Page 49 of A Literary Liaison
Where was the man who had so confidently challenged her to a literary duel? Who had boasted of his understanding of romance and love? This letter revealed a different Steele altogether—one who questioned, who doubted, who feared.
As she re-read the letter, Elisha felt an odd sensation in her chest, a tightening that was both uncomfortable and strangely exhilarating. The questions Steele posed, the uncertainties he expressed—they echoed her own unspoken thoughts with an uncanny precision.
“How does one truly identify love?” she read aloud, the words hanging in the still night air.
Wasn’t that the question that had kept her awake night after night, as thoughts of a certain duke plagued her mind? Could it be that Steele was romantically involved? Was this outpouring of vulnerability inspired by real, current experience rather than mere philosophical pondering?
Who was this mysterious Mr. Steele? She had always imagined him as a pompous, middle-aged author, set in his ways. But this letter painted a picture of a man grappling with deep emotions, perhaps even experiencing love for the first time.
Elisha shook her head, bemused by her own curiosity. “This is absurd,” she chided herself. “He’s your literary rival, nothing more.His personal life is none of your concern.”
But as she folded the letter and placed it on her bedside table, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. The lines between rivalry and… something else… had blurred. Steele was no longer just a name on paper, a faceless opponent in their literary duel. He had become real, human, vulnerable.
As she blew out the candle and settled back into her bed, Elisha found herself wondering about the man behind the letters. Who was Aengus Steele, really? And why did his vulnerability touch her so deeply?
Sleep was long in coming that night, as every night for the past month or so, as Elisha’s mind whirled with questions about Steele, about love, the Duke of Lancaster, and about her own heart’s uncertain journey.
*
Edgar sat motionlessin his carriage, his eyes fixed on the attic room of the Metropolitan building across the narrow street. He had been appalled to find out from Adams that she resided there, alone. He had not been able to slumber comfortably in his room while Elisha Linde slept in this large building with no protection. So he came here and watched every night, finding comfort in their proximity.
As the light in Elisha’s chamber flickered and died, he felt the now-familiar ache in his breast intensify, a pain as acute as any physical wound.
“Good night, Elisha,” he whispered into the oppressive darkness. “I pray your dreams are kinder than my waking world.”
He lingered, unable to tear himself away, his mind a flurry of thoughts centered on her loveliness, her strength. The quiet streets seemed to echo his profound loneliness, each distant footstep or muffled voice serving only to emphasize the vast emptiness thatsurrounded him.
Edgar’s hand trembled as he reached for the decanter of brandy nestled in the carriage’s compartment. He poured a generous measure, the amber liquid glinting in the dim lamplight. As he raised the glass to his lips, he caught sight of his reflection in the window—a man haunted by desires he dared not voice, tormented by a love he could not pursue.
“What a pitiful figure you cut, Lancaster,” he muttered bitterly to his reflection. “A duke, reduced to lurking in the shadows like a common street urchin.”
He drained the glass in one swift motion, welcoming the burn of the spirits as they coursed down his throat. It was a poor substitute for the warmth he truly craved—the warmth of Elisha’s smile, the heat of her mouth when it met his own.
Edgar’s mind wandered to the countless soirées and balls he had attended in recent weeks, each one a carefully orchestrated attempt to distract himself from thoughts of Elisha. Yet every debutante’s laugh seemed shrill in comparison to her melodious tones, every witty remark fell flat against the memory of her razor-sharp mind.
He had danced, he had flirted, he had played the role of the charming duke to perfection. But each step, each smile, each empty compliment paid to vapid young ladies only served to underscore the vast gulf between the life Society expected him to lead and the life his heart truly desired.
“Damn it all,” he growled, his fist clenching around the empty glass. “Damn propriety, damn expectations, damn the whole blasted Ton!”
His outburst was met with silence, the sleeping city indifferent to his anguish. Edgar slumped back in his seat, suddenly feeling every one of his years and the weight of his title pressing down upon him.
“What am I to do, Elisha?” he whispered, his eyes once again drawn to the darkened window across the street. “How am I to go on,knowing you are so near and yet forever beyond my reach?”
The question hung unanswered in the still night air. Edgar knew he should order his driver to return to his townhouse, to the cold comfort of his empty bed. Yet he remained, a silent sentinel in the night, clinging to the faint hope that perhaps, just perhaps, Elisha might spare a thought for him before she drifted off to sleep.
As the first hints of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, Edgar finally stirred from his vigil. With a heavy heart, he rapped on the carriage roof, signaling his driver to depart. As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, he cast one last, lingering glance at the gazette building.
“Until tomorrow, my love,” he murmured, the words a promise and a lament, “when I shall once again wage war against my own heart.”
The carriage disappeared into the awakening streets of London, leaving behind only the fading echo of wheels on cobblestones and the lingering scent of brandy and longing.
The Forbidden Fruit
The morning lightfiltered through her attic window as Elisha carefully penned her response to Mr. Steele’s vulnerable letter. His questions about love had stirred something deep within her, and she found herself being more honest than she’d ever been with a stranger.
4 June 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
