Blood Sport
My Esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I am thrilled to have my thoughts compared to a chamber pot, for my chamber pot is sizable.
It was her hair that undid me—a cascade of sun-kissed silver and gold against gilded grasses. As spring breezes caressed her alabaster skin, I yearned to become the wind itself, suffusing her being, entwining with her mortal form for eternity.
Without a moment’s hesitation or doubt, I found myself willing to surrender my own being, to relinquish my corporeal form, if only to become an intrinsic part of her existence.
Such, my dear Miss Lovelace, is the nature of the perfect love you bid me to describe. I lay bare before you the depths of my most intimate emotions, trusting that you will receive them with the gravity they deserve.
I remain your most humble and obedient servant,
A. Steele
The letter trembled in Elisha’s gloved hands as morning mist swirled around her bench in Myddelton Square. She’d fled here after reading Mr. Steele’s response, needing air, space, something to counter the unexpected intimacy of his words.
Her hair that undid me. The phrase echoed in her mind. This wasn’t the pompous literary posturing she’d expected—this was raw, genuine emotion laid bare on the page.
A group of early strollers passed, tipping their hats politely, but Elisha barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the elegant script before her, to images of sun-kissed hair and spring breezes that made her chest tight with unnamed longing.
She’d demanded proof of his grand passion, expecting flowery nonsense she could easily demolish. Instead, he’d given her something that felt like truth—the kind of devastating honesty that made her question everything she thought she knew about love.
To become the wind itself. The poetry of it struck her unexpectedly. This wasn’t the shallow sentiment of his novel; this was a man describing a love so complete he’d surrender his very existence for it.
Envy pierced her heart—sharp and immediate. What would it feel like to inspire such devotion? To be loved with such intensity that a man would wish to dissolve into air just to remain close?
The rational part of her mind urged caution. This was literary warfare, nothing more. Yet as she refolded the letter with trembling fingers, she couldn’t shake the image of sun-dappled fields and a love so profound it transcended flesh.
For the first time in years, Elisha wondered if perhaps there was more to romance than she’d allowed herself to believe.
*
The afternoon found her still unsettled, pacing the Metropolitan’s cramped office while Amelia worked at her desk. The letter seemed to burn through her reticule, its presence a constant reminder of feelings she’d thought safely buried.
“You’re wearing a path in the floorboards,” Amelia observed without looking up. “What has you so agitated?”
“Mr. Steele’s latest response.” Elisha stopped pacing, her hands clasped tightly. “It’s… different.”
“Different how?”
“Genuine.” The word came out rougher than intended. “He wrote about his beloved with such… such raw honesty. I expected pompous drivel, but instead…”
“Instead?”
“Instead, he made me envious.” Elisha sank into her chair, the admission leaving her drained. “Of a woman I’ll never meet, loved by a man whose name I don’t even know.”
Amelia’s quill stilled. “Perhaps that’s precisely what he intended.”
“What do you mean?”
“You challenged him to prove his capacity for love. He’s done so in a way that shows you what you’re missing.” Amelia’s voice gentled. “Sometimes the heart recognizes truth even when the mind resists it.”
Before Elisha could respond, a sharp knock interrupted them. Mrs. Cobbs appeared in the doorway, holding an envelope with obvious excitement.
“Begging your pardon, ladies, but this just arrived by special messenger.” She bustled forward, practically vibrating with curiosity. “From Mr. Thornton himself.”
Amelia rose from her chair, her foot landing with a heavier thud than usual—her injury from the textile mill acting up after their long day of work.
The sight of her friend’s slight wince transported Elisha momentarily to that terrible day when they’d both toiled as girls, when Amelia’s skirts had caught in the machinery and her leg had been compromised for her survival.
“Elisha, we’ve been invited to Steven’s residence for supper!” Amelia announced, her face brightening despite the obvious discomfort.
“Tonight?” Elisha’s stomach dropped. The last thing she needed was navigating Mr. Thornton’s increasingly obvious interest while Mr. Steele’s letter had left her emotions so raw.
“This very evening!” Amelia’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “And I still maintain he harbors tender feelings for you.”
“Don’t be absurd. He scarcely knows me.”
“Since when does a gentleman require intimate knowledge before developing affection? You’re comely, intelligent, accomplished—”
“Cease such talk.” Elisha busied herself gathering papers. “Perhaps it’s merely dinner to better acquaint himself with his sister’s dearest friend.”
Amelia’s knowing smile suggested otherwise.
*
The hackney deposited them before Mr. Thornton’s Georgian house in one of London’s fashionable districts. The imposing facade bore an air of austere neglect that seemed at odds with its prestigious location—like a man who’d forgotten that houses, like hearts, required tending.
A dour-faced butler admitted them into an entrance hall conspicuously bereft of warmth. No ornate mirrors, no plush carpets, no family portraits—just bare walls and the steady tick of a plain clock that emphasized the emptiness.
“Good Lord,” Elisha murmured, taking in the spartan drawing room. “It’s like a monastery.”
“Steven has always prioritized function over comfort,” Amelia sighed. “Every bare wall proclaims his need for a wife.”
When Mr. Thornton appeared, his lean figure clad entirely in black, Elisha noted how different he seemed from the passionate voice in Mr. Steele’s letter.
Where Mr. Steele wrote of surrendering his very being for love, Mr. Thornton’s sharp features and calculating gaze suggested a man who measured everything, including affection.
