A Literary Liaison (The Daring Damsels #2)

The Review

A Review of Whispers of the Heart by Aengus Steele

Dear Esteemed Reader,

In the course of one’s earthly life, it is a rare privilege to encounter a literary work of such profound magnificence that it transcends the mere arrangement of words on a page.

Such a work, through some indefinable transformation, may reach into the very depths of one’s being, soothing the small child within with whispered consolations and gentle caresses of the soul.

Rarer still is the opus that, through its seemingly unpretentious narrative, renders even life’s darkest moments resplendent with an unexpected beauty.

Whispers of the Heart, penned by one Aengus Steele, is utterly devoid of such qualities.

E. Lovelace

Edgar Marshal Albury, the Duke of Lancaster, squinted at the broadsheet with his bloodshot eyes, which had been rendered thus by the arduous labor of excavating a subterranean passage from his wine cellar to the outhouse.

He read the review again, his jaw tightening with each word until a muscle twitched beneath his skin. The chair toppled backward as he shot to his feet, fury driving him to pace his study.

“The sheer audacity!” The empty room absorbed his thunderous voice.

“Who is this E. Lovelace to dismiss months of labor with such… such casual cruelty?” The broadsheet crumpled in his grip, edges cutting into his palm.

“A single paragraph to deliver her barb. At least have the courage to critique the work properly, you cowardly scribbler!”

His desk drawer rattled as he yanked it open with savage force, the inkwell jumping. “So you wish to engage in literary warfare, do you?” His voice dropped to a dangerous purr as he extracted fresh parchment. “Very well, let us cross quills, you pompous, self-important hack.”

The pen dipped into the ink with savage satisfaction, droplets spattering across the pristine page. A predatory smile curved his lips as he began his letter to Miss Lovelace. Each word was carefully chosen, dripping with honeyed venom.

My Most Esteemed Miss Lovelace,

Your recent critique of my humble offering has prompted me to express my deepest admiration…

Edgar set down his pen and savored each poisoned compliment. The final paragraph was particularly satisfying—let the mysterious critic try to wriggle out of that challenge without revealing herself as either a fraud or a hypocrite.

His rage demanded immediate action. Without hesitation, he folded the letter with deliberate care and sealed it with red wax. He’d be damned if he’d let some pompous scribbler’s condescension go unanswered.

“Anderson!” The secretary appeared within moments.

“Your Grace?”

“See that this is delivered to the Metropolitan Review offices immediately.” Edgar thrust the letter forward with grim satisfaction. “And ensure they understand it requires urgent attention.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

As Anderson departed with his literary ammunition, the fury began to ebb, leaving behind a restless energy that clawed at Edgar’s chest. He needed air, movement, distraction from the taste of wounded pride that lingered in his mouth.

Hatchard’s would clear his head. He needed books anyway—something to occupy his mind now that he’d fired his opening salvo in this literary war.

*

The bell above Hatchard’s Book Shop tinkled softly as Edgar entered, leather and paper scenting the air around him.

Morning sun slanted through tall windows, catching dust motes that danced between towering shelves.

The satisfaction of having dispatched his letter had cooled during the walk, leaving a vague unease about his impulsive action.

No matter. What was done was done, and E. Lovelace richly deserved whatever discomfort his missive might cause.

Poetry would restore his equilibrium. Byron, perhaps. But as Edgar made his way toward that section, a woman reaching for the Metropolitan Review shelf caught his attention. Something about her purposeful movements—she moved like someone with a mission rather than a casual browser.

“Pardon me,” he murmured, stepping closer without moving aside. Curiosity drove him to see what had drawn her to that particular shelf.

She looked up—and Edgar’s breath caught.

Her eyes were the most extraordinary shade of green, like sunlight through forest leaves, sparking with intelligence.

Chestnut hair was pinned back severely, but rebellious curls had escaped to frame her face.

Beautiful, certainly, but it was the quick intelligence in her gaze that held his attention.

“Not at all,” she managed, trying to step around him.

Edgar shifted slightly, trapping her between the shelf and a reading table. His gaze fell to the papers clutched in her hand—today’s Metropolitan. The same issue that contained that damnable review. “Ah, a fellow devotee of literature?”

