Chapter 11 Dangerous Attractions
Dangerous Attractions
The fire crackled softly in Edgar’s bedchamber as he stood by the window, Miss Lovelace’s latest letter still clutched in his hand. Hawkins moved about the room, preparing His Grace for bed, but Edgar’s thoughts were elsewhere entirely.
Dear Mr. Steele,
I must say, your latest missive has left me in a state of bemused exasperation.
It seems you are determined to push the boundaries of our little wager to the utmost limits.
Very well, sir. I accept your amended terms except for one.
Should you lose, you shall read excerpts from my book at Hyde Park and serve as my assistant as well.
Let us submit our tales on the same day on 15 August 1840 with the results being announced on New Year’s Eve.
Your generosity in doubling the charitable donation is noted and appreciated. It seems that, win or lose, some good shall come of our arrangement.
I look forward to our little duel. May it prove as enlightening as it is challenging.
Your most determined adversary,
E. Lovelace
“I went to gain better understanding of their literacy program since I am pledging a thousand pounds sterling should I lose,” Edgar murmured, his eyes fixed on the London skyline. “You should have seen her radiant smile when discussing the charity students. She has such spirit, Hawkins.”
Hawkins glanced up from turning down the bed. “Indeed, Your Grace? That’s most intriguing.”
Edgar turned, a boyish excitement lighting up his features.
“It was extraordinary, Hawkins. The way her eyes were like flames of green and amber catching the sunlight even during quiet contemplation. And her hands… have you ever noticed how a person’s hands can be so expressive?
Hers dance when she speaks, emphasizing each point with a grace that’s almost hypnotizing. Even her scars are beautiful.”
Hawkins hid a smile as he laid out Edgar’s nightshirt. “It seems Miss Linde has made quite an impression.”
“More than an impression,” Edgar continued, pacing the room.
“Did you know she has a habit of biting her lower lip when she’s deep in thought?
It’s oddly endearing. And when she smiles—truly smiles, mind you—there’s this tiny dimple that appears on her left cheek.
You’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. ”
“Which you clearly were, Your Grace,” his valet observed dryly.
Edgar paused, running a hand through his hair. “I was, wasn’t I? Good God, what am I to do? I am entangling myself with a commoner. Even if she has achieved some success, she grew up in an orphanage, then a workhouse, for Heaven’s sake! Why am I repeating history? Was once not enough?”
“It is not too late to step away, Your Grace,” the older servant said, holding out the duke’s robe.
“Blazes, that is unthinkable…” Edgar said, shrugging into the garment.
“Why is that?” Hawkins asked.
“I find myself utterly captivated by her intellect and spirit. To step away now would be akin to turning my back on a rare and precious bloom.”
“A rare bloom that might suffocate you into oblivion, perhaps,” Hawkins intoned with practiced indifference.
“Yes, well…” Edgar trailed off, unable to refute the point.
“Pray tell, when was the last occasion Your Grace attended a proper Society function and engaged in discourse with young ladies of suitable breeding?”
Edgar exhaled heavily, raking his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “I confess, I cannot recall with any certainty.”
Hawkins cleared his throat delicately. “In that case, might I suggest that Your Grace seek out the acquaintance of young ladies of your own station? Perhaps there exist other extraordinary women of whom you are as yet unacquainted, given your propensity for… less salubrious establishments these past six years.”
“Perhaps…” Edgar conceded reluctantly.
“It would do no harm to temper your sentiments toward Miss Linde while you search for an even rarer jewel, as it were.”
“I suppose not,” Edgar acquiesced, his tone tinged with resignation.
“Does this signify that Your Grace is at last prepared to contemplate the prospect of matrimony?”
Edgar’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with alarm. “Good God, Hawkins! Let us not be hasty. I merely agreed to widen my social circle, not throw myself headlong into the parson’s mousetrap.”
Hawkins’ lips twitched in a suppressed smile. “As you say, Your Grace. However, might I remind you that your position and the expectations of Society do necessitate certain… considerations for the future?”
Edgar sighed, sinking into a nearby chair. “I am well aware of my duties, Hawkins. But surely there must be a middle ground between my current… indiscretions and shackling myself to a vapid debutante for the sake of producing an heir?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. Which is precisely why I suggest broadening your acquaintance among the ton. You may yet find a lady who stimulates both your intellect and your heart, while also satisfying the demands of your station.”