“Miss Linde,” he said, his voice crisp as his appearance. “A pleasure to see you again.”
The dining room offered simple fare—more suited to a middle-class household than one of Mr. Thornton’s standing, but welcome enough to women accustomed to modest repasts.
“I’ve been following the Metropolitan’s progress with great interest,” Mr. Thornton began, his gaze fixed on Amelia. “You’ve established it as a reputable publication in a remarkably short time.”
“I couldn’t have managed without Elisha’s invaluable assistance,” Amelia replied, then turned to her friend with obvious pride. “She has such a gift for recognizing literary merit—and the rarest talent for expressing her opinions with both wit and precision.”
Elisha nearly choked on her soup. “Please—”
“Oh, but it’s true! Why, just last week she identified three promising manuscripts that other publications had overlooked entirely.”
Mr. Thornton’s attention shifted to Elisha with genuine interest. “Indeed? I intend to establish a publishing house, capitalizing on your popularity, Miss Linde. I may have need of your expertise in selecting promising authors.”
Amelia beamed. “She is perfect for it.”
The conversation flowed through literary matters and Mr. Thornton’s business aspirations. He spoke with the precision of a man accustomed to analyzing markets and opportunities, his questions about promising authors both informed and practical.
“Elisha also has the most remarkable memory for poetry,” Amelia interjected during a lull. “She can recite entire verses after reading them only once.”
“Amelia…” Elisha warned.
“What? It’s an extraordinary gift. Show him that sonnet you memorized from last month’s submission.”
“I will do no such thing,” Elisha muttered, taking a rather large gulp of wine.
Mr. Thornton watched this exchange with amused interest. “And what of your literary feud, Miss Linde? One might almost think it orchestrated, so perfectly does it captivate our readers.”
“I assure you, the debate with Mr. Steele is entirely genuine.” Elisha met his gaze steadily, grateful for the change of subject.
“Indeed, it has been beneficial for our circulation numbers.” Mr. Thornton leaned forward slightly. “I look forward to seeing how you respond to his latest challenge.”
Elisha nodded, taking a sip of her wine. “I’m still considering my approach.”
“And she approaches everything with such thoughtfulness,” Amelia added helpfully. “She never acts in haste. Very sensible in a lady, don’t you think?”
Under the table, Elisha kicked Amelia’s foot, making her flinch mildly.
“Quite sensible,” Mr. Thornton agreed. “And what of your personal goals, Miss Linde? Surely a lady of your accomplishments must have plans beyond literary criticism?”
“Oh, Elisha is wonderfully independent,” Amelia rushed to answer. “Though not so independent as to be unmarriageable, naturally. She simply hasn’t found the right gentleman yet.”
Elisha wished the floor would swallow her whole.
“I see.” Mr. Thornton’s lips curved in what might have been a smile. “And what qualities might the right gentleman possess?”
Another kick under the table, more pointed this time.
“Yes, tell us, Elisha,” Amelia said with a grin. “What qualities do you wish for?”
“Intelligence,” Elisha managed. “Integrity. A love of literature would be… agreeable.”
“All qualities my brother possesses in abundance,” Amelia declared with the subtlety of a charging bull. “Wouldn’t you agree, Steven?”
“Amelia,” Elisha hissed.
“What? I’m simply stating facts.”
Mr. Thornton, to his credit, seemed more amused than offended by his sister’s matchmaking attempts. “Perhaps we might continue this discussion at greater length, Miss Linde. Perhaps over tea next week?”
The invitation was delivered with businesslike directness—polite, appropriate. Elisha found herself appreciating his restraint even as Amelia practically bounced in her seat with excitement.
“I… that is very kind of you, Mr. Thornton.”
“Wonderful!” Amelia exclaimed. “I’m sure you’ll find much to discuss.”
Elisha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. How to delicately navigate her employer’s advances while avoiding crushing her friend’s hopes?
“Well, that went splendidly!” Amelia declared as their hackney carried them home through London’s evening streets.
Elisha gave her friend a withering look. “Amelia Thornton, you have all the subtlety of a circus parade.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“‘Not so independent as to be unmarriageable’? Really?”
Amelia had the grace to blush. “I was simply… highlighting your positive qualities.”
“You were serving me up like the evening’s main course.” Elisha shook her head, though she couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “Poor Mr. Thornton probably thinks I put you up to it.”
“Did you see how pleased he looked when you accepted his invitation?”
“He looked like a man conducting a business transaction. Which, knowing your brother, is probably exactly what it was.”
Amelia’s face fell slightly. “You don’t find him agreeable?”
“He’s perfectly agreeable,” Elisha said gently, mindful of her friend’s feelings. “Intelligent, successful, well-mannered. Any woman would be fortunate to receive his attention.”
“But?”
“But he approaches personal matters with the same calculation he applies to business ventures. There’s nothing wrong with that—it’s simply not what draws me.
” Elisha paused thoughtfully. “When I think of genuine feeling, I think of spontaneity, vulnerability… the kind of honesty that takes courage to express.”
She thought briefly of Mr. Steele’s letter, his unexpected openness when describing his beloved.
As their carriage drew up before their lodgings, Elisha reflected that Mr. Thornton was undoubtedly a catch by any reasonable measure—the sort of practical marriage a woman in her position should be grateful to obtain.
But practicality, Elisha was beginning to realize, might not be enough for her heart.