Page 9 of A Literary Liaison
She had no idea. No bloody idea what she was talking about.
The memory hit him without warning—Lucia’s face, radiant with laughter as she spun in the meadow behind her father’s cottage. The way her hand had trembled in his when he’d first dared to kiss her. The agony in her eyes when his father had torn them apart withthreats of disinheritance and ruin.
Edgar lurched to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor. He stalked to the window, his reflection ghostlike in the glass. In the years since losing her, he’d wandered through life like a man walking through fog—everything muted, distant, half-real. The eligible young ladies thrust before him seemed like pale watercolors compared to Lucia’s vivid warmth.
And now this critic dared suggest he’d never loved at all.
“If only you knew, Miss Lovelace,” he whispered to his reflection. The hollow ache in his chest flared—that old wound that never quite healed. “Though perhaps it’s better you don’t.”
A knock interrupted his brooding. Hereford sauntered in without ceremony, helping himself to brandy before settling into a chair with the casual arrogance of twenty years’ friendship.
“No curtsy, Hereford?”
“Go hang yourself, Your Grace.” Hereford’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he picked up one of the erotic pamphlets scattered across Edgar’s desk. “No time for formality when there’s literature of the highest standard to review.”
“Perhaps I should edit them. The grammar is nearly as vulgar as the content.”
“Absolutely not. The errors add authenticity—one can truly believe a courtesan scribbled this after rolling from her lover’s bed.” Hereford leaned forward, scanning the pamphlet with obvious relish. “This bit about the stable master’s skilled hands is positively tantalizing. Though I must say, these adventures pale beside your recent exploits. Your name’s been mentioned with alarming frequency in the scandal sheets. Brothels and gaming hells? You make me look positively saintly.”
Edgar’s jaw tightened. “Making up for lost time.”
“Lost time?” Hereford’s expression grew serious, his fingers drumming against the chair arm. “Does this mean you’re finally readyfor courtship?”
“It means I’m ready to divert myself with the fairer sex without becoming attached.”
“Christ, Edgar. When will you do your ducal duty and produce an heir? You’re practically ancient.”
“I’m five months older than you, you ass.” Edgar’s voice carried an edge. “At one and thirty, I’ve years left to raise children. But taking only one woman to wife still feels like…” He trailed off, unable to voice the wordbetrayal.
“Like betraying Lucia’s memory?” Hereford’s voice gentled. “It’s been five years, my friend.”
“She still lives within me.”
“Does she? Or does your guilt live within you?” Hereford leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “There’s a difference.”
Edgar turned away, facing the window. “I can no longer tell.”
“Her birth to a farmer wasn’t her fault. Society’s rigid rules weren’t yours to break at twenty-six. Lucia wouldn’t want to see you torturing yourself like this.”
“I know.” The words came out rougher than intended. “What I truly regret is my cowardice. My failure to stand against my father.”
“You were young. We all were.” Hereford’s voice carried the weight of shared memories. “Courage isn’t about never failing—it’s about what you do after you’ve fallen. What will you choose now?”
Silence stretched between them until Hereford brightened deliberately. “Perhaps your recent… diversions… will prepare you for your future duchess. Or at least distract you long enough to sire an heir.”
Edgar’s laugh held no humor. “I pray she’ll be fertile so I can fulfill my duty quickly and be done with it.”
“Provided there’s a duchess willing to have you after you’ve scandalized half of London.”
“Seduction should be as easy as taking a garter from a courtesan.”
“Clearly you haven’t met my courtesans. They guard their possessionswith admirable tenacity.”
“Then I’m the superior seducer.”
“Your women are simply more desperate.” Hereford grinned, then grew thoughtful. “Speaking of ladies, I’m hosting a charity event for Dickens. Something more stimulating than the usual soirées. A literary contest, perhaps—men versus women to make it interesting. Lady Faulkner could organize the ladies’ team.”
Edgar’s pulse quickened. “Now you have my attention.”
