Page 19 of A Literary Liaison
“Keats!” Edgar and Elisha spoke in perfect unison, their voices blending. Edgar caught her startled glance and saw the flush that rose to her cheeks.
The questions flew rapidly. “‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day’.”
“Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’.” Lady Faulkner called out, a split second before Lord Binbrook responded.
As the contest continued, Edgar found himself more intrigued by Elisha’s responses than concerned with winning. Her knowledge wasimpressive, but more than that—her passion for literature shone through.
“We find ourselves at an impasse,” Dickens announced after several tied rounds. “One final question shall determine the victor. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ Origin and context, if you please.”
Edgar stepped forward confidently. “Shakespeare’sHamlet, Act Three, Scene Two. Spoken by Queen Gertrude regarding the Player Queen’s vows.”
But before the gentlemen could celebrate, Elisha’s clear voice rang out. “While His Grace is correct about Shakespeare’s usage, those exact words first appeared in Sir Philip Sidney’sThe Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia, twenty years before Hamlet. Shakespeare was borrowing from Sidney.”
A profound silence fell. Edgar turned to find her watching him, challenge bright in her green eyes, and despite his competitive nature, he found himself more impressed than vexed.
Dickens nodded thoughtfully. “The lady’s answer demonstrates exceptional scholarship. The victory goes to the ladies!”
The room erupted in applause and congratulations. Edgar watched as Elisha was embraced by her teammates, her face radiant with triumph and something deeper—relief, perhaps, that her literacy program would receive the funding it desperately needed.
As the excitement began to settle, Edgar made his way to her side. The crowd had thinned around her, leaving them in a relatively private pocket near the windows.
“I concede defeat with grace,” he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. “Though I wonder if you might be persuaded to give me a chance to reclaim my honor in a more… private contest of wits?”
She turned, and for a moment he saw something flash in her eyes—interest, perhaps, even desire—quickly masked by practicedreserve. “Your Grace,” she said softly, “I rather think you’d find such a contest more challenging than you anticipate.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, enjoying the way her breath caught as he leaned slightly closer. “I’m counting on it.”
Before she could respond, she was swept away by well-wishers, but not before casting one last glance over her shoulder—a look that sent heat coursing through his veins.
*
The victory feltsweeter than Elisha had expected, not just for the triumph itself but for what it meant—funds for their literacy program, validation of her work, proof that she belonged in these intellectual circles despite her origins.
But even as she accepted congratulations from Lady Whitmore and the other ladies, the attention began to feel overwhelming. Everyone wanted to discuss her Sidney reference, to praise her knowledge, to claim acquaintance with the evening’s victor. The press of bodies and voices made the room feel stifling.
“I should take some air,” she murmured to Amelia when her friend appeared at her elbow. “All this excitement has left me rather warm.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“No, stay and enjoy the celebration. I won’t be long.”
Elisha slipped away to the terrace, grateful for the cool night air and blessed quiet. The moon cast silver light across the formal gardens below, and she could hear the distant sound of laughter from the salon behind her—celebration continuing without her, exactly as she preferred.
She’d barely had a moment to collect herself when she heard footsteps. She didn’t need to turn to know who had followed her.
“I trust you haven’t come out here to practice a victory dance?” The duke’s voice held warm amusement as he approached.
“I wouldn’t dare until I had returned to the privacy of my own chambers,” she replied, turning to face him.
His laugh was rich and genuine. “How considerate of you to spare the wounded pride of myself and my fellow gentlemen.”
“I believe I’ve already wounded it sufficiently for one evening.” She met his gaze directly, noting how the moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face.
He moved closer, and she caught the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that seemed to be his signature.
“You are either very brave or very foolish to address me so boldly, Miss Linde.” His voice was low with a hint of bewilderment.
“Perhaps I simply see no reason to treat you differently than any other man who values appearance over substance.” The words were sharp, but her voice held a slight tremor that betrayed her awareness of him.
