Page 69 of A Literary Liaison
Edgar set down the letter and moved to his desk, where Elisha’s latest correspondence as E. Lovelace awaited his attention. Her words about Lucia, about understanding and forgiveness, had stirredsomething deep within him. For the first time in years, he felt truly seen—not as the Duke of Lancaster with all his titles and responsibilities, but simply as a man who had loved and lost.
But more than that, her willingness to reconsider her harsh critique of his novel showed a depth of character that humbled him. She could have easily maintained her critical stance, protecting her professional reputation. Instead, she chose empathy over pride, understanding over judgment.
He thought of their coded conversation at the Reform Club, the way her eyes had blazed with passion as she spoke of reform and justice. He remembered the moment their gazes had met across that crowded room, the electric connection that had made the rest of the world fade away.
Enough running. Enough hiding behind duty and social expectations. His conversation with Edmund had shown him that his family would support his happiness. Elisha’s letters had shown him a woman worth fighting for. And Thornton’s machinations had shown him what he stood to lose through inaction.
Edgar strode to the bellpull and summoned his valet. “We leave for Tunbridge Wells within the hour.”
As he prepared for the journey that would determine his future, Edgar reflected on what he must do to bridge the gap between Edgar Lancaster and Aengus Steele, between the duke who admired Elisha Linde and the writer who had bared his soul to E. Lovelace. The path ahead was fraught with challenges, but for the first time since Lucia’s death, Edgar felt ready to love.
Tunbridge Wells
The bell aboveMeryton’s tinkled as Elisha stepped into the cramped bookshop, grateful for the familiar refuge of leather-bound volumes and musty paper. Three days in Tunbridge Wells had done little to ease the ache in her chest—Edgar’s sudden disappearance from her life still felt like a physical wound.
She made her way toward the poetry section, seeking solace in Cowper’s gentle verses. The shopkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Phillips, nodded from behind her counter, and Elisha managed a polite smile in return. At least here, surrounded by books, she could pretend her world hadn’t tilted off its axis.
“Mrs. Linde.”
The voice, pitched low and carefully modulated, made her start. She turned to find a gentleman in plain dress approaching—brown coat, simple waistcoat, no ornamentation save a modest watch chain. His dark hair was combed differently, and he affected a slight slouch as though trying to appear less commanding, but something about his natural bearing…
“Indeed, sir.” Her heart began an erratic rhythm as those impossibly blue eyes met hers.Dear God, it’s Edgar. Unmistakably Edgar, despite the plain clothes and altered bearing. But here? Why?
“Allow me to introduce myself, madam. I am Jonathan Crook, at your service.” He withdrew a calling card from his waistcoat and bowed slightly. “I am an author of modest renown, and I confess I’vebeen most eager to discuss recent horticultural developments.”
Elisha blinked.Horticultural developments?She glanced around the cramped bookshop, noting Mrs. Phillips pretending to dust nearby shelves while clearly listening. Understanding dawned.
“How… unexpected, Mr. Crook. Might we converse over there?” She gestured toward a small table tucked beside towering bookshelves. “The light is better for… botanical discussions.”
As they seated themselves, Elisha studied his face, her fingers trembling as she arranged her skirts. The familiar scent of his cologne—washed over her in an intoxicating wave, making her heart stutter and her skin flush with recognition. This was Edgar, though she couldn’t fathom why he was here, disguised, speaking of horticulture.
“I came here to warn you that some delicate blooms are at risk,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough that his words wouldn’t carry. “And I fear the head gardener has been… transplanting the prize specimen to a location where he might have complete control over its cultivation.”
Head gardener.Elisha’s mind raced.Steven?“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. Crook. Surely a head gardener wishes only the best growing conditions for his plants?”
“One would hope so. But sometimes a gardener’s true interest lies not in the bloom’s health, but in claiming exclusive rights to its beauty.” His voice dropped lower. “Particularly when he fears another gardener might return to tend what was once his responsibility.”
The pieces began clicking together. Steven had sent her away—not just for her writing, but to separate her from Edgar. “And this… other gardener? Where has he been while his bloom required tending?”
A shadow passed over his features as he looked away ruefully before meeting her eyes again. “Circumstances forced his departure. But he never stopped caring for the bloom’s welfare, even from a distance.”
“How convenient,” she said coolly as the weeks of hurt resurfaced. “No correspondence, no word to acknowledge her existence. What manner of circumstances could be so pressing that he couldn’t reassure her of his wellbeing?” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to display her heartache.
The accusation seemed to strike him into silence for a moment. When he spoke, the words came out cautiously.
“Perhaps the other gardener was endeavoring to improve his circumstances… his skills… to qualify for the bloom’s tending.”
“What is there to improve?” Her voice was cold and steely, full of restrained hurt. “He’s a gardener. Don’t all gardeners know how to sow their wild oats and coax seeds to sprout? In fact, I believe I saw several articles discussing his vast experience in sowing seeds in various gardens.”
Edgar’s face suddenly turned pink. He pulled on his neckcloth as if he were suffocating before clearing his throat. “Um… The head gardener spread rumors about the other gardener’s… unsavory growing practices. Made it appear he was tending multiple gardens simultaneously, neglecting his most precious bloom.
The newspaper articles.Her breath caught. Steven had been behind those false reports. It shed light on why she’d been wary of him all along. “These rumors—were they true?”
“Completely fabricated. The displaced gardener spent his time watching over his bloom from afar, ensuring no harm came to her.”
Air left her lungs and the weight seemed to lift from her ribs as understanding deepened. Edgar had been protecting her, even while absent. But still… the need to confirm his feelings for her was too great to ignore. “And why should this bloom trust a gardener who disappeared without explanation? Perhaps she’s learned to flourish under the head gardener’s care.”
Edgar’s knuckles turned white against the table. “Because the head gardener may not have the bloom’s best interests at heart. There are… delicate specimens in that garden that could be used against the bloom ifdiscovered.”
