Page 31 of A Literary Liaison
“I wouldn’t dare,” he murmured, but she had already turned away, leaving only the ghost of her lavender scent behind.
*
Edgar gripped hisglass too tightly as he watched Thornton lean close to Elisha throughout the afternoon, ostensibly to examine manuscripts she was pointing to. The man’s hand hadn’t left her elbow since their initial exchange, and the intimacy of the gesture made his cravat feel impossibly tight.
“Darling,” Lady Stanton whined beside him, “you promised to show me the poetry section.”
But he couldn’t tear his eyes from the way Elisha’s face softened as she explained something to Thornton. He wished that gentle expression would be directed at him… then he remembered his duties. Protecting her reputation and his heart meant maintaining distance.
Thornton whispered something that induced a shy demeanor from Elisha, and Edgar’s gloved hand balled into a fist.
“I had no idea old books could be so provoking,” Lady Stanton said archly. “Though perhaps it’s not the books you are reacting to.”
“Victoria,” he warned quietly, but his gaze remained fixed on the pair across the room. Elisha’s gray wool dress should have looked plain among the silk and satin of the other attendees. Instead, she outshone them all—her eyes bright with intelligence, her movements precise and graceful as she handled each volume.
When Thornton’s hand moved to the small of her back, Edgar found himself stepping forward before he could think better of it. Lady Stanton’s fingers dug into his arm, halting him.
“Now, now,” she murmured. “What would Society say if you made a scene over a mere writer?”
The words hit their mark. He was a duke. She was… impossible. And he had no right to the jealousy burning in his chest.
Yet when the opportunity arose—when Lady Stanton’s attention was occupied by a friend animatedly describing troubles with her modiste—Edgar seized it. He found Elisha standing alone by a window, and despite every rational thought in his head, he approached.
After their exchange about tea and Wordsworth, he watched her walk away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He had secured tomorrow’s meeting, but at what cost? He was playing with fire, and both their reputations hung in the balance.
“Success?” Lady Stanton materialized beside him, her tone deceptively light.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Edgar replied, though his eyes remained fixed on Elisha’s retreating form.
“Of course not, darling. Of course not.”
Afternoon Over Tea and Scones
Elisha sat beneaththe tea garden’s white-painted pavilion, acutely aware of the Duke of Lancaster’s gaze upon her. The afternoon sun filtered through latticed roses, yet she felt exposed despite the shelter. What madness had possessed her to accept his invitation? After witnessing his attention to those Society beauties at Lord Hardwick’s gathering, she should guard her heart.
The duke cut an imposing figure across the table, his large hands making the delicate tea setting seem almost absurd. He watched her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken, though whether from attraction or unease, she couldn’t quite determine.
“How wonderfully vibrant it is here,” she remarked, desperate to break the charged silence. The gardens were indeed beautiful, a world away from her usual haunts—the crowded printing house, the modest schoolroom where she taught her students, the cramped office where she penned her reviews.
“I presume you’ve not had occasion to partake in a leisurely tea before?” His tone was gentle, curious rather than condescending.
“Indeed not, Your Grace. I’ve scarcely had the luxury of a sedate promenade through Hyde Park. My days are a constant flurry of activity, perpetually tardy for appointments.” She kept her voice light, refusing to let him see how his casual reference to their different stations affected her.
“On that note,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I found yourpiece on Miss Charlotte Brontë most enlightening. How did you come by such intimate knowledge of her circumstances?”
The genuine interest in his voice sparked her enthusiasm despite her reservations. Elisha found herself explaining her meeting with the governess-turned-poet, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke. The duke watched her with such focused attention that she felt herself warming under his gaze, her cheeks flushing from more than just the afternoon heat.
“I simply had to make her acquaintance,” she continued, forcing herself to focus on the conversation rather than the way his blue eyes seemed to drink her in. “I am certain she shall leave an indelible mark upon the literary world. Our conversation was utterly delightful. I had hoped my modest article might draw attention to her poetry.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a flutter of excitement from a nearby group of young ladies who had spotted the duke. Elisha watched as they preened and posed, their expensive gowns and practiced gestures speaking of years of finishing school training she had never received.
“Are you acquainted with those ladies?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. She had seen him with their type at Lord Hardwick’s gathering—had watched him charm and flirt with seemingly every eligible young woman in London.
“Not in the slightest,” he replied, offering the ladies a polite nod that sent them into fresh paroxysms of excitement.
“You appear quite accustomed to their attention.”
“I am, after all, a Mayfair Maverick,” he declared with a touch of mockery that made her chuckle.