As Edgar pondered this, he found himself comparing every lady of his acquaintance to the vivacious Miss Linde. Would any of them possess her quick wit, her passion for knowledge, her dedication to improving the lives of others? He shook his head, attempting to dispel these thoughts.
“Very well, Hawkins. You may begin the odious task of accepting invitations to the upcoming social events. But I warn you, if I am forced to endure one more insipid conversation about the weather or the latest fashions from Paris, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
Hawkins bowed, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Duly noted, Your Grace. I shall recruit Mr. Anderson to select gatherings where the discourse might prove more… stimulating.”
As Hawkins took his leave, Edgar found himself staring out the window, his thoughts a tumultuous combination of duty, desire, and the lingering image of a certain lady with a penchant for biting her lower lip when deep in thought.
The next morning, Edgar sat at his escritoire, composing what he hoped would be his most provocative letter yet to Miss Lovelace. If she wanted to play games with terms and conditions, he would show her exactly what kind of adversary she was dealing with.
*
Elisha smoothed her gray wool dress, wishing she’d chosen something less severe as she waited in the Metropolitan’s proprietor’s office. The unexpected summons from Mr. Thornton had set her nerves jangling, though she couldn’t say why.
The morning sun slanted through the office window, illuminating yet another missive from Steele in Elisha’s hands.
Her fingers traced the simple wax pattern before breaking it with more force than necessary, a small act of defiance against the man who seemed determined to upend her carefully ordered world.
As she unfolded the expensive vellum, a faint scent of sandalwood wafted up.
Of course the insufferable man would perfume his correspondence.
Metropolitan Review, 19 April 1840
My most esteemed Miss Lovelace,
I find myself practically levitating with joy at your acceptance of our amended terms. I confess I’m uncertain which prospect thrills me more—you bringing my morning tea or the sound of my prose falling from your lips in Hyde Park.
Indeed, it seems dreadfully unfair that one man should contain such boundless delight in his breast.
As my future secretary, you shall need to be acquainted with certain peculiarities of my domestic arrangements.
I take my tea with milk and precisely two nips of sugar—though I suspect you’ll master that particular detail swiftly enough.
My study windows must remain exactly halfway open at all times, regardless of London’s capricious weather.
I find it aids the circulation of both air and ideas.
But perhaps most crucial is the matter of my morning exercise.
My current assistant, Mr. Anderson, has the unenviable task of engaging me in physical combat to reinvigorate my mental faculties.
As my secretary, this duty shall naturally fall to you.
I strongly advise beginning your training posthaste, lest I render you unconscious within the first few seconds of our inaugural bout.
I remain, with barely contained anticipation,
Your most devoted servant,
Aengus Steele
“The absolute audacity!” Elisha muttered, crumpling the letter before immediately smoothing it out again. Physical combat? The man was clearly mad. And yet… there was something almost playful about his tone that made her lips twitch despite her indignation.
“Miss Linde.” Thornton’s deep voice preceded him into the room.
Elisha folded the letter and slid it between the pages of a notebook she carried.
The proprietor appeared in a perfectly tailored navy suit, looking as authoritative as his voice.
“I find myself in need of your expertise. Sotheby’s is auctioning several rare volumes today, and I confess my knowledge of literary value is limited. ”
“Surely Amelia would be better suited—”
“My sister’s leg is troubling her,” he said quietly. “And I trust your judgment equally.”
She hesitated, wanting to avoid any misconception about their relationship on his part. “Mr. Thornton—”
“It would be a purely professional engagement,” he said, as if reading her mind.
Which was how she found herself that same afternoon on Steven Thornton’s arm, entering Sotheby’s elegant auction room. They had barely crossed the threshold when a familiar laugh made her stomach clench.
“Oh!” A silk-clad figure collided with her as they rounded a display. “How clumsy of me.”
Elisha steadied herself as Thornton’s arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She then came face to face with a stunning blonde whose diamonds probably cost more than the Metropolitan’s yearly revenue. But it was the man beside her that made Elisha’s breath catch.
“Lady Stanton, may I present Miss Elisha Linde and Mr. Steven Thornton of the Metropolitan Review,” Lancaster said stiffly.