"If I may, Your Grace..." Graves hesitated, then pressed on with the courage of long service. "Miss Whitcombe is a remarkable young woman. Intelligent, capable, and genuinely devoted to her work. It would be a tragedy if this morning's unfortunate timing were to destroy her future."
"What would you have me do, Graves?"
"What honor demands, Your Grace."
"Honour." Adrian tested the word, found it wanting. "Honour would have been sending her home the moment I realised I was developing feelings for her. Honour would have been maintaining appropriate boundaries. Honour would have been protecting her from myself."
"Perhaps, Your Grace. But we cannot change the past. We can only address the present and protect the future."
Adrian turned to study his butler, this man who'd served his family for forty years, who'd witnessed every triumph and catastrophe the Everleigh name had weathered. "You think I should marry her."
"I think, Your Grace, that you should consider what you can live with. Can you live with watching Miss Whitcombe's destruction, knowing you could have prevented it? Can you live with never seeing her again?" Graves paused at the door. "Or would living without her be the greater torment?"
The butler left, closing the door softly behind him, and Adrian was alone with his thoughts and the weight of decision.
Outside, London continued its morning routine, unaware that in the study of Everleigh Manor, a man was wrestling with the question of whether love born of scandal could survive being transformed into duty.
He thought of Eveline's face in the firelight, the way she'd trusted him completely, the way she'd given herself to him without reservation. She deserved better than a proposal born of necessity, better than a husband who'd been forced to the altar by gossip and speculation.
But then, she also deserved better than social ruin, better than becoming a cautionary tale whispered about in drawing rooms for years to come.
By the time the clock struck nine, Adrian had made his decision. He called for his carriage, dressed with particular care, and set out.
Chapter 12
The coachman cleared his throat. "Your Grace? Shall I wait?"
"Yes," Adrian replied, his voice rough with exhaustion. "This shouldn't take long."
Shouldn't it?The bitter thought came unbidden.You're about to propose marriage to a woman who has every reason to despise you. How long does one allocate for such spectacular failure?
He alighted from the carriage, his boots splashing in a puddle that reminded him painfully of another rainy evening, another shared shelter from a storm, another moment when the world had seemed full of possibility rather than ruin. The building before him was respectable but modest—a far cry from the grandeur of Everleigh Manor. This was where she lived, where she retreated each evening after their carefully maintained professional interactions, where she was now, no doubt, contemplating the wreckage of her reputation.
The front door was answered by a young woman whose appearance made Adrian pause mid-bow. She was perhaps five-and-twenty, with intelligent brown eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles and an abundance of chestnut curls that seemed determined to escape their pins. Her dress was practical rather than fashionable, ink stains on her fingers suggesting a fellow devotee of the written word. But it was her expression that struck him most forcefully. It was a mixture of recognition, wariness, and something that might have been protective fury.
"Your Grace," she said, and her voice carried the kind of careful neutrality that suggested barely leashed emotion. "I wondered when you would arrive."
Adrian straightened, uncertain how to proceed. "Forgive me, I don't believe we've been introduced. I am..."
"I know who you are." The words were clipped, precise. "The Duke of Everleigh. The man whose library my dearest friend catalogued. The man who..." She paused, seeming to wrestle with propriety before continuing. "The man who has featured rather prominently in this morning's gossip."
Ah.This must be the mysterious Harriet that Eveline had mentioned, the friend who understood her love of ancient texts, who had encouraged her to consider the position at his house. The friend who now stood like a guardian at thegate, clearly debating whether to admit him or send him away.
"Miss...?" Adrian ventured.
"Fairweather. Miss Harriet Fairweather." She did not curtsey, merely continued to study him with those sharp eyes. "And before you ask, yes, I know everything. Eveline sent word this morning about the... incident with Lord Hatherleigh."
Adrian felt heat creep up his neck. To have his most private disaster discussed, even between close friends, was disconcerting. But he supposed he had forfeited any right to dignity when he had allowed Eveline to remain through the night, when he had failed to protect her from the consequences of their mutual weakness.
"Then you understand why I must speak with her," he said quietly.
Something shifted in Miss Fairweather's expression; a flicker of what might have been sympathy quickly suppressed. "What I understand, Your Grace, is that my friend is currently suffering from a fever brought on by extreme distress. What I understand is that she has locked herself in her room rather than face what promises to be complete social ruin. What I understand is that you represent the catalyst of her destruction."
Each word landed like a blow, all the more devastating for being delivered in that same careful, controlled tone. Adrian found himself taking a step back, his hand tightening on his walking stick.
"You think me cruel?" he asked, though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Miss Fairweather's laugh was short and bitter. "I think you careless, which is perhaps worse. Tell me, Your Grace! When you allowed her to stay through the storm, did you think of the consequences? Did you consider what would happen when someone inevitably discovered her presence? Or were you too occupied in playing the hero to care?"
