The Soirée Part 1
The grand drawing room of Hereford House glittered with candlelight, flames dancing in gilded mirrors and across polished marble floors. Edgar paused in the doorway, automatically scanning the assembled crowd until his gaze found a familiar figure in azure silk.
Miss Linde stood near a marble column, her bearing markedly different from the affected poses of the ton’s ladies. There was a keen focus in her expression as she observed the gathering, though he noticed she kept glancing toward the gentlemen with what might have been professional assessment.
“Ah, Lancaster,” Hereford appeared at his side, champagne in hand. “Surveying the enemy forces, are we?”
“Enemy forces?” Edgar accepted a glass, though his attention remained on Miss Linde. “Rather dramatic for a literary evening, don’t you think?”
“My dear fellow, you clearly haven’t witnessed Lady Faulkner’s team preparations. The ladies have been meeting twice weekly, armed with more books than a lending library.” Hereford gestured toward where several ladies clustered around their formidable captain. “I fear we may be outgunned.”
Edgar’s attention sharpened as he spotted the severe-looking gentleman now approaching Miss Linde. “And who might that be?”
“Steven Thornton. Made his fortune in India, recently returned to establish a publishing house. Sharp as a tack, though he has all the warmth of a tombstone.” Hereford paused, noting Edgar’s continued scrutiny. “Word has it he’s rather taken with Miss Linde.”
Edgar watched as Thornton’s granite expression softened in Miss Linde’s presence. The sight stirred something unexpectedly sharp in his chest. “Indeed? And Miss Linde’s feelings?”
“Difficult to say. Though I suspect you’ve developed your own interest in that particular mystery.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Edgar replied, even as Thornton leaned closer to whisper something in Miss Linde’s ear. “I merely find it curious that our most formidable opponent might be distracted by romance.”
“Miss Linde? Formidable?” Hereford’s eyes glittered with amusement. “You’ve clearly read her articles in the Metropolitan, then.”
Edgar’s pulse quickened as he recalled the offensive writing. “Oh yes, quite the sharp pen when it comes to critiquing the aristocracy. ‘The Frivolous Education of England’s Elite’—caused quite a stir last month.”
“As did her piece on the gaming hells of Mayfair.” Hereford chuckled. “I believe she referred to our set as ‘overgrown schoolboys with too many feathers and too little sense’.”
The description stung, particularly given Edgar’s own recent activities. “Charming.”
Then his attention sharpened. Adams had suggested E.
Lovelace could be either Miss Linde or Miss Thornton.
There was something remarkably similar between Miss Linde’s cutting articles about dissolute aristocrats and E.
Lovelace’s brutal assessment of his novel—the same sharp wit, the same unflinching judgment.
*
“Did you see the way His Grace was watching you?” Amelia whispered, though her tone held more concern than excitement. “Like a hawk circling its prey.”
Elisha followed her friend’s gaze to where the Duke of Lancaster stood with Lord Hereford, both men clearly enjoying some private conversation. “More likely he’s plotting how to crush the ladies’ team. Men don’t take kindly to intellectual competition from women.”
“Hmm.” Amelia’s voice carried a note of skepticism. “Though I’d wager he’s more interested in you personally than in any literary contest.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia. He’s exactly the sort of man I write about—overprivileged, undereducated, and utterly debauched.”
“Perhaps. But he seems rather… focused on you specifically.”
Before Elisha could respond, Mr. Thornton appeared at her side, his usual stern expression softening slightly. “Miss Linde, Amelia. I trust you’re both well-prepared for the upcoming literary combat?”
“As prepared as one can be,” Elisha replied. “I confess curiosity about what strategic advantages the gentlemen believe they possess.”
“Confidence, perhaps?” Mr. Thornton’s lips quirked in what might have been humor. “Though I suspect that may prove to be their downfall, given the ladies’ evident preparation.”
“You’ve noticed Lady Faulkner’s military-style organization, then?” Amelia asked.
“Complete with diagrams and reading assignments,” Elisha confirmed, unable to suppress her smile.
