The Soirée Part 2
Edgar paused in the doorway of Hereford’s grand salon, his gaze immediately drawn to the familiar figure in azure silk.
Miss Linde stood near the front of the rearranged seating, her notebook balanced on her knee with professional efficiency, her attention focused on Charles Dickens as he prepared for the evening’s contest.
Blast and damnation. Even in a room full of London’s finest, she commanded his attention with effortless grace.
She was everything he could want in a woman—intelligent, spirited, fearless in her convictions.
Everything except the birth and station that would make such wanting anything more than folly.
No lady of proper breeding would work for a living, much less in the scandalous profession of journalism.
Her very presence here tonight, brilliant and beautiful though she was, marked her as utterly beyond the pale of acceptable society matches for a duke.
The memory of Lucia’s tears still haunted him. His father’s threats, the scandal, the way Society had crushed their love with ruthless efficiency. And yet here he stood, drawn to another woman whose circumstances made her as impossible as she was irresistible.
“Lancaster!” Hereford’s voice broke through his brooding. “Stop mooning about like a lovestruck schoolboy and join us. Dickens is about to begin.”
A frisson of excitement swept through the room as the celebrated author made his way to the fore, acknowledging the warm reception with a modest bow.
“Mr. Dickens,” Lord Hereford intoned, “we entrust to you the task of posing the questions and arbitrating any disputes that may arise. Are you prepared to undertake this weighty responsibility?”
Dickens’ eyes twinkled with good humor as he replied, “My lord, I shall attempt to discharge my duties with all the impartiality and knowledge at my command. Though I dare say, judging between such illustrious minds may prove a greater challenge than penning a three-volume novel!”
A ripple of laughter coursed through the assembly, easing the palpable tension that had begun to build.
Charles Dickens surveyed the assembled company, then began his peculiar ritual of adjusting his waistcoat and checking his pocket watch.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “tonight’s charitable stakes are considerable.
The ladies champion the Metropolitan Review’s literacy program, while the gentlemen support the Mayfair Sailing Club for Underprivileged Youth. ”
Edgar’s attention sharpened as he watched Elisha’s face light up with genuine enthusiasm at the mention of her program. Gone was the sharp-tongued critic; for a moment, she looked almost luminous with hope.
“Let us begin,” Dickens declared. “Ladies, gentlemen—‘Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’.”
“Keats!” Edgar and Elisha spoke in perfect unison, their voices blending. Edgar caught her startled glance and saw the flush that rose to her cheeks.
The questions flew rapidly. “‘The curfew tolls the knell of parting day’.”
“Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’.” Lady Faulkner called out, a split second before Lord Binbrook responded.
As the contest continued, Edgar found himself more intrigued by Elisha’s responses than concerned with winning. Her knowledge was impressive, but more than that—her passion for literature shone through.
“We find ourselves at an impasse,” Dickens announced after several tied rounds. “One final question shall determine the victor. ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ Origin and context, if you please.”
Edgar stepped forward confidently. “Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Act Three, Scene Two. Spoken by Queen Gertrude regarding the Player Queen’s vows.”
But before the gentlemen could celebrate, Elisha’s clear voice rang out. “While His Grace is correct about Shakespeare’s usage, those exact words first appeared in Sir Philip Sidney’s The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia, twenty years before Hamlet. Shakespeare was borrowing from Sidney.”
A profound silence fell. Edgar turned to find her watching him, challenge bright in her green eyes, and despite his competitive nature, he found himself more impressed than vexed.
Dickens nodded thoughtfully. “The lady’s answer demonstrates exceptional scholarship. The victory goes to the ladies!”
The room erupted in applause and congratulations. Edgar watched as Elisha was embraced by her teammates, her face radiant with triumph and something deeper—relief, perhaps, that her literacy program would receive the funding it desperately needed.
As the excitement began to settle, Edgar made his way to her side. The crowd had thinned around her, leaving them in a relatively private pocket near the windows.
“I concede defeat with grace,” he murmured, close enough that only she could hear. “Though I wonder if you might be persuaded to give me a chance to reclaim my honor in a more… private contest of wits?”
She turned, and for a moment he saw something flash in her eyes—interest, perhaps, even desire—quickly masked by practiced reserve. “Your Grace,” she said softly, “I rather think you’d find such a contest more challenging than you anticipate.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, enjoying the way her breath caught as he leaned slightly closer. “I’m counting on it.”
Before she could respond, she was swept away by well-wishers, but not before casting one last glance over her shoulder—a look that sent heat coursing through his veins.
*
The victory felt sweeter than Elisha had expected, not just for the triumph itself but for what it meant—funds for their literacy program, validation of her work, proof that she belonged in these intellectual circles despite her origins.
But even as she accepted congratulations from Lady Whitmore and the other ladies, the attention began to feel overwhelming.
Everyone wanted to discuss her Sidney reference, to praise her knowledge, to claim acquaintance with the evening’s victor.
The press of bodies and voices made the room feel stifling.
“I should take some air,” she murmured to Amelia when her friend appeared at her elbow. “All this excitement has left me rather warm.”
“Shall I come with you?”
“No, stay and enjoy the celebration. I won’t be long.”
