Chapter 12 Afternoon Over Tea and Scones
Afternoon Over Tea and Scones
Elisha sat beneath the tea garden’s white-painted pavilion, acutely aware of the Duke of Lancaster’s gaze upon her.
The afternoon sun filtered through latticed roses, yet she felt exposed despite the shelter.
What madness had possessed her to accept his invitation?
After witnessing his attention to those Society beauties at Lord Hardwick’s gathering, she should guard her heart.
The duke cut an imposing figure across the table, his large hands making the delicate tea setting seem almost absurd. He watched her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken, though whether from attraction or unease, she couldn’t quite determine.
“How wonderfully vibrant it is here,” she remarked, desperate to break the charged silence. The gardens were indeed beautiful, a world away from her usual haunts—the crowded printing house, the modest schoolroom where she taught her students, the cramped office where she penned her reviews.
“I presume you’ve not had occasion to partake in a leisurely tea before?” His tone was gentle, curious rather than condescending.
“Indeed not, Your Grace. I’ve scarcely had the luxury of a sedate promenade through Hyde Park. My days are a constant flurry of activity, perpetually tardy for appointments.” She kept her voice light, refusing to let him see how his casual reference to their different stations affected her.
“On that note,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “I found your piece on Miss Charlotte Bronte most enlightening. How did you come by such intimate knowledge of her circumstances?”
The genuine interest in his voice sparked her enthusiasm despite her reservations.
Elisha found herself explaining her meeting with the governess-turned-poet, her hands moving animatedly as she spoke.
The duke watched her with such focused attention that she felt herself warming under his gaze, her cheeks flushing from more than just the afternoon heat.
“I simply had to make her acquaintance,” she continued, forcing herself to focus on the conversation rather than the way his blue eyes seemed to drink her in.
“I am certain she shall leave an indelible mark upon the literary world. Our conversation was utterly delightful. I had hoped my modest article might draw attention to her poetry.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a flutter of excitement from a nearby group of young ladies who had spotted the duke. Elisha watched as they preened and posed, their expensive gowns and practiced gestures speaking of years of finishing school training she had never received.
“Are you acquainted with those ladies?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. She had seen him with their type at Lord Hardwick’s gathering—had watched him charm and flirt with seemingly every eligible young woman in London.
“Not in the slightest,” he replied, offering the ladies a polite nod that sent them into fresh paroxysms of excitement.
“You appear quite accustomed to their attention.”
“I am, after all, a Mayfair Maverick,” he declared with a touch of mockery that made her chuckle.
She studied him for a moment, seeing both versions of him at once—the notorious rake and the man who had seemed to truly see her.
“Do you ever get tired of the female attentions, Your Grace?”
“Yes, of course.”
His quick response surprised her. “I find that surprising if I’m being honest.”
“Is it because you believe the male ego to be a bottomless pit?”
“No,” she replied carefully, “it’s because I see you in scandal sheets every week. If you don’t enjoy female attention, why are you seen so often with multiple women, different women?”
He fidgeted with his napkin, a surprisingly insecure gesture from such a commanding man. “I like being surrounded by beauty, Miss, and I like diversity.”
The words confirmed her worst fears. She had been a fool to think she might be different, that their conversations about literature and social reform had meant anything more than a novel diversion for a jaded aristocrat.
She sat straighter, armor sliding into place. “May I ask why you asked me to meet you here, Your Grace?”
The question hung between them, heavy with all she couldn’t say—Why pursue me when you have your pick of Society beauties? What game are you playing? How dare you make me feel special only to remind me that I’m just another face in your endless parade of conquests?
*
Edgar maintained a thoughtful silence, watching as she withdrew into herself, her finger tracing the length of her silver fork in what he suspected was an unconscious gesture of anger or hurt.
He had spoken carelessly, falling back on the rakish persona he wore like a comfortable coat, and in doing so had wounded her.
The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest.
“You inquired regarding the assembly with Mr. Wordsworth,” he said softly, attempting to recover their earlier warmth.
“Indeed,” she replied, her tone carefully neutral. “I admire his literary prowess but find him equally evasive.”
“You may not be aware that he has experienced quite a bit of personal loss, including the deaths of two of his children. He is also quite disillusioned about politics, especially radical reforms, which has pushed him toward a more conservative view. Your stance on the Poor Law and your literacy program may have caused him to shy away. He does not like to discuss politics, you see, as he has suffered from criticisms of his recent works.”
Her expression softened slightly. “I had no idea. Thank you for enlightening me, Your Grace. It is interesting, is it not, how we all cope with tragedies and disappointments in our own way? Mr. Dickens has had a difficult childhood, what with his father’s incarceration in the Marshalsea Debtors’ Prison.
Yet, he is the sunniest person one could meet, so generous with his time and thoughts. ”
“How intriguing,” Edgar said, genuinely surprised. “One man shies away while another faces it head-on,” Edgar observed, studying her with renewed interest. “Where do you fall on that spectrum, Miss Linde?”
