The Review #2
The weight of responsibility settled on Elisha’s shoulders.
She’d built her reputation as E. Lovelace through sharp, uncompromising criticism, but tonight she needed to be diplomatic.
Charming, even. The skills required for drawing out a reluctant poet were entirely different from those needed to eviscerate a poorly written novel.
“What if he refuses to speak with me?” The doubt she’d been suppressing all day finally surfaced. “What if he takes one look at us and decides we’re not worth his time?”
“Then we’ll make ourselves worth his time.” Amelia squeezed her hand. “You have a gift for seeing through pretense to truth, Elisha. Use that tonight.”
The hackney wound through London’s evening streets, and Elisha’s thoughts drifted to her encounter at Hatchard’s that morning.
That insufferable man with his mocking bow and personal questions…
All day she’d been telling herself she was glad she’d never see him again, yet something about the encounter continued to nettle her.
It wasn’t just his arrogance, though that had been infuriating enough.
It was the way he’d looked at her—as if he could see straight through her careful composure to something underneath.
And those eyes… She shook her head firmly.
She had no business thinking about any man’s eyes, especially not tonight.
“You’re frowning,” Amelia observed. “Having second thoughts?”
“No, just… woolgathering.” Elisha straightened her shoulders as their carriage drew up before Lord Hardwick’s imposing townhouse. “Shall we go charm a poet?”
*
Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over mahogany panels and gilt-framed portraits at Lord Hardwick’s literary salon. The carefully modulated voices of power hummed around them, past Prime Ministers watching the evening’s proceedings with painted gravity.
Elisha stood near the refreshment table with Amelia, acutely aware of the weight of her borrowed pearl comb against her carefully arranged hair. Although elegant, the accessory stood in stark contrast to the diamond-encrusted splendor of the ladies around her.
“There,” Amelia murmured, nodding toward a corner where a gray-haired man stood looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Wordsworth. He looks as approachable as a wounded bear.”
Elisha studied their quarry. The poet’s reputation for avoiding social interaction was clearly well-earned—he clutched his wine glass like a sword and his eyes darted toward the exits with trapped-animal frequency.
“The Wordsworth situation is becoming desperate,” Amelia continued, keeping her voice low. “If we don’t secure that interview soon, my brother will—”
“His Grace, the Duke of Lancaster!”
The announcement cut through the general murmur of conversation. Elisha’s head snapped up to see the duke, famous for his good looks and infamous for his rakish reputation, being greeted effusively by their host.
Her heart plummeted straight through the floor.
It was him. The insufferable man from the bookshop, now resplendent in formal evening wear that emphasized every aristocratic line of his breeding.
Of course. Of course the arrogant stranger would turn out to be a duke.
Her cheeks burned with the memory of how she’d spoken to him—the casual dismissal, the way she’d challenged his opinions without the slightest deference to his rank.
“Elisha?” Amelia touched her arm. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
“I had a rather… memorable encounter with His Grace at Hatchard’s this morning. Before I knew he was His Grace.”
“What sort of encounter?”
“The sort involving a heated debate about literature and proper conduct.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. And was he very critical?”
Elisha didn’t have a chance to respond. As if sensing her gaze, the duke turned, those impossibly blue eyes finding her instantly across the crowded room.
Recognition flickered in their depths, followed by something that might have been amused satisfaction.
The corners of his mouth curved up in that same mocking smile she remembered from the bookshop.
Her first instinct was to flee. Her second was to hide behind the nearest potted plant.
Instead, she forced herself to straighten her spine and meet his gaze directly.
She was E. Lovelace, feared critic of the Metropolitan Review.
She would not be cowed by a duke, no matter how unsettling his attention or how her pulse insisted on racing whenever he looked at her.
She curtsied slightly, pasting on a polite smile. To her horror, he said something to Lord Hardwick and they began making their way toward her and Amelia. Escape was impossible without causing a scene.
“Breathe,” Amelia murmured. “You look like you’re facing a firing squad.”
“I feel like I am,” Elisha whispered back, watching Lancaster’s approach with the same fascination one might reserve for an approaching storm. There was something predatory in his smile, something that suggested he was very much looking forward to their reunion.
*
“Your Grace,” Hardwick performed the introductions with practiced ease. “Allow me to present Miss Linde, correspondent for the Metropolitan Review, and Miss Thornton, editor for the same gazette.”