“Indeed.” Her chin lifted, refusing to be intimidated by his looming presence.

That defiant tilt sent something warm through Edgar’s chest. He pulled a copy of the Metropolitan from the shelf, opening it deliberately to the review that had driven him from his house in a fury. “And what do you make of this?” He gestured to the page. “Rather harsh, wouldn’t you say?”

“On the contrary,” she replied, her voice taking on a lighter, more conversational tone. “I thought the review quite sensible, though perhaps a touch severe.”

Edgar’s carefully restored calm evaporated. Here was someone defending his tormentor, speaking as if literary assassination were merely good sense. “Sensible? She practically destroyed the poor author.”

“Well, I shouldn’t go quite that far.” Her head tilted consideringly. “Though I confess the novel did seem rather… earnest in its emotional appeals.”

The diplomatic phrasing stung worse than if she’d simply echoed Lovelace’s brutal assessment. “I see. I gather you’ve read the work in question?”

“Oh yes, I make it a point to read what everyone’s discussing.”

“And you consider yourself equipped to judge such matters?” His voice carried a sharper edge than he’d intended.

“I hardly think one needs special credentials to recognize when a story rings true versus when it…” She paused delicately. “…perhaps tries rather too hard to wring feeling from its readers.”

Heat rose in Edgar’s collar. Her measured tone somehow made the criticism worse than outright condemnation. “How enlightening. Tell me, what qualifies you to distinguish between genuine emotion and mere literary artifice? What profound experiences have shaped your understanding of human passion?”

Color flooded her cheeks, and Edgar felt a twist of satisfaction at having finally penetrated her composed facade.

“Sir, that is hardly an appropriate question to pose to a lady you’ve only just met.

” Her voice remained steady, but he caught the slight tremor of indignation.

“My personal experiences are neither your concern nor relevant to the matter at hand.”

“Of course not.” Edgar stepped back with exaggerated courtesy. “Forgive my impertinence, Miss…?”

She gathered her things without supplying her name. “Good day, sir.”

She swept past him, her head high, but Edgar caught the slight quickening of her step as she made her escape. He watched her retreat—the proud set of her shoulders, the way she clutched her books like armor against further interrogation.

Damn impertinent woman. Who did she think she was, dismissing his questions and walking away from him? A duke, no less. The audacity was…

Actually rather impressive.

Edgar’s irritation began to shift as he replayed the encounter.

She hadn’t simpered or apologized when he’d challenged her.

Hadn’t backed down when he’d loomed over her or used his superior height to intimidate.

Instead, she’d met his provocations with dignity and intelligence, refusing to be cowed even when he’d pushed too far with his personal questions.

Most women of his acquaintance would have either fled in tears or dissolved into fluttering apologies. This one had simply gathered her composure around her like a cloak and walked away with her head held high.

His heart was racing—not from anger, he realized, but from something else entirely.

The woman was magnificent when challenged—all flashing eyes and dignified outrage.

Her spirited defense of her opinions, her refusal to be intimidated by his rank…

when was the last time he’d encountered someone with such backbone?

Byron would have to wait. Perhaps by evening he’d have his answer from the mysterious E. Lovelace. The thought brought back his earlier satisfaction. Let the cowardly critic chew on his challenge for a while.

He didn’t even know the intriguing woman’s name.

*

Elisha smoothed the silk of her borrowed dove-gray gown, grateful that Amelia Thornton, her best friend and editor, had insisted on lending it for the evening. Amelia stood beside her at the mirror in Elisha’s modest lodgings, adjusting the lace at her own collar.

“Remember,” Amelia said, pinning an errant curl back into Elisha’s chignon, “half these literary lions were nobodies themselves once. Your words matter more than your wardrobe.”

Both their gowns were modest compared to what they’d encounter at the salon, but there was strength in entering together. They were, after all, two women who had fought their way into London’s male-dominated press.

“I still can’t believe we secured an invitation,” Elisha murmured, checking her reflection one final time. “Wordsworth rarely grants interviews, and never to women correspondents.”

“Which is precisely why this matters so much.” Amelia’s expression grew serious. “My brother’s patience with the Metropolitan’s finances grows thinner by the month. We need this interview, Elisha. Something substantial enough to boost our circulation.”