Page 20 of A Literary Liaison
He braced one hand on the balustrade beside her, not quite trapping her but certainly crowding her space and forcing her to tip her head back to maintain eye contact. Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before snapping back to his eyes. His lips curved faintly at the tiny tell. “We’ve been in each other’s company all evening, and I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”
“The night is still young,” she replied, though without her usual bite. “Plenty of time for you to prove me right about your character.”
His laugh rumbled softly through her and heated her belly. “And if I prove you wrong instead?”
Elisha looked up, meaning to deliver another sharp retort, but the words died in her throat. His face was close to hers, his eyes dark with an emotion she dared not name. For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the flush of her cheeks. She moistened her lips, and His Grace tracked the movement with dangerous interest.
The spell broke at the sound of voices in the hallway. They sprangapart like guilty children.
“Thank you for your company, Your Grace,” Elisha said stiffly, smoothing her skirts.
But as she turned to flee, his voice stopped her. “Miss Linde.” When she looked back, his expression was uncharacteristically serious. “You’re not entirely wrong about me. But you’re not entirely right either.”
Elisha hesitated at the door. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “we’re both guilty of judging too quickly.”
She hurried away before he could respond, her heart beating an unruly rhythm.
*
When Edgar finallyreturned to the salon, he found the party settling into its final phase. Dickens had claimed a chair near the fire and was regaling a small group with tales of his travels, his nervous energy channeled into animated storytelling rather than button-polishing.
Edgar positioned himself beside Miss Linde, who had rejoined her friends near the piano and Dickens.
“Fascinating man, Dickens,” he murmured, noticing Miss Linde glance his way. “Brilliant writer, yet prone to the most peculiar habits. Did you know he rearranges all the furniture in his rooms before he can sleep? Claims he cannot rest unless everything is positioned just so.”
Miss Linde moved slightly closer, apparently drawn into the conversation despite herself. “How did you come to learn such intimate details, Your Grace?”
“He’s dined at my home several times. Quite forthcoming about his idiosyncrasies, though he suffers terribly in social situations. All that fidgeting and watch-checking—pure nervousness disguised aseccentricity.”
“I hadn’t realized,” she said softly, glancing toward where Dickens was now unconsciously straightening the items on the nearby table while he spoke.
“Most people don’t. They see the celebrated author and miss the anxious man beneath.” Edgar paused, studying her profile. “Rather like how people might see a sharp-tongued critic and miss the passionate advocate for education.”
She turned to look at him directly, surprise flickering in her expression. “Are you suggesting I see beneath your roguish façade, Your Grace?”
“No, Miss Linde. I wouldn’t expect such honor. You have more important things to tackle.”
As the evening wound toward its close, Edgar found himself reluctant to let Miss Linde disappear into the London night. When the guests began making their farewells, he positioned himself near the entrance, offering his arm with practiced gallantry.
“Permit me to escort you to your carriage, Miss Linde.”
She hesitated only briefly before placing her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. The simple contact sent awareness shooting through him—the delicate weight of her touch, the subtle fragrance of lavender in her hair, the way she held herself with such careful dignity.
“Tell me,” he said as they walked slowly toward the entrance, “do you not fear Society’s judgment when seen with a notorious rake?”
“I rather think they’ll be more interested in how thoroughly I bested you in literary combat,” she replied with a hint of her earlier spirit.
“Indeed they will. Though I must admit, I find myself more intrigued by the defeat than wounded by it.”
She glanced up at him, something unreadable in her expression. “That’s very gracious of you, Your Grace.”
“Gracious?” He paused at the top of the steps, turning to face herfully. “Miss Linde, there was nothing gracious about my thoughts during that contest. When you cited Sidney over Shakespeare, when you proved your knowledge superior to mine… I wanted nothing more than…”
The unspoken words hung between them in the cool night air. Miss Linde’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. Edgar was uncertain if she understood what he was about to say.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, but whether in protest or invitation, he couldn’t say.
“Good evening, Miss Linde,” he said roughly, stepping back before he could say something even more foolish. “Congratulations on your victory.”
