Page 1 of A Literary Liaison
The Review
Metropolitan Review, 8 January 1840
A Review ofWhispers of the Heartby Aengus Steele
Dear Esteemed Reader,
In the course of one’s earthly life, it is a rare privilege to encounter a literary work of such profound magnificence that it transcends the mere arrangement of words on a page. Such a work, through some indefinable transformation, may reach into the very depths of one’s being, soothing the small child within with whispered consolations and gentle caresses of the soul. Rarer still is the opus that, through its seemingly unpretentious narrative, renders even life’s darkest moments resplendent with an unexpected beauty.
Whispers of the Heart, penned by one Aengus Steele, is utterly devoid of such qualities.
E. Lovelace
Edgar Marshal Albury, the Duke of Lancaster, squinted at the broadsheet with his bloodshot eyes, which had been rendered thus by the arduous labor of excavating a subterranean passage from his wine cellar to the outhouse.
He read the review again, his jaw tightening with each word until a muscle twitched beneath his skin. The chair toppled backward as he shot to his feet, fury driving him to pace his study.
“The sheer audacity!” The empty room absorbed his thunderous voice. “Who is this E. Lovelace to dismiss months of labor with such… such casual cruelty?” The broadsheet crumpled in his grip, edges cutting into his palm. “A single paragraph to deliver her barb. At least have the courage to critique the work properly, you cowardly scribbler!”
His desk drawer rattled as he yanked it open with savage force, the inkwell jumping. “So you wish to engage in literary warfare, do you?” His voice dropped to a dangerous purr as he extracted fresh parchment. “Very well, let us cross quills, you pompous, self-important hack.”
The pen dipped into the ink with savage satisfaction, droplets spattering across the pristine page. A predatory smile curved his lips as he began his letter to Miss Lovelace. Each word was carefully chosen, dripping with honeyed venom.
My Most Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your recent critique of my humble offering has prompted me to express my deepest admiration…
Edgar set down his pen and savored each poisoned compliment. The final paragraph was particularly satisfying—let the mysterious critic try to wriggle out of that challenge without revealing herself as either a fraud or a hypocrite.
His rage demanded immediate action. Without hesitation, he folded the letter with deliberate care and sealed it with red wax. He’d be damned if he’d let some pompous scribbler’s condescension go unanswered.
“Anderson!” The secretary appeared within moments.
“Your Grace?”
“See that this is delivered to theMetropolitan Reviewoffices immediately.” Edgar thrust the letter forward with grim satisfaction. “And ensure they understand it requires urgent attention.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
As Anderson departed with his literary ammunition, the fury began to ebb, leaving behind a restless energy that clawed at Edgar’schest. He needed air, movement, distraction from the taste of wounded pride that lingered in his mouth.
Hatchard’s would clear his head. He needed books anyway—something to occupy his mind now that he’d fired his opening salvo in this literary war.
*
The bell aboveHatchard’s Book Shop tinkled softly as Edgar entered, leather and paper scenting the air around him. Morning sun slanted through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced between towering shelves. The satisfaction of having dispatched his letter had cooled during the walk, leaving a vague unease about his impulsive action.
No matter. What was done was done, and E. Lovelace richly deserved whatever discomfort his missive might cause.
Poetry would restore his equilibrium. Byron, perhaps. But as Edgar made his way toward that section, a woman reaching for theMetropolitan Reviewshelf caught his attention. Something about her purposeful movements—she moved like someone with a mission rather than a casual browser.
“Pardon me,” he murmured, stepping closer without moving aside. Curiosity drove him to see what had drawn her to that particular shelf.
She looked up—and Edgar’s breath caught. Her eyes were the most extraordinary shade of green, like sunlight through forest leaves, sparking with intelligence. Chestnut hair was pinned back severely, but rebellious curls had escaped to frame her face. Beautiful, certainly, but it was the quick intelligence in her gaze that held his attention.
“Not at all,” she managed, trying to step around him.
Edgar shifted slightly, trapping her between the shelf and a reading table. His gaze fell to the papers clutched in her hand—today’sMetropolitan. The same issue that contained that damnable review. “Ah, a fellow devotee of literature?”
