Page 39 of A Literary Liaison
Perhaps it was enough. Perhaps her work, her mission to educate and uplift others, would be sufficient compensation for the sacrifice ofher heart. Perhaps she would find happiness with Thornton, or at least contentment.
Edgar turned away before he could do something foolish, like stride across the room and claim her as his own, damn the consequences. Some battles could not be won, no matter how desperately one might wish otherwise.
The carriage ride home passed in a blur of London streets and gaslight. It wasn’t until he was safely behind the doors of his townhouse that Edgar allowed himself to truly feel the weight of what he had lost.
He had found the one woman who could see past his title to the man beneath, who challenged him to be better, who made him want to deserve her good opinion. And he would have to let her go.
But as he sat in his study with a glass of brandy, staring into the dying embers of the fire, Edgar made himself a promise. He would not forget her. He would not forget the way she had looked at him with such hope and longing, the way she had trembled in his arms, the way she had chosen her principles over her heart.
If she was to be Thornton’s wife, then Edgar would ensure she never wanted for anything. The literacy program would have his support, his protection, his funding for as long as he drew breath. It was the only gift he could give her, the only way he could show his love without destroying them both.
It would have to be enough.
Temptation’s Price
The newspaper trembledin Elisha’s hands, its headline stark and damning: “Duke of Lancaster Observed Departing Infamous House of Ill Repute with Two Companions.”
Elisha’s quill lay forgotten, drops of ink staining the half-written article before her. She had been writing about the importance of moral leadership in society—the irony was not lost on her.
“I thought you should hear it from me rather than gossip,” Amelia said softly, hovering by the desk. “Though perhaps I should have waited until—”
“No.” Elisha’s voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. “Better to know now, before I made an even greater fool of myself.” She forced her fingers to relax their grip on the paper. “Besides, did I not reject him? He owes me nothing.”
“Elisha—”
“It simply proves I was right about him.” The words tasted bitter. “A man of privilege playing at reform while indulging his basest appetites. I should be grateful for this confirmation of his character.”
Amelia’s silence spoke volumes.
“What?” Elisha demanded.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m disappointed. There’s a difference.”
“No,” Amelia said gently. “You’re angry because you care for him, despite your better judgment. And now you’re trying to convinceyourself you never did.”
Before Elisha could formulate a denial, her eyes fell on the unopened letter from Mr. Steele. Here was a man who understood her, who challenged her intellectually without demanding she compromise her principles. Who had never presumed…
Her fingers broke the seal with more force than necessary.
As she read his philosophical musings on love, something shifted in her chest. His words spoke of yearning, of questioning, of the very struggle she herself faced. Was this not a safer harbor for her heart?
“He sounds like a man in love,” Amelia observed, reading over her shoulder.
“Perhaps.” Elisha traced the elegant script. “Or perhaps he simply understands that love, like any worthy pursuit, requires careful study and consideration rather than reckless abandonment to base instincts.”
The printing press below thundered to life, its rhythm matching her pulse. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her, dipping her quill with renewed purpose.
“What will you write?” Amelia asked.
“The truth, as I understand it.” Elisha began to write, her script firm and clear. “That love without principles is merely appetite. That true partnership requires more than passion or position. That sometimes the hardest part of love is choosing not to pursue it.”
Each word felt like both bandage and blade, healing even as it cut.
*
Across London, Edgarstood at his window, a different newspaper crushed in his fist. The article about his supposed debauchery stared up at him, every word a deliberate knife twist.
