Page 32 of A Literary Liaison
She studied him for a moment, seeing both versions of him at once—the notorious rake and the man who had seemed to truly see her.
“Do you ever get tired of the female attentions, Your Grace?”
“Yes, of course.”
His quick response surprised her. “I find that surprising if I’m being honest.”
“Is it because you believe the male ego to be a bottomless pit?”
“No,” she replied carefully, “it’s because I see you in scandal sheets every week. If you don’t enjoy female attention, why are you seen so often with multiple women, different women?”
He fidgeted with his napkin, a surprisingly insecure gesture from such a commanding man. “I like being surrounded by beauty, Miss, and I like diversity.”
The words confirmed her worst fears. She had been a fool to think she might be different, that their conversations about literature and social reform had meant anything more than a novel diversion for a jaded aristocrat.
She sat straighter, armor sliding into place. “May I ask why you asked me to meet you here, Your Grace?”
The question hung between them, heavy with all she couldn’t say—Why pursue me when you have your pick of Society beauties? What game are you playing? How dare you make me feel special only to remind me that I’m just another face in your endless parade of conquests?
*
Edgar maintained athoughtful silence, watching as she withdrew into herself, her finger tracing the length of her silver fork in what he suspected was an unconscious gesture of anger or hurt. He had spoken carelessly, falling back on the rakish persona he wore like a comfortable coat, and in doing so had wounded her. The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.
“You inquired regarding the assembly with Mr. Wordsworth,” he said softly, attempting to recover their earlier warmth.
“Indeed,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral. “I admire hisliterary prowess but find him equally evasive.”
“You may not be aware that he has experienced quite a bit of personal loss, including the deaths of two of his children. He is also quite disillusioned about politics, especially radical reforms, which has pushed him toward a more conservative view. Your stance on the Poor Law and your literacy program may have caused him to shy away. He does not like to discuss politics, you see, as he has suffered from criticisms of his recent works.”
Her expression softened slightly. “I had no idea. Thank you for enlightening me, Your Grace. It is interesting, is it not, how we all cope with tragedies and disappointments in our own way? Mr. Dickens has had a difficult childhood, what with his father’s incarceration in the Marshalsea Debtors’ Prison. Yet, he is the sunniest person one could meet, so generous with his time and thoughts.”
“How intriguing,” Edgar said, genuinely surprised. “One man shies away while another faces it head-on,” Edgar observed, studying her with renewed interest. “Where do you fall on that spectrum, Miss Linde?”
She met his gaze steadily. “Somewhere in the middle, Your Grace. I was orphaned at five years of age, immediately beginning work at a workhouse until I secured a cleaning position at a boys’ school at seventeen.”
The simple statement, delivered without self-pity, humbled him. While he had been raised in luxury, taught by the finest tutors, this remarkable woman had taught herself to read by peering through schoolroom windows. His gaze dropped briefly to her décolletage, not in mere appreciation of her beauty now, but in wonder at the strength that lay beneath such a delicate exterior.
She flinched at his scrutiny, however, misinterpreting his intent. She quickly changed the subject. “How do you recommend we proceed with Mr. Wordsworth’s assembly without overwhelming him?”
Edgar forced his attention back to the matter at hand, though his mind still reeled from her revelations. “Perhaps you could hold a reading for the students in your literacy program and a few ardent admirers. He might be persuaded to read to a group of students.”
Her face brightened momentarily before doubt crept in. “That is perfect, Your Grace. The students will be thrilled. But…” She hesitated. “I’m afraid theMetropolitanlacks the means to host a grand function befitting someone of Mr. Wordsworth’s stature and Mr. Thornton… Well, I don’t know him very well.”
The mention of Thornton sent an unexpected surge of jealousy through Edgar. The way that man looked at her, protected her, claimed her through his position at theMetropolitan…
“You needn’t concern yourself with the expense,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “I shall speak to Mr. Thornton. If he will not approve, I shall see to it. I am certain his pride will have him volunteering in no time.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. Are you well acquainted with Mr. Thornton?”
“No, but we cross paths occasionally in Parliament when I am in attendance.”
“Do you not take an active role in the House of Lords?”
The question caught him off guard. “In truth, I am not active in politics, nor do I feel strongly about any issues.”
He watched disappointment cloud her features, and something inside him withered at the sight.
“How could you not feel strongly about issues as important as… the reform?” Her voice dropped, thick with frustration. “What do you have a strong conviction for, Your Grace? Do you believe in anything at all other than obtaining pleasure?”
