Page 74 of A Literary Liaison
The intimacy of his request sent a shiver down her spine. “As if I could dream of anything else.”
Unwelcome Visitor
Thunder rumbled inthe distance as storm clouds gathered beyond the study windows, casting the room in an ominous half-light that made the candles flutter. Elisha sat at her small writing desk, surrounded by a sea of scattered papers and discarded drafts. The scratch of her quill against parchment had grown ragged after hours of work, matching the increasing wildness of her thoughts.
She leaned back, stretching her cramped fingers. The sharp ache in her joints seemed to pulse in time with the approaching storm. Rolling her shoulders to ease the tension, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window—hair escaping its pins, ink stains on her fingers, a fierce intensity in her eyes that would have scandalized Amelia.
The door opened with barely a whisper of sound. Edgar’s reflection appeared behind hers in the darkened glass, and Elisha felt that familiar flutter in her chest—the one that never failed to accompany his presence. He moved with quiet grace, bearing two steaming cups of tea. The rich aroma of Earl Grey mingled with the petrichor drifting through the partially open window.
“How goes the writing?” he asked, setting one cup beside her carefully, mindful of her precious drafts. A drop of tea escaped, blooming like a copper rose on the saucer. The earthenware cup was from the servants’ collection rather than his fine porcelain—a small detail that spoke volumes about his understanding of her preference for comfort over propriety when working.
Elisha turned to face him, unable to contain the excitement that brightened her features despite her exhaustion. “I think… I think I’ve finally cracked it,” she said, her voice carrying that particular breathlessness that came with creative breakthrough. “The scene that’s been giving me trouble for days—it’s finally come together.”
Edgar perched on the edge of the desk, his own cup cradled between his elegant hands. His eyes, sparkling blue in the candlelight, held genuine interest rather than the polite attention most men offered to a lady’s literary pursuits.
“May I hear it?” he asked, his voice pitched low and intimate in the storm-darkened room.
Elisha hesitated, her fingers trailing over the pages. Sharing unfinished work always felt like exposing her soul to potential ridicule, yet he seemed to understand the vulnerable nature of a work in progress.
After a moment’s consideration, she nodded, gathering the relevant pages with trembling fingers. The paper rustled like autumn leaves as she sorted through them, finally locating the passage in question. Her voice, when she began to read, started soft and uncertain, but grew stronger with each word, taking on the rhythmic cadence that emerged naturally when she was lost in her craft.
The approaching storm provided an oddly fitting accompaniment—distant thunder punctuating dramatic moments, wind stirring the curtains during quieter passages. As she read, she was acutely aware of Edgar’s reactions: the slight intake of breath at a particularly poignant line, the way his fingers tightened on his cup during moments of tension.
As the last words left her lips, silence fell between them, heavy with possibility. Elisha kept her eyes on the manuscript, afraid to look up and see anything less than understanding in Edgar’s expression. The grandfather clock in the corner marked each moment, its steady tick a counterpoint to her racing heart.
When she finally gathered the courage to meet his gaze, the intensitythere stole her breath. He was watching her with an expression of wonder and fierce pride that made her chest tight with emotion.
“Elisha,” he breathed, setting his cup aside with a soft clink of china against wood. “These chapters… they’re extraordinary. The way you’ve developed these characters’ inner conflicts…” He leaned closer, the desk creaking softly beneath his weight. “The tension throughout… it’s masterful.”
A flush crept up her neck, warming her cheeks. The praise from him meant more than all the literary accolades she’d received as Miss Lovelace. “You really think so?” she asked, hating the tremor of uncertainty in her voice.
“I know so,” Edgar said with quiet conviction. He shifted, closing the distance between them until his knee brushed her skirts. The contact, though slight, sent awareness skittering along her nerves. “You have a gift, Elisha. This tale…” His hand covered hers where it rested on the manuscript, his thumb brushing over her ink-stained fingers. “It’s going to change things for you. I can feel it.”
Lightning flickered beyond the windows, briefly illuminating his features—the aristocratic planes of his face, the intensity in his dark brown eyes, the slight dishevelment of his cravat that spoke of hours spent bent over her manuscript, requesting chapter after chapter until the afternoon had slipped into evening.
Elisha’s heart swelled with gratitude and something deeper, more dangerous. “Thank you, Edgar,” she whispered, fighting the urge to turn her hand beneath his, to twine their fingers together. “Your faith in me means more than I can say.”
He reached out with his free hand, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her temple, a touch so tender it made her eyes sting with unexpected tears. “You don’t need my faith,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “You have talent, passion, and a voice that deserves to be heard.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “The world is waiting for your words,Elisha. Don’t keep them waiting too long.”
The air between them grew thick with unspoken desires. Edgar’s hand slid to cup her nape, his touch igniting sparks beneath her skin. Elisha found herself swaying toward him, drawn by that invisible force that always seemed to pull them together despite propriety, despite danger, despite—
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment. They sprang apart like guilty children, Edgar straightening with practiced composure while Elisha busied herself gathering scattered papers with trembling hands.
“Enter,” Edgar called, his voice betraying none of the tension Elisha could see in the rigid set of his shoulders.
The door opened with urgent haste, revealing Thompson, one of Edgar’s most trusted men. His face was flushed from exertion, rain darkening his shoulders. The fact that he had entered through the main house rather than the servants’ quarters spoke to the gravity of his news.
“Your Grace, Miss Linde,” Thompson began, his voice carefully controlled despite his labored breathing. “I’ve just received word that Mr. Steven Thornton awaits the lady at her lodgings. Our man informed him that you had gone to the post office, Miss.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the storm crept down Elisha’s spine. Her eyes met Edgar’s, finding her own concern mirrored there. “I had hoped he would not call,” she said softly, fingers unconsciously crumpling the corner of her manuscript.
Edgar’s jaw clenched visibly, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. The easy warmth of moments before had vanished, replaced by a cold fury that transformed his features into something almost predatory. “What business has he calling upon you unannounced?” The words emerged as a low growl.
Lightning flashed again, throwing harsh shadows across his face. Thunder followed almost immediately, rattling the windowpanes.
“It is his cottage, and I am his guest,” Elisha reminded him, though the words tasted bitter. “It is not improper for him to inquire after his guest.” Even as she spoke, her mind raced with the implications. Had Thornton discovered something? Was this seemingly innocent visit a trap?
Edgar pushed away from the desk with controlled violence, beginning to pace the small sitting room. His boots made no sound on the thick carpet, but tension radiated from every line of his body. The candlelight caught the signet ring on his finger as his hand clenched and unclenched at his side.
