The young man looked torn between propriety and excitement, excitement winning as it usually did with him. "I shouldn't, but... yes! Yes, this is too momentous to let pass unmarked."
Adrian poured three glasses, handing them around with ceremony. "To Miss Eveline Whitcombe," he said, raising his glass. "Translator, scholar, and living proof that brilliance cannot be suppressed by circumstance."
"To Miss Whitcombe!" Morrison echoed enthusiastically.
Eveline felt tears prick her eyes as she raised her own glass. "To possibility," she said. "And to friends who make the impossible possible."
They drank, the brandy burning warmth through her chest. Morrison immediately launched into questions about her translation approach, which led to an animated discussion of Ovid's use of mythological metaphor that lasted until well past dinner time.
"Goodness," Morrison said, finally noticing the darkness outside. "I've kept you both far too late. My apologies! I forget about everything when discussing classical literature."
"Never apologise for enthusiasm," Eveline told him. "It's one of the finest qualities a scholar can possess."
The young man glowed at the praise, gathering his things with obvious reluctance. "Will you be working on the Ovid tomorrow, Miss Whitcombe? I'd loveto observe your translation process if that wouldn't be intrusive."
"You're welcome to observe," she said, smiling at his eagerness. "Though I warn you, translation is often tedious work as there is lots of crossing out and starting over."
"The best work usually is," Morrison said earnestly. "Until tomorrow, then. Your Grace, Miss Whitcombe."
After he left, Eveline and Adrian sat in comfortable silence, the contract still spread on the table between them like a promise made tangible.
"Are you happy?" Adrian asked finally.
"Happy doesn't begin to describe it." She traced the edge of the contract with one finger. "I feel... expanded. As if I've been living in a small room and suddenly discovered doors I didn't know existed."
"And one of those doors leads to me?"
She looked up at his tone, light but with something vulnerable beneath. "You're not a door, Adrian. You're the person holding my hand as I walk through them."
He was beside her in an instant, pulling her up into his arms. "I love you," he said against her hair. "I love your brilliant mind and your terrible handwriting and the way you bite your lip when concentrating. I love that you're going to be published and recognized and probably become insufferably famous."
"Insufferably?" She pulled back to see his face. "I'll have you know I plan to be graciously famous. I'll sign books with elegant inscriptions and give lectures without a single controversial opinion."
"Liar." He kissed her nose. "You'll sign books with ink stains on your fingers and give lectures that make senior scholars apoplectic with rage. And I'll be in the audience, applauding every scandalous interpretation."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He kissed her properly then, deep and sweet and full of unspoken vows.
When they finally parted, the clock was chiming nine. "I should go," Eveline said reluctantly. "It's late, and tomorrow..."
"Stay."
The word hung between them, loaded with possibility.
"Adrian..."
"No...not like that." He colored slightly. "Just... stay for dinner. It's late, you haven't eaten, and I want to celebrate with you properly. We'll be perfectly proper. Morrison could join us again if that would make you more comfortable."
She considered the ramifications; staying for dinner, the two of them alone in the intimate setting of his private rooms. It was a line they hadn't crossed yet, for all their acknowledged feelings.
"Just dinner?" she clarified.
"Just dinner. And perhaps some thoroughly academic discussion of Ovid's use of erotic imagery." His grin turned wicked. "For scholarly purposes, naturally."
"Naturally." She found herself smiling back. "All right. Dinner. But I'mchoosing the topics of conversation, and they will not include erotic imagery of any kind."
"Joyless."