“Good Lord,” Mr. Thornton muttered. “I am grateful my team allegiance is with the Metropolitan Review writers then.”
“Oh,” Amelia said, “I must get some cake before it’s all gone. I’m grateful Steven is here to keep you company, Elisha.”
“Don’t you dare, Amelia Thornton!” Elisha hissed so only her traitor of a friend could hear. “I know what you’re about!”
“I will be back shortly.” Amelia grinned and headed toward the buffet table, her limp pronounced from the day’s labor despite her effort to walk straighter.
“These affairs never fail to remind me how unsuited I am to London Society,” Thornton said as he joined her, his deep voice carrying a note of self-deprecation. “Though I suspect you’ve already discerned as much.”
“On the contrary,” Elisha replied, “you navigate these waters with remarkable skill for someone who claims to be unsuited to them.”
A quiet chuckle of amusement escaped him.
“Necessity breeds adaptation, Miss Linde. In India, business often hinged on one’s ability to endure endless social obligations.
Though I confess, my ideal evening involves nothing more taxing than a book by the fire and a large dog at my feet.
” His lips quirked. “Which I currently do not possess.”
The unexpected touch of whimsy in his admission startled a laugh from her. “No dog yet, Mr. Thornton? Or do you refer to the book?”
A gentle chuckle warmed his voice. “Both, Miss Linde. As I am certain you noticed, my home on Russell Square remains rather… austere. It needs a woman’s touch, or so my sister frequently reminds me.” He paused, dark eyes warming slightly. “And a dog’s pawprints on the Turkish carpets.”
“Do you miss India?” she asked, noting how his expression shifted at her avoidance of the subject.
“Parts of it. Though not, perhaps, what most would expect.” He seemed to choose his words carefully.
“I miss the children who would gather outside the mines each morning, hoping for work. Not the circumstance that brought them there—that was devastating—but the opportunity to help. We established a school instead, taught them to read and write. More valuable than any mineral we extracted, in my opinion.”
Elisha studied him with new interest. This was not the cold industrialist she’d thus far believed him to be. “That must have caused quite a stir among your fellow businessmen.”
“It did.” Something like mischief flickered in his eyes.
“Almost as much as selling to an American company that promised to maintain the school’s funding.
Sometimes, as you’re aware, the most profitable ventures have nothing to do with money.
The school continues to thrive, from what my friends report,” Thornton said, a rare warmth softening his features. “Though I admit, walking away was—”
“Strategizing against your own sex, Thornton?” came a familiar voice behind them.
Elisha turned to find the Duke of Lancaster approaching, his blue eyes bright with what might have been challenge or amusement. She straightened slightly, her professional instincts sharpening.
Mr. Thornton’s expression settled back into its usual granite mask. “My allegiance is with my staff at the Metropolitan Review, Your Grace.”
“Immediate defection would be wise,” His Grace replied, his lips quirking in one corner.
As if Mr. Thornton comprehended a double meaning in the duke’s statement, he dipped his head to the Duke of Lancaster and addressed Elisha. “Miss Linde, please excuse me.”
Upon the proprietor’s retreat, the duke stepped closer and stood beside her.
“Your Grace,” she said politely. “Come to assess the opposition?”
“Merely engaging in friendly reconnaissance,” he replied with a roguish grin. “If Lady Faulkner’s reputation for strategic planning is any indication, we gentlemen may be in for quite the battle.”
“Are you so easily intimidated, Your Grace?” Elisha asked, raising an eyebrow.
“On the contrary, Miss Linde. I find worthy opponents far more interesting than easy victories.” He paused, studying her face. “Based on your work in the Metropolitan, I imagine you’ll make an impressive adversary.”
Heat crept up Elisha’s neck. “You read my articles? How fascinating, considering they rarely concern racing horses or gaming hells.”
Rather than take offense, the duke threw back his head and laughed.
“You wound me, Miss. I do occasionally read material of a more… substantial nature. ‘The Frivolous Education of England’s Elite’ was particularly memorable.
