Page 3 of A Literary Liaison
The hackney wound through London’s evening streets, and Elisha’s thoughts drifted to her encounter at Hatchard’s that morning. That insufferable man with his mocking bow and personal questions… All day she’d been telling herself she was glad she’d never see him again, yet something about the encounter continued to nettle her.
It wasn’t just his arrogance, though that had been infuriating enough. It was the way he’d looked at her—as if he could see straight through her careful composure to something underneath. And those eyes… She shook her head firmly. She had no business thinking about any man’s eyes, especially not tonight.
“You’re frowning,” Amelia observed. “Having second thoughts?”
“No, just… woolgathering.” Elisha straightened her shoulders as their carriage drew up before Lord Hardwick’s imposing townhouse. “Shall we go charm a poet?”
*
Crystal chandeliers castwarm light over mahogany panels and gilt-framed portraits at Lord Hardwick’s literary salon. The carefully modulated voices of power hummed around them, past Prime Ministers watching the evening’s proceedings with painted gravity.
Elisha stood near the refreshment table with Amelia, acutely aware of the weight of her borrowed pearl comb against her carefully arranged hair. Although elegant, the accessory stood in stark contrast to the diamond-encrusted splendor of the ladies around her.
“There,” Amelia murmured, nodding toward a corner where a gray-haired man stood looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Wordsworth. He looks as approachable as a wounded bear.”
Elisha studied their quarry. The poet’s reputation for avoiding social interaction was clearly well-earned—he clutched his wine glass like a sword and his eyes darted toward the exits with trapped-animal frequency.
“The Wordsworth situation is becoming desperate,” Amelia continued, keeping her voice low. “If we don’t secure that interview soon, my brother will—”
“His Grace, the Duke of Lancaster!”
The announcement cut through the general murmur of conversation. Elisha’s head snapped up to see the duke, famous for his good looks and infamous for his rakish reputation, being greeted effusively by their host.
Her heart plummeted straight through the floor.
It was him. The insufferable man from the bookshop, now resplendent in formal evening wear that emphasized every aristocratic line of his breeding. Of course. Of course the arrogant stranger would turn out to be a duke. Her cheeks burned with the memory of how she’d spoken to him—the casual dismissal, the way she’d challenged his opinions without the slightest deference to his rank.
“Elisha?” Amelia touched her arm. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“I had a rather… memorable encounter with His Grace at Hatchard’s this morning. Before I knew he was His Grace.”
“What sort of encounter?”
“The sort involving a heated debate about literature and proper conduct.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. And was he very critical?”
Elisha didn’t have a chance to respond. As if sensing her gaze, the duke turned, those impossibly blue eyes finding her instantly across the crowded room. Recognition flickered in their depths, followed bysomething that might have been amused satisfaction. The corners of his mouth curved up in that same mocking smile she remembered from the bookshop.
Her first instinct was to flee. Her second was to hide behind the nearest potted plant. Instead, she forced herself to straighten her spine and meet his gaze directly. She was E. Lovelace, feared critic of theMetropolitan Review. She would not be cowed by a duke, no matter how unsettling his attention or how her pulse insisted on racing whenever he looked at her.
She curtsied slightly, pasting on a polite smile. To her horror, he said something to Lord Hardwick and they began making their way toward her and Amelia. Escape was impossible without causing a scene.
“Breathe,” Amelia murmured. “You look like you’re facing a firing squad.”
“I feel like I am,” Elisha whispered back, watching Lancaster’s approach with the same fascination one might reserve for an approaching storm. There was something predatory in his smile, something that suggested he was very much looking forward to their reunion.
*
“Your Grace,” Hardwickperformed the introductions with practiced ease. “Allow me to present Miss Linde, correspondent for theMetropolitan Review, and Miss Thornton, editor for the same gazette.”
Of course—she worked for theMetropolitan Review. That explained her passionate defense of E. Lovelace’s criticism this morning. She’d been defending a colleague, showing loyalty to her publication.
The realization cast her bookshop spiritedness in an entirely new light.
“Miss Thornton.” He bowed politely, then turned his full attentionon Miss Linde, savoring the way her composure wavered. Christ, she was even lovelier when flustered. “Miss Linde and I’ve had the pleasure, though I believe I failed to properly introduce myself at Hatchard’s. Miss Linde and I had quite the spirited debate about literature and proper discourse.”
“Did you indeed?” Hardwick’s eyebrows rose with interest.
