"Only on Tuesdays, apparently."
They stood there looking at each other across the suddenly vast distance of three feet, both clearly struggling with the desire to close that distance again. Finally, Adrian seemed to shake himself, gathering his composure like armor.
"I should go," he said, though he didn't move.
"Yes," she agreed, though she didn't want him to.
"We'll pretend this never happened."
"Of course."
"We'll maintain appropriate boundaries going forward."
"Naturally."
"And you'll stop deliberately mispronouncing Cicero to vex me."
"Now that is asking too much of me, Your Grace."
Chapter 10
The storm arrived with the kind of theatrical violence that suggested nature had been taking lessons from Gothic novelists. Thunder cracked across the London sky with enough force to rattle the windows of Everleigh Manor, and Eveline, who'd been attempting to pour water from the heavy crystal jug kept on the library's side table, startled so violently that the vessel slipped from her grasp.
The crash was spectacular. Crystal met the floor with an explosion of glittering shards that scattered across like deadly diamonds. Eveline jerked back instinctively, but not quickly enough, as a particularly vicious piece caught her wrist as she tried to steady herself against the table, opening a gash that immediately began bleeding with alarming enthusiasm.
"Oh, curse it," she muttered, then immediately glanced around to ensure no one had heard her use such language. The library was empty, of course—it was well past eight in the evening, and she had not left yet. She'd intended to leave, but the translation of a particularly fascinating Greek text on ancient medical practices had kept her absorbed far longer than intended.
Now she stood among the crystal wreckage, blood dripping steadily from her wrist onto the priceless rug, feeling foolish and increasingly lightheaded. She grabbed her handkerchief, which was hopelessly inadequate for the task and tried to bind the wound, but her left hand was shaking too badly to tie a proper knot, and the blood seemed determined to escape despite her efforts.
The door burst open with enough force to make her jump again, and Adrian stood there like some avenging angel in evening dress, his hair slightly disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it; his telltale sign of agitation.
"What on earth..." He took in the scene in one comprehensive glance: the shattered crystal, the blood, her pale face and futile attempts at self-healing. Something shifted in his expression from irritation to something far more intense. "Heavens, Eveline."
He crossed the room in three strides, and before she could protest or pretend everything was perfectly fine, he'd taken her wrist in his hands with surprising gentleness. His fingers were warm and steady against her clammy skin, and she found herself focusing on that warmth rather than the throbbing pain orthe rather alarming amount of blood.
"It's nothing," she managed, though her voice came out embarrassingly weak. "Just a scratch, really. The storm startled me and I dropped the jug like an absolute fool."
"Stop talking," he commanded, though his tone was more worried than harsh. Without hesitation, he yanked off his perfectly tied cravat, probably worth more than her monthly wages, and began binding her wrist with practiced efficiency that suggested this wasn't his first experience with battlefield medicine, so to speak.
"Your cravat," she protested weakly. "It's silk, it'll be ruined."
"I have dozens of cravats. I only have one cataloguer who insists on working through thunderstorms and apparently enjoys juggling crystal." His fingers worked quickly but carefully, wrapping the soft fabric around her wrist with just enough pressure to stem the bleeding without cutting off circulation. "What were you thinking, staying so late? The weather's been threatening all day."
"I was translating Galen's theories on blood circulation, which is rather ironic given current circumstances, and I did not realise how late it was." She tried for a light tone, but the room was starting to spin slightly, and she swayed on her feet.
Adrian cursed, using words that would have made a seaman proud and slipped an arm around her waist to steady her. The sudden press of his body against hers, solid and warm and smelling of that sandalwood cologne that haunted her dreams, made her head spin for entirely different reasons.
"We need to get you seated before you faint and I have to explain to your mother why her daughter was found unconscious in my library at an inappropriate hour."
"I don't faint," she said with as much dignity as she could muster while essentially being held upright by her employer. "I occasionally experience temporary disruptions in spatial equilibrium."
"You faint," he corrected, but there was something almost fond in his tone. "Come, this side has better light and a fire. I can examine the wound properly there."
He guided her through the connecting door to the main library, his arm never leaving her waist, and Eveline found herself leaning into him more than strictly necessary. She could blame it on blood loss, though the truth was that being this close to him after weeks of carefully maintained distance was making her entire body hum with awareness.
The main library was indeed warmer, with a fire crackling in the massive hearth and candelabras casting dancing shadows across the towering shelves. Rain lashed against the windows with increasing violence, and another crack of thunder made the flames flicker. Adrian settled her in one of the leather chairs near the fire, then knelt before her, the Duke of Everleigh on his knees on the carpet—to examine her wrist more closely.
"You needn't worry so much," she said, though her protest was undermined by the way her breath caught when he carefully unwound the makeshift bandageto inspect the damage. "It's barely a scratch."
