A distant door slammed somewhere in the house, the sound breaking through their fever like cold water. They sprang apart, both breathing hard, and Eveline was mortified to realize her hair was half down and her carefully professional appearance thoroughly destroyed
He kissed her once more, slow and claiming, before tearing himself back with visible effort. His hands lingered at her waist, possessive, as though letting go of her cost him dearly. “Go. Before I ruin you beyond saving.”
"I should..." She slid off the table, hands shaking as she tried to repair her hair. "This can't...we agreed..."
"I know what we agreed." Adrian's voice was rough, his own appearance equally disordered. "But Eveline, I can't..." He stopped, visibly struggling for control. "This week has been torture. Having you here, maintaining this fiction of professional distance when all I want..."
"Don't." She held up a hand, needing to stop him before he said something that would make it impossible to continue. "Please. We both know what this is. What we want. But we also know what I need. My work, my independence, my reputation as a scholar rather than your..."
"You're not my anything," he said fiercely. "You're your own person. That's what makes this so impossible. If you were the kind of woman who would give up everything for a man's protection, I wouldn't..." He laughed, short and bitter. "But you're not. You're brilliant and independent and stubborn, and I love you for it even as it drives me to distraction."
"Then we need to be stronger," she said, though every fiber of her being protested the words. "We need to find a way to work together without..."
"Without wanting to kiss you every time you correct my Latin? Without going half-mad when you wear your hair in that particular style that shows your neck? Without spending every night wondering if you're lying awake thinking of me as I'm thinking of you?"
"Yes," she whispered, though they both knew it was impossible.
They stood there in the wreckage of their professional boundaries, hair mussed and breathing unsteady, the taste of each other still on their lips. The week that had started with such careful control was ending in spectacular failure.
"I should go," Eveline said finally. "Take the weekend to... to think. To remember why this arrangement matters more than what we want."
"And Monday?"
"Monday we try again. With better boundaries. Clearer rules. Perhaps... perhaps we shouldn't take meals together. And I could work in a different room..."
"No." The word was flat, final. "I won't have you hidden away like something shameful. You're my Senior Classical Scholar, and you'll work where the materials are. We'll simply have to develop better self-control."
She gathered her things hastily, not trusting herself to linger. At the door, she paused, looking back to find him standing where she'd left him, hands braced on the table as if for support.
"Adrian?"
He looked up, and the raw hunger in his eyes nearly undid her resolve.
"This position, these opportunities—they mean everything to me. You know that, don't you? It's not that I don't want..." She struggled for words. "In another world, another time, if I were a different sort of woman..."
"I don't want a different sort of woman." His voice was steady now, the duke reasserting control over the man. "I want you, exactly as you are. And if that means learning to work beside you without touching you, if that means cold baths and sleepless nights and careful distance, then so be it. Your work matters. Your future matters and we shall find a way."
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and fled before her resolution could crumble entirely.
The weekend passed in a haze of translation work and self-recrimination. She threw herself into the Ovid project, trying to lose herself in the familiar rhythms of Latin poetry, but even Ovid's sensuous verses seemed tame compared to the fire Adrian had kindled with his kisses.
Harriet, of course, knew something had happened the moment she saw her.
"You kissed him," she said without preamble when she arrived for Sunday tea. "Don't bother denying it. You have that particular expression of mingled ecstasy and despair that only comes from spectacular romantic folly."
"We kissed each other," Eveline corrected, then buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Harriet, what am I going to do? How can I work there, day after day, when just being in the same room with him makes me forget every sensible resolution?"
"You could marry him," Harriet suggested mildly. "Novel solution, I know, but it has been known to resolve the problem of inappropriate desire."
"And give up everything I've worked for? Become the duchess who dabbles in translation rather than a recognized scholar in my own right?" Eveline shook her head. "You know that's not possible."
"Do I? Because from where I sit, I see a man who's done everything possible to ensure your work is recognized and valued. He created a position that lets you pursue your scholarship. He's supporting your museum work, your publications. How exactly would marriage to him diminish that?"
"Because the world would see me as his wife first, scholar second. Every achievement would be attributed to his influence rather than my ability. I've fought too hard for recognition to give it up now."
Harriet was quiet for a moment, stirring her tea with unusual concentration. "Speaking of giving things up, I have news."
“All talks of me getting married to that old man have been halted.”
