Page 35 of A Literary Liaison
“You seem rather distracted this morning,” Hereford observed. “Could it have something to do with a certain literary lady?”
Edgar’s wry smile betrayed him. Wordlessly, he withdrew the paper and passed it to his friend, watching as Hereford’s expression shifted from curiosity to barely contained mirth.
“Good God!” Hereford’s eyes widened as he read. “‘Fit enough to leave any man exhausted?’ My word, Lancaster, she’s practically throwing down the gauntlet!”
“Indeed.” Edgar’s voice was tight with mingled amusement and frustration. “But I cannot help wondering—are Miss Lovelace’s barbs truly coming from a different lady than Miss Linde?”
Hereford’s brow furrowed. “You suspect they’re the same person?”
“Miss Linde and Miss Lovelace.” Edgar’s eyes fixed on the distant tree line. “Their wit, their challenge—they mirror each other so precisely it cannot be coincidence.”
“And if they are one and the same?” Hereford’s voice was careful, measured. “What then?”
Edgar’s fingers tightened on the reins as he considered the implications. “It means I’ve fallen under the spell of a woman clever enough to craft two entirely different personas—one to critique my work, another to challenge me in person. And God help me, I find myself captivated by both versions of her.”
“You’ve always been drawn to complexity,” Hereford mused. “Though perhaps not quite this much of it.”
Edgar’s laugh held little humor. “No indeed. And yet…” He trailed off, remembering the taste of Elisha’s kiss, the fire in her written words. “I find myself unable to stay away. These literary salons, the workhouse visits—I tell myself they’re necessary for research, but in truth…”
“In truth, you’re becoming as lovesick as any green boy.” Hereford’s tone was gentle. “Though I doubt any green boy ever facedquite such an intriguing dilemma.”
They rode in silence for a moment before Hereford spoke again. “What will you do?”
“What can I do?” Edgar’s voice was soft. “She challenges everything I thought I knew about myself, about what I want. Every letter, every encounter leaves me more…” He cleared his throat. “More unsettled.”
Later that evening, alone in his study, Edgar found himself rereading the letter for the hundredth time. The brandy in his glass caught the firelight as he traced her words with his finger. “Fit enough to leave any man exhausted.” The boldness of it, the sheer audacity…
His body responded to the implicit challenge, imagination painting vivid pictures of Elisha—for surely it was her. In his mind’s eye, he saw her as she’d been at their last meeting: the quick flash of her smile, the graceful curve of her neck, the way her teeth had caught her lower lip as she considered her next verbal thrust.
The brandy glass clinked against the side table as he set it down, his member swelling beneath his trousers. The propriety he’d spent a lifetime cultivating warred with the raw need her words and image sparked in him. His hand moved lower and held his hard length.
Her eyes, seductive smile, and cherry lips floated in his mind’s eye. Her lips had glistened with moisture after a sip of champagne, her delicate hands wrapped around the stem of the flute, her pink tongue darting out to lick the dewy drop as her teeth bit her lower lip simultaneously. He imagined kissing those lips, tasting the champagne in her mouth and drawing the flavor into his own.
“Elisha,” he breathed as he saw in his mind’s eye the swell of her breasts, creamy and abundant… How he would have her lie on her back and bare her sex, pleasure herself while he watched. He could imagine her folds, pale pink with the prettiest dark pink in the center—her entrance, the coveted silken tunnel, that’s where he belonged.
He imagined the moans she would make as she reached her peak,and the sound alone would be enough to drive him over the edge. He would then bend over, kissing her sex, lapping up the creamy nectar.
Edgar stiffened and waited for the ecstasy to spill over in his practiced hand. As the hot liquid flowed, it brought not satisfaction but deeper hunger.
The Literary Salon
The attic roomabove theMetropolitan Review’sprinting press hummed with anticipation. Elisha stood before the cracked mirror, trying to still her trembling hands as Thornton adjusted the drape of her new purple gown. His fingers lingered a moment too long at her shoulders.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “You look exactly as I imagined when I selected this gown.”
“It’s beautiful, Mr. Thornton. But surely it was too extravagant—”
“Nonsense.” He turned her to face him, his expression earnest. “Tonight could change everything for us. William Wordsworth himself, here in our humble establishment. We must present ourselves as worthy of his patronage.”
The press thundered below, its familiar rhythm steadying her nerves. Everything they’d worked for hung on this evening’s success—the gazette’s reputation, the literacy program, their dreams of expansion. Yet the proprietor’s intensity, the way his gaze seemed to claim her, made her step back under the pretense of smoothing her skirts.
“Miss Thornton!” she called, perhaps a touch too brightly. “Might you help me with these pins? I fear they’re coming loose.”
Amelia appeared in the doorway, resplendent in burgundy silk. Her quick glance took in the scene—Thornton’s proximity, Elisha’s careful distance—and she swept forward with a rustle of fabric.
“Brother dear, shouldn’t you be attending to the final arrangements downstairs? I’ll help Elisha finish preparing.”
Thornton’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his smile remained pleasant. “Of course. Though I trust you’ll save me a dance later, Miss Linde?”
