He turned back to her, and she could see him wrestling with the situation, duty warring with desire, propriety battling with practicality.
"There's a small sitting room adjacent to the library," he said finally. "It has a settee that's quite comfortable, and it locks and unlocks from the inside as well. You could rest there until the storm passes, then leave at first light before the servants are up."
It was madness to stay, but going out into the storm in her current state seemed like greater madness. Her wrist was throbbing, her legs were still unsteady, and the thought of navigating London's dark streets in this weather made her stomach clench with fear.
"All right," she agreed quietly.
He showed her to the sitting room, which was indeed small but comfortable, with a settee that would serve as an adequate bed and a small fire already burning in the grate. He brought her blankets and a pillow, moving with careful efficiency, not quite meeting her eyes.
"Your wrist," he said suddenly. "We should check the bandage."
The binding had indeed loosened during their... activities... and he re-wrapped it with gentle hands, though she noticed his fingers trembled slightly.
"Adrian," she said softly as he prepared to leave. "What happened tonight..."
"Was a mistake," he interrupted, though his expression suggested he didn't entirely believe his own words. "A moment of madness brought on by the storm and your injury and too many weeks of denied attraction. In the morning, we'll pretend it never happened."
"Will we be able to?"
He paused at the door, his hand on the handle, and when he looked back at her, his expression was raw with conflicting emotions. "We'll have to. The alternative is your complete ruin and my... my complete undoing."
"You said I'd already undone you."
"You have," he admitted quietly. "That's precisely the problem."
He left then, closing the door softly behind him, and Eveline heard the click of the lock which was him ensuring her privacy and safety, even now. She sank onto the settee, pulling the blankets around her, and tried to process everything that had happened.
She'd been innocent this morning but now she was... what? Not ruined, not exactly, but certainly changed.
In the main library, unknown to her, Adrian stood at the window watching the storm fade, his hands clenched at his sides.
He could still taste her on his lips, still hear the sounds she'd made, still feel the way she'd trembled in his arms. The proper thing—the only thing—to do was to dismiss her, to end this before it destroyed them both. But the thought of never seeing her again, never hearing her mangle Cicero just to vex him, never watching her face light up over a particularly fascinating manuscript...
It was intolerable. She was intolerable. The whole of it was intolerable beyond bearing. And yet, for the briefest instant, Adrian allowed himself the honesty he denied the world: he was falling in love with Eveline Whitcombe, and no force of will could prevent the descent.
Chapter 11
The door opened so quietly she might have missed it if not for the slight change in air pressure, the subtle shift that told her she was no longer alone. Adrian stood in the doorway, still in yesterday's clothes though he'd attempted to restore some order—his cravat retied, his hair smoothed back, but exhaustion shadowed his eyes and stubble darkened his jaw.
"You should be resting," he said softly, moving into the room with that careful grace that suggested he was trying not to disturb her even though she was clearly awake.
"So should you," she countered, uncurling from the settee and immediately regretting it as various muscles protested. "Yet here we both are, haunting the library like particularly scholarly ghosts."
Something flickered in his eyes and she thought it was amusement, perhaps, or that dangerous warmth that had gotten them into such trouble mere hours ago. "How's your wrist?"
"Throbbing, but manageable." She held up the bandaged appendage for inspection. "Your medical skills appear adequate, though your bedside manner could use work."
"My bedside manner?" He moved closer, and she caught that scent of sandalwood that would forever make her think of darkness and storm and the way his mouth had felt against her skin. "I don't recall any complaints last night."
Heat flooded her cheeks, but she lifted her chin defiantly. "That wasn't bedside manner, that was... something else entirely."
"Yes," he agreed, now close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "It was."
They stood there for a moment, the morning light painting everything in soft gold, and Eveline thought perhaps this was how they'd manage it. With careful words and measured distances during daylight, pretending the darkness hadn't happened, hadn't changed everything, hadn't left them both marked in ways that went far deeper than her bandaged wrist.
Adrian reached out, his fingers brushing a loose curl from her temple with such tenderness that her breath caught. "Good morning, Eveline," he murmured,and her name in that morning-rough voice was almost her undoing.
"Good morning, Adrian," she whispered back, allowing herself this one moment of intimacy before they'd have to return to Your Grace and Miss Whitcombe, to employer and employee, to all the proper boundaries that seemed more like prison walls with each passing day.