She met his gaze steadily. “Somewhere in the middle, Your Grace. I was orphaned at five years of age, immediately beginning work at a workhouse until I secured a cleaning position at a boys’ school at seventeen.”
The simple statement, delivered without self-pity, humbled him.
While he had been raised in luxury, taught by the finest tutors, this remarkable woman had taught herself to read by peering through schoolroom windows.
His gaze dropped briefly to her décolletage, not in mere appreciation of her beauty now, but in wonder at the strength that lay beneath such a delicate exterior.
She flinched at his scrutiny, however, misinterpreting his intent. She quickly changed the subject. “How do you recommend we proceed with Mr. Wordsworth’s assembly without overwhelming him?”
Edgar forced his attention back to the matter at hand, though his mind still reeled from her revelations. “Perhaps you could hold a reading for the students in your literacy program and a few ardent admirers. He might be persuaded to read to a group of students.”
Her face brightened momentarily before doubt crept in.
“That is perfect, Your Grace. The students will be thrilled. But…” She hesitated.
“I’m afraid the Metropolitan lacks the means to host a grand function befitting someone of Mr. Wordsworth’s stature and Mr. Thornton… Well, I don’t know him very well.”
The mention of Thornton sent an unexpected surge of jealousy through Edgar. The way that man looked at her, protected her, claimed her through his position at the Metropolitan…
“You needn’t concern yourself with the expense,” he said, perhaps too quickly. “I shall speak to Mr. Thornton. If he will not approve, I shall see to it. I am certain his pride will have him volunteering in no time.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. Are you well acquainted with Mr. Thornton?”
“No, but we cross paths occasionally in Parliament when I am in attendance.”
“Do you not take an active role in the House of Lords?”
The question caught him off guard. “In truth, I am not active in politics, nor do I feel strongly about any issues.”
He watched disappointment cloud her features, and something inside him withered at the sight.
“How could you not feel strongly about issues as important as… the reform?” Her voice dropped, thick with frustration. “What do you have a strong conviction for, Your Grace? Do you believe in anything at all other than obtaining pleasure?”
The angry accusation hollowed him from within. “You are forgetting yourself, Miss Linde.”
She paled slightly, looking away and biting her lower lip. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Thank you for a lovely afternoon.”
She rose abruptly, forcing him to automatically do the same.
For a moment, he was tempted to let her go—to retreat to his usual diversions and forget this maddening woman who dared to challenge him, to see through his carefully constructed facade.
But as she strode toward the forested pathways with surprising speed, he found himself following, drawn by something stronger than pride or propriety.
He maintained a careful distance, noting with a mixture of concern and admiration that she didn’t look back even once. When they entered a secluded area, her pace slowed, and she pressed her forehead against a tree, the gesture so vulnerable it made his chest ache.
The setting sun cast long shadows through the trees, wreathing her in twilight. Every instinct told him to turn back, to let her go, to avoid the complications that pursuing her would inevitably bring. But his heart, so long dormant beneath layers of guilt and cynicism, had other ideas.
“Elisha…” The name escaped him like a prayer.
She turned, startled perhaps by the intimacy of it, her lips parting but no words emerging. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling rapidly, and he found himself mesmerized by the trembling of her parted lips.
“I am sorry,” he managed, his own breath unsteady.
He stepped closer, drawn by a force beyond his control, and cradled her face in his hands.
Her eyes—a blend of forest green and summer sun—widened in surprise.
Her lips, pink and full and slightly parted, beckoned him.
Drawing in a deep breath that was full of her essence—ink and paper and something indefinably, uniquely her—he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her.
The taste of sweet tea and scones hit his senses first, then the impossibly soft lips, as juicy as a ripe peach.
He tasted her gently with the flick of his tongue, afraid she may burst. He ran his tongue along her smooth bottom lip contrasting to the ridges of her teeth.
He nipped at her pouty bottom lip, the one he had been dreaming about.
Edgar brought his hands down and wrapped his arms around her body.
His hands took the liberty of a master, feeling every curve, every dip, and hovering over his favorite, softest parts.
He turned around to lean against the tree while wedging her between his thighs. She sucked in a breath over his mouth when he pressed her firmly against the evidence of his arousal. She was firm yet soft, timid yet eager.
“I have wanted you since the first day we met, Elisha,” he rasped. “I need you. I want all of you.”
He slipped his mouth over hers and left nothing unanswered in his kiss. He teased, coaxed, and took until she moaned and ground herself against his steely ridge. Her passion, coupled with her innocence, was intoxicating. She returned his kiss hesitantly at first then boldly.
“Come with me,” he said, “allow me to love you wholly.”
His request went unanswered, so he paused his mouth and waited, her hot breath tickling his cheek.
“I can’t,” she said, finally. “I won’t.”
Standing straight, he held her loosely and gazed down at her. His brow furrowed as he became aware of how miserable she appeared.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, stepping backward.
“My desire for you does not mean I do not respect you.”
“I understand.”
“Then why are you withdrawing yourself? Do you not feel the same way?”
“I do, but I shouldn’t. This cannot end happily.” With that, she fled.