Chapter 13 Madness and Desire
Madness and Desire
The iron gates of Bethlem Royal Hospital loomed before Edgar, their unyielding bars a stark reminder of the societal constraints he’d never before questioned.
Until now. He found himself studying the imposing facade with an uncomfortable sense of kinship.
Was he not, in his own way, confined within social restrictions?
The asylum’s interior assaulted his senses—not merely with its cacophony of wails and mumbles, but with the disquieting notion that the line between sanity and madness might be far thinner than he’d once believed.
After all, was it not a form of madness to contemplate throwing away generations of privilege and position for a woman who wrote literary reviews, one he’d seen only a handful of times?
A woman in a tattered gown twirled past him, her song a nonsensical tune about teacups and ravens.
Yet there was something in her unfettered movements that spoke of freedom—the very freedom he found himself increasingly yearning for.
In another corner, a man furiously scribbled equations on the wall with a piece of chalk, his eyes wild with perceived revelation.
Edgar couldn’t help but wonder if he looked similarly possessed when thoughts of Elisha consumed him in the dead of night.
His father’s last words on his deathbed echoed in his mind: “Preserve our legacy, Edgar. The Lancaster name must remain untarnished.” How bitter those words tasted now, as he searched the corridors for a familiar face.
He found Patrick Adams in a quieter wing, overseeing the transfer of a new patient—another soul deemed too dangerous to Society’s careful order.
“Your Grace,” Adams said, surprise evident in his voice. “I didn’t expect to find you in such… colorful surroundings.”
“Adams,” Edgar nodded, fighting the urge to loosen his cravat. “Might we speak privately?”
Once sequestered in a small office, Adams’ professional demeanor softened. The room was sparse but orderly, much like the carefully structured life Edgar had led before Elisha had upset everything.
“I must say, Lancaster, I’m curious why you sought me out here instead of at my home. This must be urgent.”
Edgar ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that would have horrified his late father. “I confess, I find myself in a state of… unease regarding a certain matter.”
Adams’ eyebrow arched elegantly. “Unease? How extraordinary. This is most unlike you, Lancaster.”
“Indeed…” Edgar moved to the window, watching as two orderlies escorted a patient across the courtyard. “My disquiet pertains to… a lady.”
“A lady?” Adams echoed, and Edgar could hear the smile in his voice. “While you’ve had no shortage of dalliances with the fairer sex, I don’t recall you ever expressing concern over a lady of quality.”
Edgar’s hand moved to massage the nape of his neck. “Miss Elisha Linde. I find myself curious about one Steven Thornton, the proprietor of the Metropolitan Review. He has recently taken a more active role in its operations.”
“Ah, the lady who bested you so delightfully.” A knowing smirk played at Adams’ lips. “I see she’s captured more than just your literary interest.”
The heat that crept up Edgar’s neck was mortifying. “I merely wish to ensure her safety and well-being,” Edgar managed, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“Is that so?” Adams’ smirk deepened as he settled into his chair. “Are you quite certain you’re not simply gauging your competition? For I must say, Lancaster, I’ve never before witnessed you in such a state of… shall we say, heightened color?”
“I am not blushing!” The words escaped with such force that a passing orderly paused briefly outside the door. Edgar lowered his voice. “I simply wish to know more about the man’s character. There are… rumors about his business practices that concern me.”
“Nor have I ever seen you so quick to deny an accusation,” Adams said, his amusement evident. “Or so invested in the business practices of London’s publishing houses.”
“Will you assist me in this matter or not?” Edgar barked, his patience wearing thin.
Adams chuckled softly. “Of course I shall aid my lovelorn friend in his hour of need.”
Edgar opened his mouth to refute the assertion, then thought better of it. Looking out at the rain-slicked courtyard, he muttered, “I pray it is not so. I cannot possibly repeat history. The ton would never accept such a match. My own family would…”
Yet even as he spoke the words, he couldn’t quite quell the traitorous flutter in his chest at the memory of their hungry kiss.
He turned to face his friend, his gaze sharpening with sudden intensity.
“I implore you, tell me this is not the manifestation of love—this all-consuming preoccupation, these incessant thoughts of her. For if it is, I find myself in a most precarious predicament. The Lancaster name, my position in Society, everything I was raised to protect… not to mention Lucia’s sacrifice… ”
Adams’ countenance softened, his usual teasing manner giving way to genuine sympathy.
“I believe, my friend, that this has the potential to blossom into love. It is undoubtedly an infatuation, but is that not how all passionate love affairs commence? The question you must ask yourself is whether your name and position are worth the price of denying your heart.”
Three days later, Edgar sat in his study, the morning paper spread before him but his attention entirely captured by Miss Lovelace’s latest missive. His hands trembled slightly as he reread her words.