Tell me, Miss Linde, do you make a habit of keeping such thorough account of my activities? ”
“Your Grace’s exploits are rather difficult to ignore when they occupy half the scandal sheets in London. Some of us believe a duke’s time might be better spent on his responsibilities than on perfecting his reputation as a rake.”
“Ah, but I have an excellent younger brother who manages such tedious matters. Edmund positively revels in estate management and crop rotation. It would be cruel of me to deprive him of such pleasure.”
“How thoughtful of you to spare him the burdens of brothels and gaming hells.”
“I do try to be considerate,” he said with a roguish grin. “Though I must say, your disapproval is far more entertaining than the usual fawning I encounter.”
“If you seek entertainment, Your Grace, might I suggest the library? Though perhaps I should recommend something with pictures, to ease you into the experience.”
The duke’s eyes sparkled with genuine delight. “My, my. Sharp tongue, sharper wit. I don’t suppose you’d care to join me for tea in a week?”
“I fear I must decline. I wouldn’t wish to deprive London’s enterprising young ladies of your attention. I hear they’ve started a betting pool on who will be your next conquest.”
“Have they indeed? And what odds do you give yourself?”
She narrowed her eyes at his teasing inquiry—a fox with a bewildered rabbit. She kept her voice free of any emotion. “Rather less than my chances of spontaneously becoming Queen of England, Your Grace.”
“Such certainty,” he murmured without seeming discouraged. He stepped closer. “And yet you’re the first woman in recent memory to engage my full attention.”
Elisha’s heart skipped a beat at the bold query. “A dubious honor I shall try to bear with fortitude.”
He threw back his head and laughed with abandon, filling the room with warmth. Elisha steadfastly ignored the small thrill it sent down her spine. After all, she had no intention of becoming another notch on the Duke of Lancaster’s bedpost, no matter how engaging he might be.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Perhaps I’m not quite the wastrel you imagine me to be.”
“And perhaps pigs shall sprout wings.”
“Such skepticism,” he murmured with a barely audible chuckle. “What must I do to convince you of my hidden depths?”
“Depths? Your Grace, I’d settle for evidence of a shallow pit.”
His deep baritone laugh seemed to reverberate through her bones. “You know, most people at least pretend to find me charming.”
“I leave pretense to those with greater ambitions than honest journalism.”
“Honest journalism? Is that what you call those scathing articles?”
“I merely offer my opinion, Your Grace. Though I’m considering reporting on the debauched lifestyle of the Mayfair Mavericks—that notorious quartet of wealth, good looks, and roguishness consisting of yourself, the Marquess of Hereford, the Earl of Carlisle, and Mr. Patrick Adams. I fear keeping up with your collective exploits may prove exhausting. ”
He stepped closer still, and Elisha caught the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather. “If I didn’t know better, Miss Linde, I’d think you were rather fixated on my activities.”
“Purely professional necessity, I assure you.”
“Is it indeed?” His voice had dropped to a low rumble that sent an unwanted shiver down her spine. “Then why, my sharp-tongued lady, are you blushing?”
Elisha cursed her fair complexion. “The punch must be stronger than I realized.”
“Tell me, do you believe people can change? Or are we forever bound by our reputations?”
The question felt oddly personal, though Elisha couldn’t quite grasp why. “I believe people reveal their true nature through their actions, Your Grace. Words are easily spoken.”
“Indeed they are. Though sometimes words can reveal more than actions—particularly when people write what they truly think rather than what society expects.” His gaze grew more intense. “That correspondence between E. Lovelace and A. Steele, for instance.”
Elisha’s breath caught. “You’ve been following that exchange?”
“Rather difficult to avoid, given the attention it’s garnered. Moreover, there’s something almost… personal about it. As if both writers are sharing far more than they intend.”
Before Elisha could respond, the conversation was interrupted by a burst of laughter from across the room. Both she and the duke turned to see what had caused the commotion.
“It seems Lady Binbrook has discovered Lord Whitmore’s poetry,” Elisha observed dryly. “Perhaps we should rescue his lordship before she reads it aloud.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Miss Linde. Everything deserves a second chance—even terrible poetry.” His eyes held hers meaningfully. “Don’t you agree?”