Page 89 of A Literary Liaison
Elisha looked up, blinking away the tears that had begun to gather. “What is it?”
Amelia thrust the elegant envelope toward her. “An invitation! To the Duke of Lancaster’s estate in Kent. And it’s for all of us!”
Elisha took the invitation, remembering the duchess’ letter to Edgar as she read. “This is for a house party, Amelia. For an entire week.”
“Is it? That’s even better!” Amelia practically bounced on her toes. “A week-long house party at a duke’s estate! We simply must attend!”
“I don’t know,” Elisha said weakly, the paper feeling heavy as lead in her hands. “It will be costly. There’s work to be done, and I have nothing appropriate to wear to such an event.”
“Does it matter? We shall wear our best frocks and hold our heads high. Come now, Elisha, when will we ever get another chance like this? Think of the connections we could make for the gazette!”
Before Elisha could formulate a response, Thornton clapped his hands together decisively. “Excellent! I shall be delighted to escort you both,” he announced, his tone brooking no argument. “Now, you’ll need proper attire for such an occasion. I suggest you visit Madame Delacoure’s establishment on Bond Street. Ballgowns, shoes, accessories—spare no expense. I shall cover all costs.”
“Oh, that’s not neces—” Elisha began, but he held up a hand.
“Consider it an investment in the gazette’s future,” he said smoothly. “After all, we can’t have our most talented writers looking anything less than spectacular at such an important social event.”
With that declaration, he strode from the office, leaving both women staring after him in stunned silence. Amelia turned to Elisha, her eyes sparkling with excitement, but Elisha felt only a growing sense of dread. The duchess’ scrutiny, the performance she’d have to give before Society, Edgar’s potential betrayal, and now Thornton’s suspicious generosity—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve but knew would form a picture she wouldn’t like.
*
That afternoon, despiteher inner turmoil, Elisha found herselfdrawn to Edgar’s London townhouse. She hadn’t planned the visit, but the newspaper article and Thornton’s insinuations gnawed at her thoughts until she could bear the uncertainty no longer. She needed to see Edgar, to hear him deny these rumors himself, to look into his eyes and find the truth.
As she approached the impressive Georgian residence, however, the front door opened. Elisha quickly stepped back into the shadow of a neighboring building, her heart stopping as Miss Hargrove emerged. The young woman’s usually impeccable appearance was notably disheveled—her fashionable bonnet sat askew, her golden curls had escaped their pins, and her cheeks were flushed a becoming pink. Most tellingly, she was adjusting her gloves with hurried, almost furtive, movements as she descended the steps.
Behind her came Edgar’s butler, Simmons, his usually impassive demeanor betraying clear discomfort as he escorted her to the waiting carriage. His shoulders were rigid with disapproval, and he avoided looking directly at his charge.
“Please extend my deepest gratitude to His Grace,” Miss Hargrove’s clear voice carried in the quiet street, accompanied by a laugh that sounded both breathless and satisfied. “The afternoon has been most… illuminating.”
“Of course, my lady,” Simmons replied with wooden politeness.
She paused at the carriage door, and Elisha caught a glimpse of a secret smile playing about her perfect lips—the expression of a woman well-pleased with herself. “I do so look forward to our next… business discussion.”
Elisha pressed herself harder against the cold stone wall, willing herself to disappear as Miss Hargrove’s carriage rolled past mere feet away. Her mind raced with painful possibilities, each more devastating than the last. Miss Hargrove had clearly spent an intimate afternoon in Edgar’s home, emerging in such a state of disarray…
The implications were unmistakable, weren’t they? And yet,somehow, her heart refused to accept what her eyes had witnessed. This was Edgar—the man who had held her so tenderly, who had whispered words of love against her skin, who had promised her a future together. Surely there had to be another explanation.
But what other explanation could there be?
She remained hidden until the butler had returned inside and the street was empty again. For a long moment, she considered marching up to that imposing front door and demanding to see Edgar, demanding an explanation. But pride and heartbreak held her back. If he was indeed courting Miss Hargrove, if their relationship had been nothing more than a pleasant diversion before he fulfilled his ducal obligations, she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain.
By the time she reached her own modest lodgings, tears were flowing freely down her cheeks. How could she have been such a fool? To think that a duke would choose a common-born writer over a lady of impeccable breeding and fortune? She had let his tender caresses and passionate declarations blind her to the harsh realities of their different worlds.
Yet even as her heart broke, a part of her remained defiant. She would attend his house party. She would hold her head high and face whatever truth awaited her there. She owed herself that much, at least.
*
Three days later,Elisha stood before the mirror in Madame Delacoure’s exclusive fitting room, hardly recognizing the elegant woman who stared back at her. The crimson silk gown transformed her completely—its rich color brought out the warmth in her complexion, while the expert tailoring emphasized curves she hadn’t known she possessed.
“Magnifique!” Madame Delacoure declared, adjusting the fall ofthe skirt with practiced hands. “You shall be the belle of any ball, mademoiselle.”
Beside her, Amelia practically glowed in her own creation—a confection of pale blue silk that made her eyes sparkle. “Oh, Elisha, you look absolutely stunning. Surely no gentleman could resist such elegance.”
As they admired their reflections, voices from the adjacent fitting room drifted through the thin walls, and both women fell silent, unconsciously straining to hear.
“Did you hear about the Duke of Lancaster?” a woman’s voice asked, pitched low but carrying clearly in the quiet shop.
“Oh yes,” another replied with obvious relish. “They say he’s finally bowing to family pressure to secure the succession.”
