"You're hovering," she said, trying to inject some lightness into the moment that felt far too heavy for such an innocent hour.
"I don't hover. Dukes don't hover."
"You're definitely hovering. Like a particularly well-dressed mother hen."
"Mother hen?" His eyebrow arched in that way that never failed to make her stomach flip. "I'll have you know that..."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs cut through their banter like a blade through silk. They sprang apart instinctively, Adrian stepping back several paces while Eveline attempted to smooth her hopelessly wrinkled dress and tame her wild hair into something resembling respectability.
Graves appeared in the doorway, his usual morning severity somewhat ruffled by the obvious surprise of finding his master in the library at such an hour and not alone. The butler's eyes, sharp as a hawk's despite his advanced years, took in the scene with one comprehensive glance: Eveline's disheveled appearance, her bandaged wrist, the way she was emerging from what was clearly the library's private chambers at dawn, Adrian's proximity and the intimate quality of the space between them that spoke of secrets and things that shouldn't be.
The silence stretched taut as a violin string, vibrating with unspoken implications and rapidly forming conclusions. Graves's expression shifted through several variations of shock before settling into something that might have been disapproval or disappointment.
"Your Grace," Graves finally managed, his voice carrying the kind of careful neutrality that screamed of internal upheaval. "I apologise for the interruption. I was coming to inform you that you have an early caller. The Earl of Hatherleigh has arrived on what he claims is urgent business regarding the Richmond property."
Adrian transformed before Eveline's eyes from the man who'd been tenderly touching her hair to the Duke of Everleigh, cold and commanding and utterly in control. His spine straightened, his expression hardened into aristocratic indifference, and when he spoke, his voice carried the kind of authority that had made grown men tremble in Parliament.
"Not a word of this to anyone, Graves."
The command cracked like a whip through the morning air, and Graves stiffened further, if such a thing were possible. "Of course not, Your Grace. I would never presume to..."
But fate, it seemed, had developed a particularly cruel sense of timing. More footsteps echoed on the stairs, these ones heavier and accompanied by the distinctive tap of a walking stick against the floor. Before any of them could move, before they could arrange themselves into something less compromising, the Earl of Hatherleigh himself appeared in the doorway.
William Hastings, Fifth Earl of Hatherleigh, was the sort of man who'd made a career out of being in the right place at precisely the wrong time or the wrong place at precisely the right time, depending on one's perspective. His presence at any gathering guaranteed that whatever happened would be thoroughly discussed in every drawing room in London within hours, not because he himself gossiped but because his wife, the formidable Lady Hatherleigh, had turned the collection and dissemination of scandal into something approaching an art form.
The Earl paused in the doorway, his shrewd eyes taking in the tableau with the kind of attention to detail that would have done credit to a painter. Eveline, clearly having spent the night, her dress wrinkled beyond any innocent explanation, her hair in complete disarray, a bandage around her wrist that spoke of some dramatic incident. Adrian, still in yesterday's clothes, standing far too close to her for propriety, with the kind of expression that suggested he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. Graves, looking like he'd swallowed something particularly unpleasant and was trying to decide whether to digest it or expel it.
The Earl's eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline in a gesture that managed to convey surprise, calculation, and a certain amount of salacious interest all at once. "Your Grace," he said, executing a bow that was perfectly correct yet somehow managed to feel mocking. "Miss Whitcombe. What an... unexpected pleasure to find you both here at such an early hour."
The emphasis on 'unexpected' and 'early' was subtle but unmistakable. Eveline felt the blood drain from her face as the full implications of the situation crashed over her like the storm from the previous night. This wasn't just discovery but it was complete, irreversible ruin.
"Lord Hatherleigh," Adrian said, his voice arctic enough to freeze the Thames. "You're earlier than expected for a call."
"Am I?" The Earl's smile was bland, but his eyes gleamed with the kind of interest that preceded social catastrophe. "I do apologise. I understood from your message that the matter was urgent. I didn't realise you were already... engaged."
The pause before 'engaged' was masterful in its implications. Eveline's hands clenched at her sides, her injured wrist protesting the movement, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional turmoil raging through her.
"Miss Whitcombe was cataloguing," Adrian said, though even he seemed to realize how weak the excuse sounded given the hour and her appearance.
"Of course," the Earl agreed with a knowing smile that made Eveline want to either slap him or sink through the floor. "Cataloguing. At dawn. After what appears to have been quite an eventful evening, judging by the young lady's injury."
He gestured toward her bandaged wrist with his walking stick, and Eveline instinctively pulled her arm behind her back, as if hiding the evidence could somehow undo what had already been seen and concluded.
"There was an accident," she managed, her voice coming out strangled. "With a water jug. During the storm."
"How unfortunate," the Earl murmured, though his tone suggested he found it anything but. "And His Grace, being the soul of chivalry, no doubt insisted onproviding... assistance."
The way he said 'assistance' made it sound positively indecent. Eveline felt heat rise in her cheeks, knowing that her blush would only confirm whatever sordid scenarios were already forming in the Earl's mind.
"The storm was severe," Adrian said, his jaw so tight Eveline could see the muscle jumping. "It would have been unconscionable to send Miss Whitcombe out in such weather, injured as she was."
"Unconscionable indeed," the Earl agreed. "Though I must say, the storm appears to have passed some hours ago. The roads have been clear since well before dawn and I had no trouble traveling from Grosvenor Square."
The trap closed with an almost audible snap. There was no innocent explanation for why Eveline was still here, why she looked so thoroughly disheveled, why she and Adrian had been standing so close when discovered, why the very air between them seemed to vibrate with intimacy and secrets.
"It is finished," Eveline whispered, the words escaping before she could stop them. "They will think..."
"They will not think," Adrian cut her off, his voice harsh with barely controlled fury, though whether at her, at the situation, or at himself, she couldn't tell. "They will know."
