Page 16 of A Literary Liaison
Edgar’s attention sharpened as he spotted the severe-looking gentleman now approaching Miss Linde. “And who might that be?”
“Steven Thornton. Made his fortune in India, recently returned to establish a publishing house. Sharp as a tack, though he has all thewarmth of a tombstone.” Hereford paused, noting Edgar’s continued scrutiny. “Word has it he’s rather taken with Miss Linde.”
Edgar watched as Thornton’s granite expression softened in Miss Linde’s presence. The sight stirred something unexpectedly sharp in his chest. “Indeed? And Miss Linde’s feelings?”
“Difficult to say. Though I suspect you’ve developed your own interest in that particular mystery.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Edgar replied, even as Thornton leaned closer to whisper something in Miss Linde’s ear. “I merely find it curious that our most formidable opponent might be distracted by romance.”
“Miss Linde? Formidable?” Hereford’s eyes glittered with amusement. “You’ve clearly read her articles in theMetropolitan, then.”
Edgar’s pulse quickened as he recalled the offensive writing. “Oh yes, quite the sharp pen when it comes to critiquing the aristocracy. ‘The Frivolous Education of England’s Elite’—caused quite a stir last month.”
“As did her piece on the gaming hells of Mayfair.” Hereford chuckled. “I believe she referred to our set as ‘overgrown schoolboys with too many feathers and too little sense’.”
The description stung, particularly given Edgar’s own recent activities. “Charming.”
Then his attention sharpened. Adams had suggested E. Lovelace could be either Miss Linde or Miss Thornton. There was something remarkably similar between Miss Linde’s cutting articles about dissolute aristocrats and E. Lovelace’s brutal assessment of his novel—the same sharp wit, the same unflinching judgment.
*
“Did you seethe way His Grace was watching you?” Amelia whispered, though her tone held more concern than excitement. “Like a hawk circling its prey.”
Elisha followed her friend’s gaze to where the Duke of Lancaster stood with Lord Hereford, both men clearly enjoying some private conversation. “More likely he’s plotting how to crush the ladies’ team. Men don’t take kindly to intellectual competition from women.”
“Hmm.” Amelia’s voice carried a note of skepticism. “Though I’d wager he’s more interested in you personally than in any literary contest.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia. He’s exactly the sort of man I write about—overprivileged, undereducated, and utterly debauched.”
“Perhaps. But he seems rather… focused on you specifically.”
Before Elisha could respond, Mr. Thornton appeared at her side, his usual stern expression softening slightly. “Miss Linde, Amelia. I trust you’re both well-prepared for the upcoming literary combat?”
“As prepared as one can be,” Elisha replied. “I confess curiosity about what strategic advantages the gentlemen believe they possess.”
“Confidence, perhaps?” Mr. Thornton’s lips quirked in what might have been humor. “Though I suspect that may prove to be their downfall, given the ladies’ evident preparation.”
“You’ve noticed Lady Faulkner’s military-style organization, then?” Amelia asked.
“Complete with diagrams and reading assignments,” Elisha confirmed, unable to suppress her smile.
“Good Lord,” Mr. Thornton muttered. “I am grateful my team allegiance is with theMetropolitan Reviewwriters then.”
“Oh,” Amelia said, “I must get some cake before it’s all gone. I’m grateful Steven is here to keep you company, Elisha.”
“Don’t you dare, Amelia Thornton!” Elisha hissed so only her traitor of a friend could hear. “I know what you’re about!”
“I will be back shortly.” Amelia grinned and headed toward the buffet table, her limp pronounced from the day’s labor despite her effort to walk straighter.
“These affairs never fail to remind me how unsuited I am toLondon Society,” Thornton said as he joined her, his deep voice carrying a note of self-deprecation. “Though I suspect you’ve already discerned as much.”
“On the contrary,” Elisha replied, “you navigate these waters with remarkable skill for someone who claims to be unsuited to them.”
A quiet chuckle of amusement escaped him. “Necessity breeds adaptation, Miss Linde. In India, business often hinged on one’s ability to endure endless social obligations. Though I confess, my ideal evening involves nothing more taxing than a book by the fire and a large dog at my feet.” His lips quirked. “Which I currently do not possess.”
The unexpected touch of whimsy in his admission startled a laugh from her. “No dog yet, Mr. Thornton? Or do you refer to the book?”
A gentle chuckle warmed his voice. “Both, Miss Linde. As I am certain you noticed, my home on Russell Square remains rather… austere. It needs a woman’s touch, or so my sister frequently reminds me.” He paused, dark eyes warming slightly. “And a dog’s pawprints on the Turkish carpets.”
