Page 33 of A Literary Liaison
The angry accusation hollowed him from within. “You are forgetting yourself, Miss Linde.”
She paled slightly, looking away and biting her lower lip. “I begyour pardon, Your Grace. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
She rose abruptly, forcing him to automatically do the same. For a moment, he was tempted to let her go—to retreat to his usual diversions and forget this maddening woman who dared to challenge him, to see through his carefully constructed facade. But as she strode toward the forested pathways with surprising speed, he found himself following, drawn by something stronger than pride or propriety.
He maintained a careful distance, noting with a mixture of concern and admiration that she didn’t look back even once. When they entered a secluded area, her pace slowed, and she pressed her forehead against a tree, the gesture so vulnerable it made his chest ache.
The setting sun cast long shadows through the trees, wreathing her in twilight. Every instinct told him to turn back, to let her go, to avoid the complications that pursuing her would inevitably bring. But his heart, so long dormant beneath layers of guilt and cynicism, had other ideas.
“Elisha…” The name escaped him like a prayer.
She turned, startled perhaps by the intimacy of it, her lips parting but no words emerging. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and he found himself mesmerized by the trembling of her parted lips.
“I am sorry,” he managed, his own breath unsteady.
He stepped closer, drawn by a force beyond his control, and cradled her face in his hands. Her eyes—a blend of forest green and summer sun—widened in surprise. Her lips, pink and full and slightly parted, beckoned him. Drawing in a deep breath that was full of her essence—ink and paper and something indefinably, uniquely her—he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
The taste of sweet tea and scones hit his senses first, then the impossibly soft lips, as juicy as a ripe peach. He tasted her gently with the flick of his tongue, afraid she may burst. He ran his tongue along her smooth bottom lip contrasting to the ridges of her teeth. He nipped ather pouty bottom lip, the one he had been dreaming about. Edgar brought his hands down and wrapped his arms around her body. His hands took the liberty of a master, feeling every curve, every dip, and hovering over his favorite, softest parts.
He turned around to lean against the tree while wedging her between his thighs. She sucked in a breath over his mouth when he pressed her firmly against the evidence of his arousal. She was firm yet soft, timid yet eager.
“I have wanted you since the first day we met, Elisha,” he rasped. “I need you. I want all of you.”
He slipped his mouth over hers and left nothing unanswered in his kiss. He teased, coaxed, and took until she moaned and ground herself against his steely ridge. Her passion, coupled with her innocence, was intoxicating. She returned his kiss hesitantly at first then boldly.
“Come with me,” he said, “allow me to love you wholly.”
His request went unanswered, so he paused his mouth and waited, her hot breath tickling his cheek.
“I can’t,” she said, finally. “I won’t.”
Standing straight, he held her loosely and gazed down at her. His brow furrowed as he became aware of how miserable she appeared.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, stepping backward.
“My desire for you does not mean I do not respect you.”
“I understand.”
“Then why are you withdrawing yourself? Do you not feel the same way?”
“I do, but I shouldn’t. This cannot end happily.” With that, she fled.
Madness and Desire
The iron gatesof Bethlem Royal Hospital loomed before Edgar, their unyielding bars a stark reminder of the societal constraints he’d never before questioned. Until now. He found himself studying the imposing facade with an uncomfortable sense of kinship. Was he not, in his own way, confined within social restrictions?
The asylum’s interior assaulted his senses—not merely with its cacophony of wails and mumbles, but with the disquieting notion that the line between sanity and madness might be far thinner than he’d once believed. After all, was it not a form of madness to contemplate throwing away generations of privilege and position for a woman who wrote literary reviews, one he’d seen only a handful of times?
A woman in a tattered gown twirled past him, her song a nonsensical tune about teacups and ravens. Yet there was something in her unfettered movements that spoke of freedom—the very freedom he found himself increasingly yearning for. In another corner, a man furiously scribbled equations on the wall with a piece of chalk, his eyes wild with perceived revelation. Edgar couldn’t help but wonder if he looked similarly possessed when thoughts of Elisha consumed him in the dead of night.
His father’s last words on his deathbed echoed in his mind: “Preserve our legacy, Edgar. The Lancaster name must remain untarnished.” How bitter those words tasted now, as he searched the corridors for a familiar face.
He found Patrick Adams in a quieter wing, overseeing the transfer of a new patient—another soul deemed too dangerous to Society’s careful order.
“Your Grace,” Adams said, surprise evident in his voice. “I didn’t expect to find you in such… colorful surroundings.”
