Page 70 of A Literary Liaison
Delicate specimens… What could… Good heavens, surely not. The reform writing?Cold dread settled in her stomach. If Edgar had discovered her political activities… What could he be thinking of her? Is that why he’d kept his distance?What if Steven had?
“What sort of delicate specimens?” she asked as her guard reasserted itself once more.
“The kind that certain authorities consider… weeds. Dangerous to the established order of gardens.”
Seditious material.There was no mistaking his meaning now. If that were the case, she could be arrested, transported, or worse. A chill settled over her. “And you believe the head gardener knows of these specimens?”
“I’m uncertain. But he’s certainly positioned to discover them. And once discovered…” Edgar let the implication hang.
“He could use such knowledge to ensure the bloom’s… complete cooperation,” she finished, panic fluttering beneath her ribs.
A group of matrons entered the shop, discussing Lord Melbourne’s latest scandal. Edgar and Elisha fell silent until the women moved toward the religious texts.
“There is another concern,” Edgar continued, his voice low and wary. “The head gardener has been making himself indispensable to the bloom’s livelihood. Should he choose to create circumstances that would compromise the bloom’s reputation…”
Compromise.Marriage would be the only solution to salvage her honor. Elisha’s fan fluttered against her chest as the full scope of Steven’s potential manipulations became clear.
“And what does this displaced gardener propose to do about such machinations?”
“He’s prepared a sanctuary. A place where the bloom could flourish safely while he deals with the head gardener’s interference.”
The sanctuary? Where… By Jove, he’s not suggesting his own cottage?The impropriety should have shocked her, but her foolish heart onlybeat more eagerly.
“This sanctuary—it would be… properly supervised?”
Edgar’s eyes held hers meaningfully. “The gardener would do his utmost to ensure the bloom’s honor remained intact while protecting her from those who would exploit her.”
Elisha studied his face, seeing both the man who had abandoned her and the one now offering her protection. “And after? What becomes of a bloom that requires such… unconventional protection?”
“The gardener hopes,” he said softly, “that in time, he might prove worthy of tending such a precious specimen permanently.”
Her heart stuttered at the implication, but she quickly chided herself for her gullibility.He couldn’t have meant he’d offer for her. No, he likely meant he’d protect her within his capacity as a duke.“Pretty words, Mr. Crook. But this bloom has learned to be wary of promises from absent gardeners.”
“Indeed.” He leaned forward, intensity blazing in his eyes. “But sometimes a gardener must prove his devotion through actions rather than words. The question is—does the bloom trust him enough to accept his protection?”
The bell chimed again as more customers crowded the small shop. Edgar rose smoothly, every inch the polite stranger.
“It has been most illuminating discussing horticultural matters with you, Mrs. Linde. Should you wish to visit that garden sanctuary, it lies but a mile from your current location,” he said as he handed her a card withRosemount Cottagewritten on it.
“Indeed, Mr. Crook.” Her voice scraped through her strained throat with a hint of tremor as she pondered spending the night in his company. “I shall… consider your advice about… transplanting.”
Edgar tipped his hat and departed while Elisha remained seated, her mind spinning. Did she have the courage to trust Edgar again—or if two months of silence had taught her better than to place her faith in absent gardeners?
*
Edgar paced thefront parlor of the cottage he rented like a caged lion, his boots wearing a path in the Turkish carpet. Each tick of the clock on the mantel seemed to mock him. The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, painting golden stripes across the polished floor—how many more times would that light shift before she arrived? If she arrived at all.
Had she fully understood his coded message? More importantly, would she dare to come? The very impropriety of what he asked—an unwed woman arriving unchaperoned at a bachelor’s residence—spoke volumes about his desperation. His grandfather would be turning in his grave at such a scandal, but after two months of separation, after watching her window darken night after night, propriety seemed a small price to pay for even a moment in her presence.
He replayed their conversation in the bookshop, analyzing each word, each glance. Had he made the danger clear enough? Had she understood when he’d mentioned Thornton’s duplicity? The memory of her face—pale but resolute—haunted him. She’d looked thinner, the hollow of her cheeks more pronounced. Had she suffered as he had during their separation?
The sound of carriage wheels slowing outside the cottage sent his heart thundering against his ribs. A feminine figure in a pink muslin gown descended, a small trunk in her hands. Edgar’s breath caught in his throat.
She had come.
The sound of the front door opening sent him striding toward the parlor entrance, propriety warring with desperation. Wallace, the butler, spoke in a measured tone. His voice drifted through the wood panels, followed by a softer, feminine murmur that made Edgar’s heart stutter.
And then she was there, framed in the doorway like a vision from his fevered dreams. The afternoon sun caught the loose tendrils of hair escaping her bonnet, turning them to copper. Her small trunk—dear God, she’d actually brought it—looked heavy in her gloved hands. His heart clenched at the sight.
