She ran her fingers along the spine of a particularly fine edition of Plutarch, trying not to notice how he watched the gesture with an intensity that suggested he was imagining those fingers elsewhere. "And the Byzantine manuscript collection?"
"In the case by the window. I thought you might want to review them beforeyour first day at the museum. Thornbury mentioned you'd made some preliminary observations he's eager to discuss."
"Thursday," she said, as much to remind herself as him. "My first official museum day is Thursday."
"I know." His voice carried an odd note. "I may have memorized your schedule. Purely for household planning purposes, you understand. Can't have the Cook preparing elaborate luncheons on your museum days."
The mention of luncheon made her stomach perform a small flip that had nothing to do with hunger. They would be taking meals together. Of course they would as it was part of the position, part of maintaining the fiction that this was a normal employment arrangement rather than an elaborate dance around feelings neither could afford to fully acknowledge.
"About meals," she began, but he was already moving to the bell pull.
"I typically take luncheon at one, but we can adjust to suit your work patterns. Tea at four, though I confess I often forget when deep in research. Perhaps you might help civilize my scholarly habits."
"I'm not certain my habits are particularly civilized. Harriet claims I once went an entire day sustained only by Latin conjugations and righteous indignation."
His laugh filled the space between them, warm and rich. "Then we'll be uncivilized together, though I draw the line at ink stains on the tablecloth. My housekeeper has standards, even for eccentric scholars."
A knock interrupted whatever response she might have made. Graves entered bearing a tea tray that seemed far too elaborate for a morning work session.
"I took the liberty of requesting refreshments," Adrian explained as Graves arranged the service with practiced efficiency. "Thought you might appreciate sustenance before diving into the Byzantine collection."
She watched him pour with those elegant hands that had touched her with such desperate passion now performing the mundane ritual of tea service. He remembered that she took hers with just a touch of milk, no sugar. Such a small thing, yet it made her chest tight with something dangerously close to tenderness.
"Now then," he said, settling into the chair across from her with his own cup, maintaining a careful distance that somehow made the space between them more charged than if he'd sat close enough to touch, "shall we discuss your priorities for the cataloguing project?"
They fell into the work with an ease that surprised her. This was familiar ground; discussing organizational systems, debating the merits of chronological versus thematic arrangement, losing themselves in the minutiae of scholarly pursuit. For whole minutes at a time, she could forget that this was the man who'd kissed her senseless in a darkened library, who'd declared his love with an openness that still made her breath catch.
Almost.
Because then he would reach for a volume at the same moment she did, their fingers brushing in a contact that sent lightning through her entire arm. Or hewould lean over to examine a notation she'd made, and his proximity would flood her senses with the scent of his cologne. Something expensive and subtle that made her want to bury her face in his neck and breathe deeply.
Professional. Collegial. Scholarly.
The morning passed in a blur of productive work punctuated by moments of acute awareness. By the time the clock chimed one, she had made significant progress on the cataloguing system and filled several pages with notes for her Byzantine research. She'd also developed a fierce crick in her neck from maintaining rigid posture whenever he came near.
"Luncheon?" Adrian suggested, rising and stretching in a way that made his coat pull appealingly across his chest. "Unless you'd prefer to continue working. I'm often guilty of forgetting meals when absorbed in research."
Her stomach chose that moment to growl audibly, making them both laugh and easing some of the tension that had been building like atmospheric pressure before a storm.
The small dining room was intimate without being inappropriate, the table set for two with fine china that managed to be elegant without ostentation. Adrian held her chair, a gesture that should have felt archaic but somehow felt natural, his fingers barely grazing her shoulders as she sat.
"I hope you don't mind," he said, taking his own seat, "but I've instructed the Cook to keep meals simple during work days. Nothing that requires extensive ceremony or interrupts the flow of scholarship."
The meal was indeed simple by aristocratic standards. A clear soup, cold meats, cheese and fresh bread that was still warm from the oven. Yet it was far finer than anything she'd eaten in weeks, and she had to resist the urge to fall upon it like a starving woman.
"Tell me about your Byzantine theory," Adrian said, spreading butter on his bread with those distractingly elegant hands. "Thornbury was nearly beside himself with excitement when he wrote, but his handwriting deteriorates proportionally to his enthusiasm."
She launched into an explanation of her observations about scribal variations, grateful for a topic that fully engaged her mind. Adrian listened with an intensity that would have been flattering if it weren't so unsettling, asking questions that showed he understood the significance of her discoveries.
"You're suggesting that what previous scholars dismissed as copying errors might actually be evidence of regional variations in Byzantine scholarly practice?" He leaned forward, genuine intellectual interest lighting his features. "That's brilliant. It completely reframes how we understand manuscript transmission."
"It's just a theory," she demurred, though his praise warmed her more than the soup. "I'll need to examine more manuscripts to be certain. The museum's collection should provide ample evidence either way."
"Thursday can't come soon enough, then." Something flickered in his eyes. "For your research, I mean. The advancement of Byzantine scholarship waits for no one."
The afternoon continued in much the same vein; productive work interspersed with moments of crackling awareness. They developed a rhythm of sorts, moving around each other in the library with careful choreography, maintaining distance even as every accidental touch sent sparks through her nervous system.
By four o'clock, when tea arrived unbidden, Eveline had made enough progress to feel justified in her employment and enough mistakes in her notations to betray her distraction. Adrian, she noticed, had been reading the same page for nearly twenty minutes.