Of course—she worked for the Metropolitan Review. That explained her passionate defense of E. Lovelace’s criticism this morning. She’d been defending a colleague, showing loyalty to her publication.
The realization cast her bookshop spiritedness in an entirely new light.
“Miss Thornton.” He bowed politely, then turned his full attention on Miss Linde, savoring the way her composure wavered.
Christ, she was even lovelier when flustered.
“Miss Linde and I’ve had the pleasure, though I believe I failed to properly introduce myself at Hatchard’s.
Miss Linde and I had quite the spirited debate about literature and proper discourse. ”
“Did you indeed?” Hardwick’s eyebrows rose with interest.
“Oh yes.” Edgar’s smile widened as heat crept up her neck. All day he’d been thinking about her—the way her eyes had flashed fire, that proud tilt of her chin when he’d challenged her. He wanted to see it again. Needed to see it again.
“Tell me, Miss Linde, have you given any more thought to our discussion about literary criticism?”
The question was a deliberate trap, and he watched her recognize it. But instead of retreating, she lifted her chin in that delicious way that had been tormenting him since morning.
“I maintain that thoughtful analysis serves literature well, Your Grace, though I confess I prefer a more… diplomatic approach in polite company.”
Her subtle barb hit its mark, and Edgar’s pulse hammered in response. God, she was magnificent when she fought back. “Diplomacy? How refreshing.” He affected surprise, knowing it would needle her. “And here I thought you favored direct confrontation.”
There—fire building behind those extraordinary green eyes. Her fingers tightened on her reticule, and Edgar could practically feel the spirited woman from the bookshop straining against the bonds of proper decorum. The temptation to push her further was almost overwhelming.
She opened her mouth—undoubtedly for some scathing retort—but something behind him caught her attention. Wordsworth, approaching with his usual trapped-animal expression.
Edgar watched her entire demeanor shift from wary defiance to focused determination as she stepped forward, extending her hand. “Mr. Wordsworth, what an honor. I’m Miss Linde, correspondent from the Metropolitan Review. I’ve been hoping for the chance to discuss your recent work.”
The poet was her target, he realized.
Wordsworth’s polite interest was already glazing over at the mention of “correspondent”.
It was a masterful performance—Wordsworth speaking at length about the weather, his garden, anything but the penetrating questions Miss Linde tried to pose about his work.
“The roses this year have been particularly vibrant,” Wordsworth mused, addressing his remarks primarily to Lancaster rather than the women before him.
“Though nothing quite compares to the wild beauty of the Lake District.”
Edgar caught the flash of desperation beneath her professional composure. This mattered to her. More than casual journalistic interest would warrant.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Edgar heard himself interrupting Wordsworth’s rambling commentary about sheep grazing, “the parallels between your latest work and Burke’s reflections on the revolution. Miss Linde made an astute observation about your use of natural imagery as political metaphor.”
He hadn’t the faintest idea if she’d made any such observation, but the surprised gratitude in her eyes was worth the small deception. Even Wordsworth, caught off guard by the intellectual direction, had to acknowledge the point.
Edgar watched with pride as Miss Linde seized the opening he’d provided—not with obvious triumph, but with subtle skill that drew the reluctant poet into real discourse.
Her questions revealed considerable understanding of both literature and politics, and she managed Wordsworth’s prickly temperament with impressive diplomatic finesse.
She was remarkable. Not just beautiful, but genuinely clever. The kind of woman who could match wits with anyone in this room and emerge victorious.
By the time Wordsworth took his leave—having clearly provided what Edgar could tell was a successful interview—Edgar’s respect for Miss Linde had crystallized into something deeper. She closed her notebook with quiet satisfaction, the tension finally leaving her shoulders.
She looked up and caught him watching, color rising in her cheeks.
“Thank you for your intervention,” she said quietly, her earlier wariness replaced by genuine gratitude. “You didn’t have to.”
“Perhaps not,” Edgar replied, moving closer. “But I confess I was curious to see how you’d handle him.”
“And your verdict?”
Edgar smiled. “Most impressive, Miss Linde. Most impressive indeed.”
As he watched her retreat to rejoin Miss Thornton, Edgar’s mind churned with questions about what other surprises the intriguing Miss Linde might be hiding beneath her professional exterior.