Page 27 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

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I’m not sure I’m willing to let go of what I’ve worked on for years.

And why should she? Just because Comerford suggested it might be the wise, sensible, boring thing to do? Oliver hadn’t insisted on Rafiq joining the program just so she could have her scientific curiosity kicked out of her.

Which, of course, begged the question of why he’d insisted on it in the first place.

He tipped the chair he was sitting in, allowing it to teeter on its hind legs. A gas lamp sat on the table before him, barely illuminating the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves that wrapped around the room. He was, naturally, still loitering around the university, unwilling to return to Rosewood lest he face his father.

God, he hated that he’d overheard Comerford’s conversation with Rafiq. But the door had been left ajar and, really, he’d just been passing by, so—

He shouldn’t have insisted on bringing her here.

Oliver swung forward, the chair legs hitting the floor with a loud crack. It was likely past eleven at this point, and the darkness might help him slink into the house unnoticed. Extinguishing the lamp, he navigated through the dark library and into the hallway where, to his surprise, he saw a faint glow spilling out of the open door of 107. He’d seen Rafiq remain at her bench, but surely she wouldn’t risk staying here so late.

Would she?

There was a chance that it was Comerford, burning the midnight oil. Dunn, even, had been known to remain after hours, drawing intricate diagrams of the plants he so often examined under his microscope. He peered into the room and felt himself stand to attention. It was Rafiq. She was hunched over a microscope, her free hand gripping a pencil that she held over a piece of paper. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her.

Truth be told, he never seemed to be able to.

It was those eyes, he reasoned. Big and clear and intelligent. Piercing, like she knew just what he was about. And, of course, the fact that she’d deigned to dress herself up in men’s clothing to join a haphazardly put together microscopy program.

If the windows were anything to go by, it was beyond dark outside. He couldn’t leave her here. Not alone, not knowing how high the chance was that she’d walk herself back to that townhouse of hers.

“I don’t think there’s enough light in here to see a damn thing on that slide,” he said, leaning against the door frame and keeping his voice soft and measured so as not to startle her.

A useless effort, because she jumped off the stool and dropped her pencil on the ground.

“Booth,” she said, her hand pressed to her chest. “You scared me, you—”

She cut herself off.

“Bastard?” he provided, walking into the room proper.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, taking shelter behind her chair.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he countered, deciding not to get any closer. If she was alarmed, he would keep his distance.

“I was—am—working,” she said, gesturing to her microscope. “Clearly.”

“Indeed? So was I,” he lied with a cheerful grin, delighting in the roll of her eyes.

They stared at one another, her chin lifting as if in challenge. She had avoided speaking to him all day, probably still irritated over that stupid stunt Jennings had pulled at the pub.

“What happened at the Duck—”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted, the ferocity of those three words making it sound like she very much did care.

“I did—what Jennings said was true,” he admitted. “And I did more than play a role in it, I—” He let out a nervous laugh. “I fought rather hard for it.”

“Obviously,” she said. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “Being invited here doesn’t say anything about the quality of anybody’s work, it—it doesn’t make someone a better scientist, or—”

“I know that,” she interrupted again. “Of course I know that. Would I continue to submit my work if I thought the approval of the Society was what made it worth continuing?”

“Exactly!” Oliver let out a breath. “Exactly. See? No harm done.”