Chapter 14 The Literary Salon
The Literary Salon
The attic room above the Metropolitan Review’s printing press hummed with anticipation. Elisha stood before the cracked mirror, trying to still her trembling hands as Thornton adjusted the drape of her new purple gown. His fingers lingered a moment too long at her shoulders.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his dark eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “You look exactly as I imagined when I selected this gown.”
“It’s beautiful, Mr. Thornton. But surely it was too extravagant—”
“Nonsense.” He turned her to face him, his expression earnest. “Tonight could change everything for us. William Wordsworth himself, here in our humble establishment. We must present ourselves as worthy of his patronage.”
The press thundered below, its familiar rhythm steadying her nerves.
Everything they’d worked for hung on this evening’s success—the gazette’s reputation, the literacy program, their dreams of expansion.
Yet the proprietor’s intensity, the way his gaze seemed to claim her, made her step back under the pretense of smoothing her skirts.
“Miss Thornton!” she called, perhaps a touch too brightly. “Might you help me with these pins? I fear they’re coming loose.”
Amelia appeared in the doorway, resplendent in burgundy silk. Her quick glance took in the scene—Thornton’s proximity, Elisha’s careful distance—and she swept forward with a rustle of fabric.
“Brother dear, shouldn’t you be attending to the final arrangements downstairs? I’ll help Elisha finish preparing.”
Thornton’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his smile remained pleasant. “Of course. Though I trust you’ll save me a dance later, Miss Linde?”
Only after his footsteps faded did Elisha release her held breath. Amelia’s deft fingers worked at her hair, their eyes meeting in the mirror.
“He means well,” Amelia said softly.
“I know.” Elisha watched her friend secure a loose curl. “Your brother has been nothing but generous…”
“But?”
“But I cannot help feeling that his generosity comes with… expectations.”
Amelia’s hands stilled. “He admires you greatly. And truly, Elisha, would it be so terrible? My brother could offer you security, position, the means to expand our literacy program beyond our wildest dreams.”
The press below missed a beat, its rhythm faltering, like Elisha’s heart at the thought of another man’s touch—broader hands, a deeper voice, eyes that sparked with challenge rather than possession.
“I cannot marry a man I do not love,” she said quietly, “no matter how advantageous the match.”
Before Amelia could respond, excited voices drifted up from below. The guests were beginning to arrive.
“Tonight isn’t about Steven, or… or anyone else,” she said firmly. “It’s about proving that the Metropolitan Review deserves to be taken seriously. That our mission to bring education to those who need it most is worthy of support.”
Amelia squeezed her shoulders. “Then let us go make history, my dear.”
As they descended the creaking stairs, Elisha straightened her spine.
She could do this—charm their distinguished guest, secure his patronage, advance their cause.
And if her heart quickened at the thought of seeing a certain duke among tonight’s guests, well…
that was a weakness she would simply have to master.
Thornton waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hand extended. Behind him, the printing house had been transformed: mirrors caught and multiplied the gaslight, fresh garlands adorned the walls, and a display of their finest issues stood proudly near the refreshments.
“Shall we?” he asked, his smile warm with promise.
Elisha placed her hand in his, ignoring the voice in her heart that whispered it was the wrong hand, the wrong smile, the wrong man. Tonight wasn’t about matters of the heart. Tonight was about securing their future—all of their futures.
The announcement of William Wordsworth’s arrival sent a ripple through the assembled crowd.
But it was the tall figure beside him that made Elisha’s breath catch—the Duke of Lancaster, more handsome than ever in his perfectly tailored evening attire.
The Marquess of Hereford flanked his other side, completing the impressive trio.
“Magnificent,” Thornton murmured beside her, his hand finding the small of her back, propelling her forward. “Come, let us greet them.”
Elisha forced herself to focus on the elderly poet rather than the duke whose blue eyes she could feel following her movement. “Mr. Wordsworth,” she executed a perfect curtsy, “we are honored by your presence.”
Wordsworth’s face creased with genuine warmth. “The honor, my dear, is mutual. I must confess, your recent piece on the transformative power of poetry in education caught my attention. Most innovative thinking.”
“You’re too kind, sir.” She felt Thornton’s grip tighten slightly at her back—a reminder of his presence, his claim. “Though I believe much of the credit belongs to Mr. Thornton for providing a platform for such discussions.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Thornton.” The duke’s rich baritone sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. “You’ve taken… liberties since your personal involvement.”
