"Those are my accomplishments, not me," Eveline protested, her mind reeling. "You know nothing of my temperament, my habits, my... my anything beyond my scholarship."
"True," he conceded. "But I know that you make jests about conducting occult rituals with cheap gossip papers. I know that you face social ruin with your chin up and your wit intact. I know that you're sitting here trying to find employment rather than retreating to the country in defeat. These things tell me a great deal about your character."
Eveline rose abruptly, needing to move, to put distance between herself and this impossible conversation. She went to the window, looking out at the gray London street below, trying to organize her tumultuous thoughts.
"Why?" she asked finally, not turning around. "Why would you bind yourself to a woman with no reputation, no dowry, no connections that could benefit you? What could you possibly gain from such an alliance?"
She heard him rise, his footsteps approaching but stopping at a respectful distance. "What would I gain? A companion who could discuss Aristotle's Poetics with genuine understanding. Someone who wouldn't glaze over when I excitedly described a new manuscript acquisition. A partner in the truest sense; intellectual, scholarly, someone who understands that the life of the mind is as vital as breath itself."
"And what of... other aspects of marriage?" She felt her cheeks burn as she asked it, but it needed to be said. "What of affection, attraction, the things that usually draw men to offer marriage?"
"I find you quite attractive, if that's your concern," he said with disarming frankness. "You have the most expressive eyes I've ever seen because they light up when you speak of something that interests you. Your hair defies all attempts at conventional arrangement in a way I find charming. And your hands..."
"My hands?"
"They're ink-stained," he said simply. "Like mine. The mark of someone who lives through words, who shapes thoughts into meaning with pen and paper. I find that desperately attractive."
Eveline turned to face him, searching his face for signs of mockery or deception. She found only earnest sincerity and perhaps a touch of vulnerability that made him seem younger than his years.
"You're serious," she said, not quite a question.
"Completely serious." He returned to his chair but didn't sit, instead he stood behind it with his hands resting on its back. "I'm not a man given to romantic speeches, Miss Whitcombe. I'm too old for such things, too set in my ways. But I can offer you this: a home where your scholarship would be valued above your ability to pour tea. Resources to pursue whatever research captures your interest. Freedom to correspond with scholars across Europe without concern for propriety. A library that would be ours, not mine with you as custodian, but genuinely ours to build and tend together."
"And society? The scandal that follows me?"
"Scandal fades when respectability is restored by marriage. Oh, there might be whispers for a time, but the ton has a short memory when presented with the accomplished fact of a respectable match. Mrs. Theodore Browne, scholar and antiquarian, would be received where Miss Whitcombe, victim of scandal, would not."
It was all so reasonable, so calmly presented, so utterly different from... Eveline cut off that line of thought before it could fully form. She would not think of another library, another man, another proposal born of scandal and necessity.
"I need to think," she said finally. "This is... unexpected, if I may say so, but it doesn't begin to cover it."
"Of course." He moved toward the door, then paused. "I'm staying at the Blackstone Hotel, should you wish to send word. Take all the time you need to consider as I'm not a man who believes in pressing advantages or demanding quick decisions." He turned back, a slight smile playing at his lips. "However I would appreciate knowing before I return to Hampshire next week. The manuscript collection really does need attention, and I'd hate to hire someone inferior while waiting for your answer."
Despite everything, Eveline found herself smiling back. "Appealing to my scholarly vanity? How calculating of you."
"I prefer to think of it as understanding my audience," he replied. "Until we meet again, Miss Whitcombe."
He bowed and departed, leaving Eveline alone with her racing thoughts. She sank into her chair, staring at the door through which he'd disappeared as if it might provide answers to the chaos in her mind.
Marriage. Theodore Browne had offered her marriage.
Not with pretty speeches about love or devotion, not with promises of passion and desperate need, but with ink-stained fingers and talk of Byzantine manuscripts. It should have been ridiculous. Instead, it was oddly... appealing?
No, that wasn't quite right. It was safe. Comfortable. A solution to her current difficulties that didn't require her to humble herself or sacrifice her intellectual pursuits. He offered partnership, companionship, respect...all things she valued.
So why did her traitorous heart whisper that it wasn't enough?
A knock at the door interrupted her brooding. "Come in," she called,expecting Mary to come and clear the tea things.
Instead, Harriet burst through the door like a small hurricane, her eyes bright with curiosity. "I just passed the most distinguished-looking gentleman on the stairs. Mary says he was visiting you? Eveline Whitcombe, have you been entertaining gentlemen callers without telling me?"
"Hardly entertaining," Eveline said dryly. "More like being proposed to."
Harriet's mouth fell open in a most unladylike manner. "Proposed to? By whom? That gentleman? But who was he? What did he want? What did you say?"
"In order: Mr. Theodore Browne, a classical scholar of some repute. He wanted to marry me. And I said I needed to think about it."
"Theodore Browne?" Harriet sank into the chair he'd recently vacated, fanning herself dramatically with her hand. "The Theodore Browne who wrote that brilliant analysis of Theocritus? The one Professor Blackwood is always quoting?"