Metropolitan Review, 29 April 1840
Dear Mr. Steele,
Your tea preferences are duly noted. I suggest you savor them while you can, for come January of next year, you may find yourself brewing your own. Your peculiar window requirements are understandable as it readily provides means of escape from debtors.
As for the matter of “sparring,” I believe this was used as a euphemism for you certainly seem lonely, almost to the point of being desperate.
Your lack of popularity with the ladies may be due to grand but meaningless gestures.
I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but I assure you, I am fit enough to leave any man exhausted.
I suggest you focus your energies on squirreling away for the winter months as you shall depart with 1000 pounds sterling. Which brings me to the question, can you afford it? Or did you mean 1000 pounds of your pride? I certainly hope not.
Your amused rival,
E. Lovelace
Miss Lovelace’s words burned in his mind like brandy—sharp, intoxicating, and dangerous. A knock at his door preceded Hereford’s arrival.
“Ready for our ride?”
Minutes later, they cantered through Hyde Park’s misty paths, the spring air heavy with the scent of wet earth and new grass. Edgar’s attention kept drifting to the letter that seemed to burn against his breast pocket.
“You seem rather distracted this morning,” Hereford observed. “Could it have something to do with a certain literary lady?”
Edgar’s wry smile betrayed him. Wordlessly, he withdrew the paper and passed it to his friend, watching as Hereford’s expression shifted from curiosity to barely contained mirth.
“Good God!” Hereford’s eyes widened as he read. “‘Fit enough to leave any man exhausted?’ My word, Lancaster, she’s practically throwing down the gauntlet!”
“Indeed.” Edgar’s voice was tight with mingled amusement and frustration. “But I cannot help wondering—are Miss Lovelace’s barbs truly coming from a different lady than Miss Linde?”
Hereford’s brow furrowed. “You suspect they’re the same person?”
“Miss Linde and Miss Lovelace.” Edgar’s eyes fixed on the distant tree line. “Their wit, their challenge—they mirror each other so precisely it cannot be coincidence.”
“And if they are one and the same?” Hereford’s voice was careful, measured. “What then?”
Edgar’s fingers tightened on the reins as he considered the implications.
“It means I’ve fallen under the spell of a woman clever enough to craft two entirely different personas—one to critique my work, another to challenge me in person.
And God help me, I find myself captivated by both versions of her. ”
“You’ve always been drawn to complexity,” Hereford mused. “Though perhaps not quite this much of it.”
Edgar’s laugh held little humor. “No indeed. And yet…” He trailed off, remembering the taste of Elisha’s kiss, the fire in her written words. “I find myself unable to stay away. These literary salons, the workhouse visits—I tell myself they’re necessary for research, but in truth…”
“In truth, you’re becoming as lovesick as any green boy.” Hereford’s tone was gentle. “Though I doubt any green boy ever faced quite such an intriguing dilemma.”
They rode in silence for a moment before Hereford spoke again. “What will you do?”
“What can I do?” Edgar’s voice was soft. “She challenges everything I thought I knew about myself, about what I want. Every letter, every encounter leaves me more…” He cleared his throat. “More unsettled.”
Later that evening, alone in his study, Edgar found himself rereading the letter for the hundredth time. The brandy in his glass caught the firelight as he traced her words with his finger. “Fit enough to leave any man exhausted.” The boldness of it, the sheer audacity…
His body responded to the implicit challenge, imagination painting vivid pictures of Elisha—for surely it was her.
In his mind’s eye, he saw her as she’d been at their last meeting: the quick flash of her smile, the graceful curve of her neck, the way her teeth had caught her lower lip as she considered her next verbal thrust.
The brandy glass clinked against the side table as he set it down, his member swelling beneath his trousers. The propriety he’d spent a lifetime cultivating warred with the raw need her words and image sparked in him. His hand moved lower and held his hard length.
Her eyes, seductive smile, and cherry lips floated in his mind’s eye.
Her lips had glistened with moisture after a sip of champagne, her delicate hands wrapped around the stem of the flute, her pink tongue darting out to lick the dewy drop as her teeth bit her lower lip simultaneously.
He imagined kissing those lips, tasting the champagne in her mouth and drawing the flavor into his own.
“Elisha,” he breathed as he saw in his mind’s eye the swell of her breasts, creamy and abundant…
How he would have her lie on her back and bare her sex, pleasure herself while he watched.
He could imagine her folds, pale pink with the prettiest dark pink in the center—her entrance, the coveted silken tunnel, that’s where he belonged.
He imagined the moans she would make as she reached her peak, and the sound alone would be enough to drive him over the edge. He would then bend over, kissing her sex, lapping up the creamy nectar.
Edgar stiffened and waited for the ecstasy to spill over in his practiced hand. As the hot liquid flowed, it brought not satisfaction but deeper hunger.