Page 22 of A Literary Liaison
Shrugging, she continued on her way. “I assume your presence here is related to your salacious interests.”
Edgar hurried to close the distance between them, drawn by herfearlessness.
“I am in your debt. How can I repay you?”
Miss Linde stopped to stare. “If it would help you sleep more soundly at night, there is one thing you can grant me,” she said, her face serious in the dim light.
“Certainly. Let me hear it.”
“These erotic pamphlets circulating through London—The Forbidden Diaries of Lady Xand such—they’re causing quite a stir. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about their distribution?” Her eyes studied him intently. “They seem to originate from this area.”
Edgar’s expression froze for a moment before he recovered his composure. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with your inquiry.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Very well, Your Grace. I believe I have my answer. Good evening.”
She turned and climbed into a waiting hackney coach. As it pulled away, Edgar watched her disappear into the darkness, cursing silently. She was far too perceptive for his comfort—and far too dangerous for his heart. Yet something about her fearless pursuit of truth stirred his blood like nothing had in years.
He had to admire her cleverness. In one brief exchange, she’d managed to confirm her suspicions about his activities while making it clear she was someone to be reckoned with. It would be wise to keep his distance from Miss Linde but somehow, he suspected that would prove impossible.
Back in his bedchamber when the night was at its darkest, Edgar reclined on his chaise longue by the hearth, a tumbler of brandy cradled in his hand. Though the hour was late and fatigue weighed heavily upon him, his mind remained in a state of turbulent contemplation, fixated on the memory of the woman who had held his gaze.
Miss Linde’s countenance, etched with astonishment, her bosom heaving as he closed the distance, her warm breath caressing his jaw as he had leaned toward her. These recollections intermingled with thevivid memory of their spirited discourse, wherein they had crossed verbal swords as equal adversaries.
She had shown no deference to his ducal status, meeting him as an intellectual equal. He found himself pondering what circumstances had imbued a woman of such humble origins with such remarkable courage and self-assurance.
As he sipped the brandy, the amber liquid warming his throat, Edgar marveled at her undeniable allure which sparked a fascination within him that he found both exhilarating and disquieting. It was a sensation both foreign and oddly familiar, one that promised to occupy his thoughts for many nights to come, and one that had his member excited.
He reached down and unfastened his falls, gripping his thick girth in his hand and stroking to the remembered sound, scent, and vision of her. It would be thrilling to have her beneath him, panting and gasping, relinquishing her pride and begging him to bring her pleasure. His hand moved faster at the thought.
He knew she’d be a passionate lover, uninhibited and wholly dedicated to pleasure. The thought pushed him into his climax, her name at the tip of his tongue as he imagined sliding his member between her mounds.
The next day found Edgar at the Athenaeum Club, which pulsed with the convivial atmosphere of gentlemen at their leisure. In a secluded corner, partially shielded by a large potted palm, he sat lost in thought, barely registering Hereford’s presence across from him. His mind kept returning to the soirée—to the flash of intelligence in Miss Linde’s eyes, the way her sharp wit had both challenged and enthralled him.
“I say, Lancaster,” Hereford drawled, swirling his brandy, “that was quite a performance you and Miss Linde put on at the soirée. I daresay you’ve set tongues wagging across London.”
Edgar’s lips quirked in a half smile. “She’s… extraordinary,” he admitted, surprising himself with his candor. “Unlike anyone I’ve encountered before. The way she stands her ground, that brilliant mind of hers…”
“Your exchange with Miss Linde reminded me rather of Steele’s ongoing correspondence with Miss Lovelace,” Hereford observed.
Edgar reached into his jacket and withdrew a folded paper. “Actually, before I tell you something rather significant, you should see this. It arrived this morning.”
He handed over the gazette, watching as Hereford unfolded it and began to read aloud:
Metropolitan Review, 18 March 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
I find myself compelled to clarify that tragedy need not always manifest as a catastrophic event. Indeed, it may present itself with remarkable subtlety, such as in a gentleman’s failure to truly comprehend, coupled with his unwavering conviction in the infallibility of his own opinions.
In a similar vein, true love is not merely a collection of pretty words or sensations, as you have so artfully described. Love, in its truest form, is achieved through the ultimate sacrifice of that which one holds most dear.
Your sacrifice, sir, seems no more taxing than a gentle spring zephyr. I implore you not to despair. Instead, retire your quill and search this vast land for the lady who might just love you in its truest form.
Your most steadfast critic,
E. Lovelace
Hereford looked up with raised eyebrows. “Rather cutting, isn’t she?”
