Page 2 of A Literary Liaison
“Indeed.” Her chin lifted, refusing to be intimidated by his looming presence.
That defiant tilt sent something warm through Edgar’s chest. He pulled a copy of the Metropolitan from the shelf, opening it deliberately to the review that had driven him from his house in a fury. “And what do you make of this?” He gestured to the page. “Rather harsh, wouldn’t you say?”
“On the contrary,” she replied, her voice taking on a lighter, more conversational tone. “I thought the review quite sensible, though perhaps a touch severe.”
Edgar’s carefully restored calm evaporated. Here was someone defending his tormentor, speaking as if literary assassination were merely good sense. “Sensible? She practically destroyed the poor author.”
“Well, I shouldn’t go quite that far.” Her head tilted consideringly. “Though I confess the novel did seem rather… earnest in its emotional appeals.”
The diplomatic phrasing stung worse than if she’d simply echoed Lovelace’s brutal assessment. “I see. I gather you’ve read the work in question?”
“Oh yes, I make it a point to read what everyone’s discussing.”
“And you consider yourself equipped to judge such matters?” His voice carried a sharper edge than he’d intended.
“I hardly think one needs special credentials to recognize when a story rings true versus when it…” She paused delicately. “…perhaps tries rather too hard to wring feeling from its readers.”
Heat rose in Edgar’s collar. Her measured tone somehow made the criticism worse than outright condemnation. “How enlightening. Tell me, what qualifies you to distinguish between genuine emotion and mere literary artifice? What profound experiences have shapedyour understanding of human passion?”
Color flooded her cheeks, and Edgar felt a twist of satisfaction at having finally penetrated her composed facade. “Sir, that is hardly an appropriate question to pose to a lady you’ve only just met.” Her voice remained steady, but he caught the slight tremor of indignation. “My personal experiences are neither your concern nor relevant to the matter at hand.”
“Of course not.” Edgar stepped back with exaggerated courtesy. “Forgive my impertinence, Miss…?”
She gathered her things without supplying her name. “Good day, sir.”
She swept past him, her head high, but Edgar caught the slight quickening of her step as she made her escape. He watched her retreat—the proud set of her shoulders, the way she clutched her books like armor against further interrogation.
Damn impertinent woman. Who did she think she was, dismissing his questions and walking away from him? A duke, no less. The audacity was…
Actually rather impressive.
Edgar’s irritation began to shift as he replayed the encounter. She hadn’t simpered or apologized when he’d challenged her. Hadn’t backed down when he’d loomed over her or used his superior height to intimidate. Instead, she’d met his provocations with dignity and intelligence, refusing to be cowed even when he’d pushed too far with his personal questions.
Most women of his acquaintance would have either fled in tears or dissolved into fluttering apologies. This one had simply gathered her composure around her like a cloak and walked away with her head held high.
His heart was racing—not from anger, he realized, but from something else entirely. The woman was magnificent when challenged—all flashing eyes and dignified outrage. Her spirited defense of heropinions, her refusal to be intimidated by his rank… when was the last time he’d encountered someone with such backbone?
Byron would have to wait. Perhaps by evening he’d have his answer from the mysterious E. Lovelace. The thought brought back his earlier satisfaction. Let the cowardly critic chew on his challenge for a while.
He didn’t even know the intriguing woman’s name.
*
Elisha smoothed thesilk of her borrowed dove-gray gown, grateful that Amelia Thornton, her best friend and editor, had insisted on lending it for the evening. Amelia stood beside her at the mirror in Elisha’s modest lodgings, adjusting the lace at her own collar.
“Remember,” Amelia said, pinning an errant curl back into Elisha’s chignon, “half these literary lions were nobodies themselves once. Your words matter more than your wardrobe.”
Both their gowns were modest compared to what they’d encounter at the salon, but there was strength in entering together. They were, after all, two women who had fought their way into London’s male-dominated press.
“I still can’t believe we secured an invitation,” Elisha murmured, checking her reflection one final time. “Wordsworth rarely grants interviews, and never to women correspondents.”
“Which is precisely why this matters so much.” Amelia’s expression grew serious. “My brother’s patience with the Metropolitan’s finances grows thinner by the month. We need this interview, Elisha. Something substantial enough to boost our circulation.”
The weight of responsibility settled on Elisha’s shoulders. She’d built her reputation as E. Lovelace through sharp, uncompromising criticism, but tonight she needed to be diplomatic. Charming, even. The skills required for drawing out a reluctant poet were entirelydifferent from those needed to eviscerate a poorly written novel.
“What if he refuses to speak with me?” The doubt she’d been suppressing all day finally surfaced. “What if he takes one look at us and decides we’re not worth his time?”
“Then we’ll make ourselves worth his time.” Amelia squeezed her hand. “You have a gift for seeing through pretense to truth, Elisha. Use that tonight.”
