Page 92 of A Literary Liaison
He approached with practiced grace, taking her right hand in his left while placing his other at her waist. The contact sent an unwelcome shiver of awareness through her, and she silently cursed her body’s continued betrayal. These were the same hands that would soon lead his bride down the aisle, she reminded herself fiercely.
“Place your left hand on my shoulder,” he instructed softly, as if gentling a nervous mare.
She complied with rigid formality, fighting the urge to step away from the heat radiating from his body. The familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something uniquely masculine—threatened to undermine her carefully constructed defenses. Did Miss Hargrove find his presence equally intoxicating? Had she, too, been seduced by his practiced charm?
“Excellent,” he murmured, maintaining that insufferable composure while she struggled with the impropriety of their situation. “Now, follow my lead. Step back with your right foot as I step forward with my left…”
As he guided her through the basic patterns, Elisha found her treacherous body responding despite her emotional turmoil. His touch was confident yet gentle, his instructions clear and patient. She hated herself for noticing how perfectly they fit together, how naturally her smaller frame aligned with his larger one.
“You’re a remarkably quick study,” Edgar observed, and she could hear genuine admiration in his voice.
Elisha looked up, meeting his gaze with carefully constructedindifference. She would not let him see how much this masquerade wounded her. “I have an excellent instructor, Your Grace.”
The opening strains of a waltz drifted in from the ballroom beyond, and Edgar’s grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly. “Shall we try it with musical accompaniment?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak as they began to move in earnest. Despite the emotional shield she erected, she found herself caught up in the magic of the moment—the swirl of her crimson skirts, the play of candlelight across the room’s elegant furnishings, the intensity of Edgar’s gaze as he guided her through the steps.
“You’re trembling,” he said softly.
“I’m concentrating,” she replied, though they both knew it was a lie.
As the music swelled around them, Edgar drew her slightly closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes, close enough to count the dark lashes that framed them. “Elisha,” he murmured, her name like a caress on his lips.
She forced herself to maintain eye contact, to project an image of cool sophistication even as her heart shattered anew. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Something flickered across his features—confusion, perhaps, or concern. “You seem… different tonight. Distant.”
“Do I?” She managed a brittle smile as they continued their elegant circuit of the small room. “I cannot imagine why you would say such a thing.”
He studied her face intently, and she saw the exact moment understanding began to dawn. His steps faltered slightly before he recovered, never missing a beat of the music.
“Whatever you think you know—” he began, but she cut him off with a laugh that held no warmth.
“I think I know nothing at all, Your Grace. Which is precisely as it should be, is it not?”
The final notes of the waltz faded into silence, and Elisha gracefully disengaged herself from his embrace. She executed a perfect curtsy, grateful for all those etiquette lessons she’d observed from the servants’ corridors of various grand houses during her impoverished youth.
“I am most grateful for your instruction, Your Grace,” she said with brittle politeness. “Though I confess surprise that you could spare the time from your other… obligations.”
Edgar’s hand shot out to capture hers before she could withdraw completely. “Don’t,” he said urgently, all pretense of casual flirtation abandoned. “Whatever you think you know about my situation, you’re wrong.”
“Am I?” She met his gaze steadily, proud that her voice remained level. “I understand congratulations are in order. Miss Hargrove will make a most suitable duchess.”
“What?” His confusion appeared genuine, but Elisha had learned not to trust appearances where Edgar Lancaster was concerned.
“She looked quite… satisfied when I saw her leaving your townhouse,” she continued, each word carefully chosen to inflict maximum damage. “Adjusting her gloves, her bonnet thoroughly askew. Your butler appeared most uncomfortable escorting her out. Tell me, Your Grace, do all your business negotiations conclude in such a manner?”
Understanding crashed across Edgar’s features, followed immediately by something that looked like panic. “Elisha, it isn’t what you imagine.”
“Isn’t it?” She pulled her hand free of his grasp, stepping back until several feet separated them. “The substantial investments in Hargrove’s transportation company, the private meetings, the intimate afternoon visits… Should I continue?”
“No,” Edgar said fiercely, moving closer despite her retreat. “You’re painting a picture that bears no resemblance to reality.”
He crowded her against the silk-papered wall, his hands braced oneither side of her head as he stared down into her face with desperate intensity. “You’re right about one thing. I have been deceiving you. But not in the way you think.”
She turned her face away, unable to bear the seeming sincerity in his voice. If this was another performance, it was his finest yet.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly, and when she didn’t comply, he gently turned her face back toward his with one finger beneath her chin. “The business dealings with Hargrove are part of something much larger. Something I’ve been trying to protect you from.”
