Page 23 of A Literary Liaison
Edgar took a long drink of brandy, then met his friend’s knowing gaze. “About that correspondence… I should tell you something.”
Hereford waited, pausing amidst swirling his brandy.
“I’m Steele.”
Hereford’s eyebrows shot up. “You are the author ofWhispers of the Heart?” He exhaled with an astonished mien. “Well, well, that explains rather a lot, including why you have been so preoccupied lately. Two intellectual battles at once—Miss Lovelace in print and Miss Linde in person.”
“I never intended the letters to become such a sensation,” Edgar admitted. “When Miss Lovelace first criticized my work, I responded as Steele on impulse. But now…” He trailed off, then pulled another letter from his pocket. “I shall mail this tomorrow.” He handed it to Hereford, who read it with growing interest:
25 March 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your evasive manner leads me to surmise that you have perhaps not experienced the transformative power of love. I implore you not to despair, for I have a solution…
“Good Lord,” Hereford murmured, refolding the letter. “You’ve thrown down quite the gauntlet. I wonder what our mysterious Miss Lovelace will make of this challenge.”
Edgar remembered the excitement of those written exchanges even as his mind wandered to Elisha’s challenging gaze.
“Now you find yourself entangled with two fascinating women,” Hereford finished. “The mysterious Miss Lovelace who matches you wit for wit in print, and the very real Miss Linde who seems to have thoroughly captured your attention in person.”
“God help me, but yes.” Edgar ran a hand through his hair. “Miss Lovelace’s letters are brilliant—she understands literature in a way few do. But Miss Linde, there’s something about her, Hereford. The way she challenges everything—my assumptions, my privilege, my behavior. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“My God,” Hereford breathed. “The notorious Duke of Lancaster, undone by a woman who earns her bread through journalism?”
“When I’m with her, none of that seems to matter.” Edgar’s voice was rough. “Her mind, her spirit, she makes me want to be better. To be worthy of her good opinion.”
“And what of Miss Lovelace?”
“The letters are stimulating, but they’re just words on paper. Miss Linde is…” Edgar searched for the right words. “She’s real. Vibrant. When she looks at me with those eyes…”
“This is dangerous territory, old friend. Miss Linde’s station alone—”
“I know. Lord knows I’ve suffered from loving a commoner, loving Lucia.” Edgar stared into his glass. “But I find myself caring less and less about that. Though I doubt Miss Linde would have me even if I offered. She seems to thoroughly disapprove of everything I represent.”
“And yet there was definite tension between you at the soirée,” Hereford observed. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed how you were both following each other across the room.”
Edgar’s fingers tightened around his glass as he recalled those moments. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “But she’s not like the other women I’ve known. She’d never settle for being a mistress no matter how much luxury she is showered with. And a marriage is… I wonder.”
“Good Lord. You actually care for her.”
The usual clamor of the club faded into the background as Edgar considered this. Since Lucia, he’d kept women at arm’s length, allowing himself only superficial dalliances. In fact, he had lived aimlessly, fearing the pain may return should he start thinking clearly. But there was nothing superficial about his reaction to Elisha Linde.
“I think I do,” he admitted finally. “God help me, but I think I do.”
Hereford studied him for a long moment. “Well, my friend, itseems you have a choice to make. Pursue something potentially meaningful with Miss Linde or stop before either of you gets hurt because you will need to fight thetonwith everything you possess if you wish to marry her.”
Edgar nodded slowly, his mind filled with images of Elisha. For the first time in years, he found himself willing to risk his heart again even if it meant risking everything else in the process.
*
The morning lightstreaming through the gazette’s windows caught the crisp paper as Elisha unfolded Steele’s latest correspondence. Her fingers trembled slightly as she read:
Metropolitan Review, 25 March 1840
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
Your evasive manner leads me to surmise that you have perhaps not experienced the transformative power of love. I implore you not to despair, for I have a solution.
