Page 72 of A Literary Liaison
Her smile, when it came, was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.
Nest
The late afternoonsun draped golden fingers through the oak leaves overhead, casting dappled shadows that danced across Elisha’s muslin gown as she walked beside Edgar along a secluded path in the expansive gardens. Sweet-scented roses climbed ancient stone walls, their heavy blooms nodding in the gentle breeze that carried hints of lavender and freshly cut grass. The crunch of gravel beneath their feet mingled with the distant call of wood pigeons and the gentle splash of the fountain in the Italian garden beyond.
Edgar’s hand, warm and sure against her own, sent delicious shivers up her arm. His thumb traced lazy circles on her palm. Here, sheltered by thick yew hedges and carefully tended topiaries, they might have been the only two souls in existence.
“Tell me, Elisha,” Edgar began, his rich baritone carrying that particular tender note she had come to recognize as solely hers, “what occupies your pen these days? I find myself most curious about your current literary endeavors.”
The gentle inquiry sent a flutter of unease through her breast. Elisha watched a pair of butterflies dance past, their wings catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds. She was loath to deceive him, yet revealing her identity as Miss Lovelace felt akin to handling a powder keg with trembling hands. The sharp-tongued critic who exchanged increasingly heated missives with a man had become the talk of every scandal sheet in London.
Despite the warmth of the day, a chill crept along her spine. Her reputation—no, more than that, Edgar’s reputation by association—could be irreparably damaged. She stole a glance at his profile, noble and striking in the afternoon light. His dark hair gleamed with hints of chocolate where the sun touched it, and concern seemed to etch fine lines around his eyes that only heightened his appeal.
They paused beside a marble bench nestled among a bower of climbing roses. The sweet perfume of the flowers enveloped them as Edgar turned to face her, his expression so full of tender regard that her heart ached.
She drew a steadying breath, the stays of her corset suddenly feeling too tight. “Edgar,” she began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts at composure, “there’s something I must confess to you.”
His eyes, their blue depths brightening in the golden light, fixed upon her face with unwavering attention. The intensity of his gaze made her pulse quicken, and she found herself gripping the delicate silk of her parasol too tightly.
“I… I am Miss Lovelace.”
Something shifted in Edgar’s expression—his eyes seemed to widen with what looked like surprise, understanding, and perhaps relief. He hesitated, and Elisha noticed his hand flex at his side, as though he, too, was wrestling with secrets of his own.
“You’re Miss Lovelace?” His voice was soft but intent.
Elisha nodded, heat flooding her cheeks. The breeze picked up, carrying the distant toll of church bells across the garden. A curl escaped her carefully arranged coiffure, dancing against her cheek until Edgar, with exquisite gentleness, tucked it behind her ear. The brief contact left her skin tingling.
“Yes,” she managed, fighting the urge to lean into his touch. “I’ve been writing under that pseudonym for some time now. I pray you’re not too disappointed in me for keeping it from you.”
“Disappointed?” Edgar’s laugh was rich and warm as honey. “No,not at all.” His hand lingered near her face, his thumb brushing her cheek with devastating tenderness. “I’m impressed, truly. Your writing is remarkable, Elisha. But why did you feel you needed to hide this from me?”
She lowered her eyes, watching the play of shadows across the gravel path. Her fingers worried the delicate lace of her gloves. “I feared it might change how you saw me. That you might not approve of my rather outspoken opinions.” She glanced up through her lashes, finding his gaze still fixed upon her with an intensity that made her mouth go dry. “The colorful missives, drawing attention to myself in such a public manner… It was not my choice, if that helps. Amelia and I decided to publish the letters out of necessity, due to our difficulty attracting new readers.”
Edgar gently lifted her chin with one finger, compelling her to meet his gaze fully. The touch, though slight, sent warmth coursing through her entire body. “Elisha, if I had any issues with your opinions and your ability to express them, I would have fled the first day we met.”
A smile curved her lips at the memory, relief washing over her like a summer rain. Edgar opened his mouth to say something but hesitated. She waited patiently, her brows furrowed with questions when he said, “Thank you for trusting me with this, Elisha. It means more than you know.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, and Elisha found herself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by an invisible force as inexorable as the tide.
*
Later that evening,Elisha sat at her escritoire, the rich scent of leatherbound books mingling with the sharp tang of ink. Across the carpet, Edgar rustled through Parliamentary documents, his broadshoulders casting a looming shadow against the mahogany-paneled walls.
The flickering candlelight cast honeyed shadows across the study, reaching Elisha’s corner where half of her was cast in shadow. She paused in her writing, the quill hovering above parchment as she watched a drop of ink fall, black as midnight, onto the creamy paper. Her copper curls, escaping their pins after hours of work, caught the golden light as she raised her eyes.
She found Edgar watching her, his sapphire eyes intent beneath the strong arch of his brow. A hint of a smile played about his lips—those aristocratic lips that had no business causing such a flutter in her breast. He held her gaze a moment longer than propriety dictated before returning to his papers, the signet ring on his finger glinting as he shifted the documents.
The mantel clock ticked away precious minutes as Elisha attempted to focus on her novel. The muslin of her day dress whispered against the chair as she adjusted her position, acutely aware of the tension building between them like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
Edgar loosened his cravat, the silk rustling softly. The action exposed the strong column of his throat, and Elisha’s fingers tightened around her quill. When she dared look up again, she found him watching her again, his eyes dark as a stormy sea. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she quickly lowered her gaze to her manuscript, where the words swam before her eyes like wayward fish.
The thunder struck. Elisha started, her hand jerking toward her inkwell. The delicate glass vessel wobbled precariously, and she steadied it with trembling fingers. A drop of ink stained her sleeve, blooming like a black rose against the pale fabric.
“Allow me,” Edgar’s deep voice broke the silence as he rose, withdrawing a pristine handkerchief from his coat pocket. He moved toward her, his steps muffled by the thick carpet.
“Pray, do not trouble yourself,” Elisha protested. But he was already beside her, the heat of him warming her more surely than any fire could. His clean, masculine scent enveloped her as he bent to examine the stain.
“It is no trouble,” he murmured, his breath stirring the loose curls near her ear. As he pressed the handkerchief to her sleeve, his fingers brushed against her arm through the thin muslin. The touch, though fleeting, sent a shiver racing down her spine.