Elisha slipped away to the terrace, grateful for the cool night air and blessed quiet. The moon cast silver light across the formal gardens below, and she could hear the distant sound of laughter from the salon behind her—celebration continuing without her, exactly as she preferred.
She’d barely had a moment to collect herself when she heard footsteps. She didn’t need to turn to know who had followed her.
“I trust you haven’t come out here to practice a victory dance?” The duke’s voice held warm amusement as he approached.
“I wouldn’t dare until I had returned to the privacy of my own chambers,” she replied, turning to face him.
His laugh was rich and genuine. “How considerate of you to spare the wounded pride of myself and my fellow gentlemen.”
“I believe I’ve already wounded it sufficiently for one evening.” She met his gaze directly, noting how the moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face.
He moved closer, and she caught the subtle scent of sandalwood and leather that seemed to be his signature.
“You are either very brave or very foolish to address me so boldly, Miss Linde.” His voice was low with a hint of bewilderment.
“Perhaps I simply see no reason to treat you differently than any other man who values appearance over substance.” The words were sharp, but her voice held a slight tremor that betrayed her awareness of him.
He braced one hand on the balustrade beside her, not quite trapping her but certainly crowding her space and forcing her to tip her head back to maintain eye contact.
Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before snapping back to his eyes.
His lips curved faintly at the tiny tell.
“We’ve been in each other’s company all evening, and I’ve been a perfect gentleman. ”
“The night is still young,” she replied, though without her usual bite. “Plenty of time for you to prove me right about your character.”
His laugh rumbled softly through her and heated her belly. “And if I prove you wrong instead?”
Elisha looked up, meaning to deliver another sharp retort, but the words died in her throat.
His face was close to hers, his eyes dark with an emotion she dared not name.
For a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the flush of her cheeks.
She moistened her lips, and His Grace tracked the movement with dangerous interest.
The spell broke at the sound of voices in the hallway. They sprang apart like guilty children.
“Thank you for your company, Your Grace,” Elisha said stiffly, smoothing her skirts.
But as she turned to flee, his voice stopped her. “Miss Linde.” When she looked back, his expression was uncharacteristically serious. “You’re not entirely wrong about me. But you’re not entirely right either.”
Elisha hesitated at the door. “Perhaps,” she said softly, “we’re both guilty of judging too quickly.”
She hurried away before he could respond, her heart beating an unruly rhythm.
*
When Edgar finally returned to the salon, he found the party settling into its final phase. Dickens had claimed a chair near the fire and was regaling a small group with tales of his travels, his nervous energy channeled into animated storytelling rather than button-polishing.
Edgar positioned himself beside Miss Linde, who had rejoined her friends near the piano and Dickens.
“Fascinating man, Dickens,” he murmured, noticing Miss Linde glance his way. “Brilliant writer, yet prone to the most peculiar habits. Did you know he rearranges all the furniture in his rooms before he can sleep? Claims he cannot rest unless everything is positioned just so.”
Miss Linde moved slightly closer, apparently drawn into the conversation despite herself. “How did you come to learn such intimate details, Your Grace?”
“He’s dined at my home several times. Quite forthcoming about his idiosyncrasies, though he suffers terribly in social situations. All that fidgeting and watch-checking—pure nervousness disguised as eccentricity.”
“I hadn’t realized,” she said softly, glancing toward where Dickens was now unconsciously straightening the items on the nearby table while he spoke.
“Most people don’t. They see the celebrated author and miss the anxious man beneath.” Edgar paused, studying her profile. “Rather like how people might see a sharp-tongued critic and miss the passionate advocate for education.”
She turned to look at him directly, surprise flickering in her expression. “Are you suggesting I see beneath your roguish facade, Your Grace?”
“No, Miss Linde. I wouldn’t expect such honor. You have more important things to tackle.”
As the evening wound toward its close, Edgar found himself reluctant to let Miss Linde disappear into the London night. When the guests began making their farewells, he positioned himself near the entrance, offering his arm with practiced gallantry.
“Permit me to escort you to your carriage, Miss Linde.”
She hesitated only briefly before placing her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. The simple contact sent awareness shooting through him—the delicate weight of her touch, the subtle fragrance of lavender in her hair, the way she held herself with such careful dignity.
“Tell me,” he said as they walked slowly toward the entrance, “do you not fear Society’s judgment when seen with a notorious rake?”
“I rather think they’ll be more interested in how thoroughly I bested you in literary combat,” she replied with a hint of her earlier spirit.
“Indeed they will. Though I must admit, I find myself more intrigued by the defeat than wounded by it.”
She glanced up at him, something unreadable in her expression. “That’s very gracious of you, Your Grace.”
“Gracious?” He paused at the top of the steps, turning to face her fully. “Miss Linde, there was nothing gracious about my thoughts during that contest. When you cited Sidney over Shakespeare, when you proved your knowledge superior to mine… I wanted nothing more than…”
The unspoken words hung between them in the cool night air. Miss Linde’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. Edgar was uncertain if she understood what he was about to say.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, but whether in protest or invitation, he couldn’t say.
“Good evening, Miss Linde,” he said roughly, stepping back before he could say something even more foolish. “Congratulations on your victory.”
He watched her carriage disappear into the London fog, his heart pounding with the desire to lay himself bare. Tomorrow, he would not regret his restraint. Tonight, he could only stand in the gaslight and wish he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her senseless.