Elisha watched as the two men sized each other up with the careful politeness of natural rivals. Thornton’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your Grace. I must thank you for facilitating this evening’s gathering. The Metropolitan Review is always grateful for aristocratic patronage.”
Something flashed in the duke’s eyes, but his expression remained pleasantly neutral. “The Metropolitan’s commitment to education deserves recognition. I believe Mr. Wordsworth agrees?”
“Indeed.” Wordsworth nodded enthusiastically. “Most admirable work.”
“Miss Linde has been instrumental in its development,” the proprietor said. “Her passion for education is inspiring. Perhaps Miss Linde might show us these educational facilities? I’m sure Mr. Wordsworth would be fascinated by their practical implementation.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Amelia interjected smoothly, appearing at their side. “Brother, surely Mr. Wordsworth would benefit from your overview of our printing operations first? I believe you mentioned some innovative techniques you’ve implemented.”
Thornton hesitated, clearly reluctant to release his hold on Elisha, but the opportunity to impress their guest proved too tempting. “Of course. Mr. Wordsworth, if you’d care to follow me…”
As the proprietor led the poet away, with Hereford and most of the crowd following, Amelia gave Elisha a meaningful look before hurrying after them. The duke remained behind, standing close enough that Elisha could hear his breathing.
“Your Grace,” she managed, painfully aware of their near solitude.
“Miss Linde.” His voice was low and intimate. “I find myself in need of assistance with those educational materials you mentioned. Might you show me?”
It was a terrible idea. She knew it even as she nodded, even as she allowed him to lead her outside toward his awaiting carriage. Every step seemed to echo with warning, yet she couldn’t bring herself to stop.
The duke helped her into the carriage, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. Elisha sat in one corner, trying to keep some distance, but he sat beside her, his eyes somehow dark yet smoking like hot charcoal.
“Mr. Thornton seems quite protective of you,” he said.
“He has been very generous,” she said carefully, not daring to meet his eyes lest he scorch her. “The Metropolitan Review owes him a great deal.”
“And you? What do you owe him?”
She turned to face him, finding him closer than expected. “Nothing.”
“Then why does Thornton behave as though he owns you?”
“I don’t know.”
“If you don’t have an understanding, do you hold any affections for him?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Good. And do you hold any affections for me?”
“Edgar,” she breathed. “I ought not to. We shouldn’t be here at all.” Yet she made no move to step away, her knees pressed against his, her heart thundering.
His hand came up to cradle her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Tell me you feel nothing for me, and I’ll walk away. Tell me you prefer his touch to mine.”
“I—” The words died in her throat as his face lowered toward hers.
Time seemed to stop. His mouth was hot and soft.
His embrace was at once gentle and fierce, tender yet demanding.
Her senses swam as the walls of propriety crumbled around them.
His hand caressed her thighs and buttocks, firm and possessive.
Before she knew it, he had her straddling his lap.
His hand then unbuttoned her bodice, spreading the thin fabric apart, exposing her breasts.
“Edgar…”
When he drew back, the raw longing in his gaze made her heart clench. The world narrowed to just the two of them, everything else falling away in a rush of sensation and need.
Wordlessly, he claimed her mouth again and his hand squeezed her breasts. His mouth then drew in her nipple, pinching with his lips, brushing lightly with his teeth.
“Edgar, that’s… Oh my…”
Her fingers clutched at his shoulders as waves of feeling crashed over her. His mouth knew exactly when to nip and when to suck. Each motion of his tongue pushed arousal toward her groin, her core aching, her thighs wrapping around his waist and writhing against him.
“Blast it, Elisha. You’re sin itself.”
Edgar pushed his aching hardness against her heat and continued his assault on her nipples.
“You’re my undoing, Elisha,” he breathed against her skin. “My sweetest torment.”
Their breaths mingled, hearts racing in tandem. “When he stands near you, when he dares to touch you… remember this moment, remember my mouth on your flesh.”
Edgar was careful not to ruin her coiffure or her dress but his need of her was evident. It wasn’t long before she stiffened against him, her moan scraping against her throat, muffled by his hungry mouth. Her hips lifted to meet his hardness, to ease the hollow ache deep within.