Page 18 of A Literary Liaison
“Such skepticism,” he murmured with a barely audible chuckle. “What must I do to convince you of my hidden depths?”
“Depths? Your Grace, I’d settle for evidence of a shallow pit.”
His deep baritone laugh seemed to reverberate through her bones. “You know, most people at least pretend to find me charming.”
“I leave pretense to those with greater ambitions than honest journalism.”
“Honest journalism? Is that what you call those scathing articles?”
“I merely offer my opinion, Your Grace. Though I’m considering reporting on the debauched lifestyle of the Mayfair Mavericks—that notorious quartet of wealth, good looks, and roguishness consisting of yourself, the Marquess of Hereford, the Earl of Carlisle, and Mr. Patrick Adams. I fear keeping up with your collective exploits may prove exhausting.”
He stepped closer still, and Elisha caught the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather. “If I didn’t know better, Miss Linde, I’d think you were rather fixated on my activities.”
“Purely professional necessity, I assure you.”
“Is it indeed?” His voice had dropped to a low rumble that sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. “Then why, my sharp-tongued lady, are you blushing?”
Elisha cursed her fair complexion. “The punch must be stronger than I realized.”
“Tell me, do you believe people can change? Or are we forever bound by our reputations?”
The question felt oddly personal, though Elisha couldn’t quite grasp why. “I believe people reveal their true nature through their actions, Your Grace. Words are easily spoken.”
“Indeed they are. Though sometimes words can reveal more than actions—particularly when people write what they truly think rather than what society expects.” His gaze grew more intense. “That correspondence between E. Lovelace and A. Steele, for instance.”
Elisha’s breath caught. “You’ve been following that exchange?”
“Rather difficult to avoid, given the attention it’s garnered. Moreover, there’s something almost… personal about it. As if both writers are sharing far more than they intend.”
Before Elisha could respond, the conversation was interrupted by a burst of laughter from across the room. Both she and the duke turned to see what had caused the commotion.
“It seems Lady Binbrook has discovered Lord Whitmore’s poetry,” Elisha observed dryly. “Perhaps we should rescue his lordship before she reads it aloud.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Linde. Everything deserves a second chance—even terrible poetry.” His eyes held hers meaningfully. “Don’t you agree?”
The Soirée Part 2
Edgar paused inthe doorway of Hereford’s grand salon, his gaze immediately drawn to the familiar figure in azure silk. Miss Linde stood near the front of the rearranged seating, her notebook balanced on her knee with professional efficiency, her attention focused on Charles Dickens as he prepared for the evening’s contest.
Blast and damnation. Even in a room full of London’s finest, she commanded his attention with effortless grace. She was everything he could want in a woman—intelligent, spirited, fearless in her convictions. Everything except the birth and station that would make such wanting anything more than folly. No lady of proper breeding would work for a living, much less in the scandalous profession of journalism. Her very presence here tonight, brilliant and beautiful though she was, marked her as utterly beyond the pale of acceptable society matches for a duke.
The memory of Lucia’s tears still haunted him. His father’s threats, the scandal, the way Society had crushed their love with ruthless efficiency. And yet here he stood, drawn to another woman whose circumstances made her as impossible as she was irresistible.
“Lancaster!” Hereford’s voice broke through his brooding. “Stop mooning about like a lovestruck schoolboy and join us. Dickens is about to begin.”
A frisson of excitement swept through the room as the celebrated author made his way to the fore, acknowledging the warm receptionwith a modest bow.
“Mr. Dickens,” Lord Hereford intoned, “we entrust to you the task of posing the questions and arbitrating any disputes that may arise. Are you prepared to undertake this weighty responsibility?”
Dickens’ eyes twinkled with good humor as he replied, “My lord, I shall attempt to discharge my duties with all the impartiality and knowledge at my command. Though I dare say, judging between such illustrious minds may prove a greater challenge than penning a three-volume novel!”
A ripple of laughter coursed through the assembly, easing the palpable tension that had begun to build.
Charles Dickens surveyed the assembled company, then began his peculiar ritual of adjusting his waistcoat and checking his pocket watch. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “tonight’s charitable stakes are considerable. The ladies champion theMetropolitan Review’sliteracy program, while the gentlemen support the Mayfair Sailing Club for Underprivileged Youth.”
Edgar’s attention sharpened as he watched Elisha’s face light up with genuine enthusiasm at the mention of her program. Gone was the sharp-tongued critic; for a moment, she looked almost luminous with hope.
“Let us begin,” Dickens declared. “Ladies, gentlemen—‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’.”
