Page 4 of A Literary Liaison
“Oh yes.” Edgar’s smile widened as heat crept up her neck. All day he’d been thinking about her—the way her eyes had flashed fire, that proud tilt of her chin when he’d challenged her. He wanted to see it again. Needed to see it again.
“Tell me, Miss Linde, have you given any more thought to our discussion about literary criticism?”
The question was a deliberate trap, and he watched her recognize it. But instead of retreating, she lifted her chin in that delicious way that had been tormenting him since morning.
“I maintain that thoughtful analysis serves literature well, Your Grace, though I confess I prefer a more… diplomatic approach in polite company.”
Her subtle barb hit its mark, and Edgar’s pulse hammered in response. God, she was magnificent when she fought back. “Diplomacy? How refreshing.” He affected surprise, knowing it would needle her. “And here I thought you favored direct confrontation.”
There—fire building behind those extraordinary green eyes. Her fingers tightened on her reticule, and Edgar could practically feel the spirited woman from the bookshop straining against the bonds of proper decorum. The temptation to push her further was almost overwhelming.
She opened her mouth—undoubtedly for some scathing retort—but something behind him caught her attention. Wordsworth, approaching with his usual trapped-animal expression.
Edgar watched her entire demeanor shift from wary defiance to focused determination as she stepped forward, extending her hand. “Mr. Wordsworth, what an honor. I’m Miss Linde, correspondent from theMetropolitan Review. I’ve been hoping for the chance to discuss your recent work.”
The poet was her target, he realized.
Wordsworth’s polite interest was already glazing over at the mention of “correspondent”. It was a masterful performance—Wordsworth speaking at length about the weather, his garden, anything but the penetrating questions Miss Linde tried to pose about his work. “The roses this year have been particularly vibrant,” Wordsworth mused, addressing his remarks primarily to Lancaster rather than the women before him. “Though nothing quite compares to the wild beauty of the Lake District.”
Edgar caught the flash of desperation beneath her professional composure. This mattered to her. More than casual journalistic interest would warrant.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Edgar heard himself interrupting Wordsworth’s rambling commentary about sheep grazing, “the parallels between your latest work and Burke’s reflections on the revolution. Miss Linde made an astute observation about your use of natural imagery as political metaphor.”
He hadn’t the faintest idea if she’d made any such observation, but the surprised gratitude in her eyes was worth the small deception. Even Wordsworth, caught off guard by the intellectual direction, had to acknowledge the point.
Edgar watched with pride as Miss Linde seized the opening he’d provided—not with obvious triumph, but with subtle skill that drew the reluctant poet into real discourse. Her questions revealed considerable understanding of both literature and politics, and she managed Wordsworth’s prickly temperament with impressive diplomatic finesse.
She was remarkable. Not just beautiful, but genuinely clever. The kind of woman who could match wits with anyone in this room andemerge victorious.
By the time Wordsworth took his leave—having clearly provided what Edgar could tell was a successful interview—Edgar’s respect for Miss Linde had crystallized into something deeper. She closed her notebook with quiet satisfaction, the tension finally leaving her shoulders.
She looked up and caught him watching, color rising in her cheeks.
“Thank you for your intervention,” she said quietly, her earlier wariness replaced by genuine gratitude. “You didn’t have to.”
“Perhaps not,” Edgar replied, moving closer. “But I confess I was curious to see how you’d handle him.”
“And your verdict?”
Edgar smiled. “Most impressive, Miss Linde. Most impressive indeed.”
As he watched her retreat to rejoin Miss Thornton, Edgar’s mind churned with questions about what other surprises the intriguing Miss Linde might be hiding beneath her professional exterior.
The Provocation
Metropolitan Review, 15 January 1840
My Most Esteemed Miss E. Lovelace,
Your recent critique of my humble offering has prompted me to express my deepest admiration for your extraordinary literary perception. Rarely have I encountered such economy of language in service of such devastating insight. To reduce an entire novel to a mere paragraph while simultaneously revealing its every flaw demonstrates a talent that must surely be the envy of your colleagues.
I confess myself curious about the extensive body of work that has qualified you to judge matters of the heart with such authority. Your confident dismissal of “overwrought sentiment” suggests intimate familiarity with genuine passion. I’m positively quivering with anticipation that you may direct me to your published works on this subject, that I might benefit from studying a master’s approach to romantic expression.
I remain, with the utmost respect for your superior judgment,
Your most humble and obedient servant, Aengus Steele
Elisha shot up from her seat and paced the length of her study, Steele’s letter clutched in her fist. “I say, I’ve never heard such twaddle in all my days!” Her voice rose with indignation, causing Amelia to look up from her desk with raised brows.
