Eveline thought of the locked cabinet, of forbidden texts scattered across a reading table, of Adrian's hand cupping her jaw and his voice rough with desire. "It doesn't matter if there is. Nothing can come of it."
"The ton doesn't care about books, Evie. They care about whispers. And whispers grow louder with each passing day." Harriet stopped walking, turning to face her friend directly. "A duke's interest, even professional, can ruin a woman. A duke's personal interest? That's complete destruction."
"Then I'll be destroyed," Eveline said with a firmness that surprised them both. "Better dust and Latin than lace and poison smiles. I cannot survive in the world those ladies demand, Harriet. I've known it for years, but today simply confirmed it. They'll never accept me as I am, so why should I contort myself trying to fit their mold?"
"Because the alternative is complete social exile," Harriet said urgently. "You think you can live without society, but what happens when your family suffers for your choices? When your mother can no longer show her face at gatherings? When Charles finds his own prospects diminished because his sister is consideredruined?"
The questions hit like physical blows, each one finding its mark with painful accuracy. Eveline had been so focused on her own desires, her own frustrations, that she hadn't fully considered the wider implications of her choices.
"I should quit," she said quietly, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth. "I should write to His Grace tonight and resign my position."
"You should," Harriet agreed, though her expression was sympathetic. "But you won't, will you?"
Eveline thought of the library, of the thousands of books still waiting to be organized, of the medieval manuscripts that needed proper preservation, of the joy she felt every morning when she entered that sacred space. And indeed, she thought of Adrian too; his rare smiles, his unexpected vulnerabilities, the way he looked at her like she was both a puzzle and a revelation.
"No," she admitted. "I won't."
Harriet sighed, squeezing her arm affectionately. "Then at least be careful. The gossip today was cruel but relatively tame. If they scent real scandal, they'll tear you apart like hounds with a fox."
"Let them try," Eveline said with more bravado than she felt. "I have eighteen thousand books to organize. I don't have time for their petty concerns."
But as Harriet left her at her door with a final worried embrace, Eveline couldn't shake the feeling that the afternoon's confrontation had been merely the opening salvo in what promised to be a much longer and bloodier campaign.
***
Monday morning arrived grey and drizzling, matching Eveline's mood as she made her way to Everleigh Manor. She'd spent the weekend alternating between defiant determination to ignore society's whispers and nauseating anxiety about facing Adrian after their charged encounter in the library.
She'd barely removed her damp pelisse when Graves appeared, his expression even more disapproving than usual, if such a thing were possible.
"His Grace requests your immediate presence in the study, Miss Whitcombe."
The study, not the library. That couldn't bode well.
She found Adrian standing by the window, his back to her, hands clasped behind him in a posture that radiated tension. He didn't turn when she entered, didn't acknowledge her presence for several long moments that stretched like centuries.
"Your Grace," she finally said, needing to break the suffocating silence. "You wished to see me?"
He turned then, and his expression was carefully blank, the kind of controlled neutrality that was somehow worse than anger. "I've heard about Saturday's tea gathering."
Of course he had. News traveled through London's aristocratic circles fasterthan plague through a rat-infested ship.
"It was a delightful gathering," she said with false brightness. "Lady Ashford serves excellent tea, though her choice in wallpaper leaves something to be desired."
"Don't." The single word cut through her attempted levity like a blade. "Don't pretend this is amusing, Miss Whitcombe. Your reputation teeters upon a knife's edge, and you're making jests about wallpaper?"
"Would you prefer I dissolve into tears? Beg your forgiveness for the crime of attending a tea gathering?" The words came out sharper than intended, her own tensions from the weekend boiling over. "I'm well aware of what's being said about me, about us, about this entire arrangement."
"Are you?" He moved closer, and she could see the shadows under his eyes that suggested he'd slept as poorly as she had. "Do you understand that association with me, given my history, makes you an even greater target for speculation?"
"Your history is not my concern..."
"It becomes your concern when Lady Juliette's name is invoked as a warning about what happens to women who entangle themselves with me," he said harshly. "When your name is linked with mine in ways that suggest... impropriety."
"Then dismiss me," she challenged, lifting her chin despite the way her heart clenched at the thought. "End my employment, send me away, solve the problem entirely."
Something flickered across his face which looked like pain. "Is that what you want?"
"What I want is to do my work without being treated like either a curiosity or a cautionary tale," she said, frustration making her bold. "If knowledge is ruinous, then I embrace it gladly. I could never survive in the world those ladies demand—the world of careful smiles and calculated conversations and pretending to be less than I am to avoid threatening masculine pride."
