woman."
Eveline set down her quill pen with excessive care, recognizing defeat when she encountered it. "I would rather wrestle with Cicero's most convoluted prosethan endure an afternoon of ribbons and false smiles," she muttered, gathering her papers with the air of someone preparing for execution.
"Cicero never ruined a young woman's marriage prospects," her mother replied tartly. "Though given your affection for him, perhaps that's a moot point."
An hour later, Eveline found herself seated in Lady Ashford's oppressively elegant drawing room, surrounded by the cream of London society's female contingent, each one armed with a teacup and expressions of genteel curiosity that barely masked their appetite for scandal. The room itself seemed designed to intimidate, with its silk wallpaper depicting scenes of impossible delicacy and furniture that appeared too expensive to actually sit upon.
"Miss Whitcombe, how delightful that you could join us," Lady Ashford purred, her smile revealing teeth that reminded Eveline uncomfortably of a well-fed cat. "We see so little of you these days, though of course we understand you've been frightfully busy with your... work."
The pause before 'work' was weighted with enough implication to capsize an empire.
"The Duke of Everleigh's library requires considerable attention," Eveline replied, accepting a cup of tea. "Eighteen thousand volumes don't organize themselves, after all."
"Eighteen thousand!" Another lady exclaimed, her eyes widening with what might have been genuine interest or practiced surprise. "Such a vast collection for one man. Though I suppose libraries are rather gloomy places... unless, of course, one has lively company to brighten the shadows."
"Books provide excellent company," Eveline said, deliberately misunderstanding the insinuation. "They never gossip, rarely disappoint, and can always be closed when they become tedious."
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter circled the room like a bird looking for somewhere safe to land.
"Still, it must be quite overwhelming for a young lady," Lady Thornwood interjected, her fan fluttering with practiced elegance. "All those hours alone with only dust and Latin for companionship. Though perhaps you're not always alone? Surely His Grace must occasionally... inspect your progress?"
"His Grace maintains a professional interest in the restoration of his library," Eveline said, her voice carefully neutral despite the heat rising to her cheeks. "As any employer would."
"Of course," Lady Thornwood agreed with a smile that suggested she believed nothing of the sort. "It is odd, is it not? A duke's vast collection, entrusted to a young lady's care. I cannot imagine the books are the sole attraction for either party."
The teacup in Eveline's hand rattled slightly against its saucer as she set it down with more force than strictly necessary. "I assure you, Lady Thornwood, that my attraction to the position extends only to the opportunity to preserve and organize one of England's finest private collections of classical literature."
"How terribly noble of you," Miss Julia Harrington said from her position bythe window, where she'd been posing in a shaft of afternoon sunlight that highlighted her golden curls to perfection. "Though one wonders why His Grace didn't simply hire a proper librarian...a man, I mean, someone from one of the universities. It would have avoided so much... speculation."
"Perhaps His Grace values competence over convention," Harriet's voice cut through the gathering tension like a sword through silk. She'd been silent until now, seated beside Eveline like a guardian angel in rose-colored muslin. "After all, Miss Whitcombe's qualifications are exceptional; Professor Blackwood of Oxford himself has praised her translations, and her work has been published in the Classical Quarterly."
"Under a gentleman's name, no doubt," Miss Harrington replied with a tinkling laugh that made Eveline want to throw something, preferably something heavy and preferably at Miss Harrington's perfectly coiffed head.
"Under Professor Blackwood's name, with full acknowledgment of Miss Whitcombe's authorship to anyone who cared to inquire," Harriet said firmly. "Though I understand why you might be unfamiliar with academic publications, Miss Harrington. They do require rather more intellectual rigor than the latest fashion plates."
