"And you?"
"I'll dream of you. As always."
She floated up to her rooms in a haze of wine and kisses and impossible dreams suddenly made tangible. The publishing contract lay in her portfolio, real as stone. Tomorrow she would sign it, officially beginning her journey as a recognized translator.
But tonight, she allowed herself to simply be happy. To revel in work appreciated, love acknowledged, a future bright with possibility.
The next morning brought a return to routine, but everything felt different now. She arrived at Everleigh Manor to find Morrison already ensconced in the library, practically vibrating with excitement over the palimpsest.
"I've been researching treatment methods," he announced before she'd even removed her cloak. "There's a new technique using chemical washes that might reveal the undertext without damage."
"Show me," she said, settling at the table as he spread out his research.
Adrian joined them shortly after, and the three of them spent the morning deep in scholarly debate. It was becoming her favorite kind of working day—the three of them united in intellectual pursuit, ideas flowing freely without regard for rank or position.
"We should write to Professor Melville at Cambridge," Morrison suggested. "He's done extensive work with palimpsests."
"An excellent idea," Adrian agreed. "Eveline, would you compose the letter? Your reputation is beginning to carry weight in scholarly circles."
My reputation. The words sent a thrill through her. Not scandal, not notoriety, but genuine scholarly reputation.
She spent the afternoon working on her Ovid translations while Adrian attended to estate business and Morrison catalogued his French discoveries. The familiar rhythm of Latin poetry soothed her, though she found herself distracted by memories of the previous evening; Adrian's hands on her face, his voice promising patience, the taste of lemon tart and possibility.
"You're smiling at Ovid," Adrian observed, making her jump. She hadn't heard him return. "Either I've been grossly misunderstanding his poetry, or your thoughts have wandered from ancient Rome."
"Ovid can be quite amusing when he chooses," she said primly, though she felt heat rise in her cheeks.
"Mmm. And which amusing passage has you blushing so charmingly?"
"I'm not blushing. The room is warm."
"Of course it is." He leaned over her shoulder, ostensibly examining her work but really just torturing her with his proximity. "This is excellent," he said, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "The way you've handled the wordplay in this section preserves both meaning and music."
"Adrian," she warned as his hand came to rest on the back of her chair, his thumb just brushing her shoulder blade.
"Yes?" All innocence, though she could hear the smile in his voice.
"We agreed to maintain professional behaviour during working hours."
"We did." His thumb traced a small circle against her back, the touch burning through layers of fabric. "Although I don't recall specifically defining working hours. Does that include luncheon? Tea? The moments between one task and another?"
"You're impossible."
"Impossibly in love," he corrected, but he stepped back, giving her space to breathe. "How much more do you have to complete on this section?"
"Another hour perhaps. Why?"
"Because Harriet sent word. She's coming for tea, eager to hear about your publishing contract." He grinned at her surprise. "Did you think I wouldn't write to her immediately? Your dearest friend deserved to know of your triumph."
Before she could respond, Morrison's voice carried from his corner: "Oh, blast!"
They turned to find him blotting frantically at a spreading ink stain, his latest notes ruined.
"I'm so sorry," he stammered. "I knocked over the inkwell reaching for a reference. Your Grace, I'll replace the ink, and of course I'll recopy all the damaged work..."
"Morrison," Adrian interrupted gently. "It's ink, not blood. Accidents happen when we're passionate about our work."
The young man's relief was palpable. "Thank you, sir. I'll be more careful."
