The words dropped between them like stones in still water, sending ripples through the careful balance they'd achieved.
"Adrian..."
"Not now," he rushed to clarify. "Not until you're ready, until your work isestablished and your reputation secure. But someday, Eveline. Marry me someday."
"That's not a question," she pointed out, her heart racing.
"No," he agreed. "It's a promise. A statement of intent. I will wait as long as necessary, support your work however I can, but someday I want to call you my wife. I want the right to love you openly, to stand beside you at lectures and say 'that brilliant woman is mine.' I want our names linked not by scandal but by choice."
"Adrian..." She pulled back slightly, needing distance to think. "Marriage would complicate everything. Your family, society, my work..."
"Everything is already complicated." He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones. "At least marriage would make it complicated in a legal, church-sanctioned way."
Despite everything, she laughed. "That's your argument? Religious approval for our impropriety?"
"Would you prefer I compose sonnets? I could, you know. They'd be terrible, lots of forced rhymes about Byzantine manuscripts and classical conjugations, but I'd attempt it if that's what it takes."
"Don't you dare." She leaned into his touch. "I've read your poetry. It's marginally worse than your handwriting."
"Cruel woman. And here I thought you loved me for my mind."
"I do." She turned her head to press a kiss to his palm. "Among other attributes."
"Other attributes?" His voice dropped to that register that never failed to affect her. "Do tell, Miss Whitcombe. In detail. With classical references if possible."
She might have responded, might have provided a thoroughly annotated catalogue of his various attractions, but a discreet cough from the doorway interrupted them. They turned to find Morrison hovering uncertainly, a bundle of papers clutched to his chest.
"I'm terribly sorry," the young man stammered. "I did knock, but no one answered, and I have something rather urgent..."
"It's fine, Morrison." Adrian stepped back, though his hand lingered on Eveline's waist. "What's so urgent?"
"It's from Mr. Cadwell, for Miss Whitcombe." Morrison thrust the papers forward like a shield. "He says it's the publishing contract for the Ovid translations, and he needs them reviewed and signed as soon as possible. Something about printing schedules?"
Eveline took the papers with hands that weren't quite steady. The contract. For her translations. To be published under her name. The reality of it hit her like a physical blow, and she sank into the nearest chair.
"Miss Whitcombe?" Morrison's voice seemed to come from very far away. "Are you well?"
"She's overwhelmed," Adrian said quietly, crouching beside her chair. "It's been quite a day for professional advancement."
She looked at the contract, the legal language that would make her officially a published translator. Her name in print. Her work recognized. Everything she'd dreamed of, laid out in neat legal phrases.
"Read it aloud," Adrian suggested. "Sometimes hearing the words makes them real."
With a shaking voice, she began: "Agreement made this day between Cadwell & Associates, Publishers, and Miss Eveline Whitcombe, Translator, for the publication of a new English rendering of Ovid's collected works..."
Morrison listened with rapt attention, occasionally exclaiming at particularly favorable terms. Adrian watched her face, his expression soft with something that looked like pride mixed with love.
"Fifty pounds on signing," she continued, "with additional royalties of ten percent on all copies sold after the first thousand..."
"That's extraordinary," Morrison breathed. "Ten percent royalties for a first publication? Mr. Cadwell must have tremendous faith in your work."
"Or His Grace is a persuasive negotiator," Eveline said, looking at Adrian with suspicion.
"I may have mentioned to Cadwell that other publishers would likely be interested," Adrian admitted without shame. "Competition does wonderful things for contract terms."
"You interfered?"
"I advocated. There's a difference." He rose, moving to pour brandy from the decanter on the side table. "This calls for a celebration, don't you think? Morrison, you'll join us?"
