Chapter 14 The Literary Salon #2
Her breathing gradually steadied, but she felt the tension radiating from his body, heard the ragged edge in his voice as he whispered, “Be mine, Elisha.”
The words she’d longed to hear, yet they pierced her heart like thorns. “To what end?”
“I cannot promise matrimony, but I can promise love and devotion.”
Pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and crushing.
She forced herself to shake her head, though every fiber of her being screamed to accept whatever scraps of happiness he offered.
“No. If you can’t make me your wife, you shall not have me at all.
” Her voice quavered. “Please do not seek me out again. It will only make my heartache worse.”
She felt his reluctance in the way his hands lingered as he released her, saw how he gathered his aristocratic mask around himself like armor. But beneath that careful composure, his temple pulsed with barely contained emotion, and her heart ached to smooth away the tension there.
Edgar studied her for a long moment before moving to help her alight.
Elisha kept her eyes downcast, knowing that one look into those dark depths would shatter her resolve.
Her hands pressed against her bodice, trying to still the wild beating of her heart that seemed to cry out his name with each thunderous beat.
Upon entering the building, she could hear Thornton’s voice carrying from the printing room, explaining their operations to their distinguished guest. She climbed the stairs toward the classrooms to play her part in securing the Metropolitan Review’s future.
She would have to stand beside Thornton, accept his attentions, ignore the duke’s presence.
But for now, she allowed herself one moment of weakness, one moment to remember the feel of Edgar’s touch, one moment to mourn what could never be.
*
Edgar remained in the carriage for several minutes after Elisha departed, his hands shaking as he attempted to restore order to his appearance. The scent of her lavender perfume lingered in the confined space, taunting him with what he could never truly possess.
I cannot promise matrimony. The words echoed in his mind like a death knell. How easily they had fallen from his lips, yet how they burned now in the aftermath. He could offer her his heart, his devotion, his fortune—everything except the one thing that would make her truly his.
The weight of centuries of Lancaster legacy pressed down upon him. His father’s voice seemed to whisper from beyond the grave: “The family name, Edgar. Our bloodline. Our duty to the realm.”
Yet as he made his way back into the building, following the sound of voices toward the makeshift classroom, all he could think of was the pain in Elisha’s eyes when she’d pulled away from him. The way her voice had broken when she’d asked him not to seek her out again.
He found the assembled guests in the classroom, where Wordsworth had begun his reading.
Edgar positioned himself against the far wall, his gaze immediately seeking Elisha.
She stood near the doorway beside Thornton, who had placed his hand possessively at the small of her back—the same spot Edgar’s own hands had caressed mere moments ago.
The sight sent a surge of jealousy through him so potent it nearly stole his breath. Thornton’s touch was proprietary, claiming, everything Edgar’s could never be in public. The man could court her openly, marry her respectably, give her the security and position she deserved.
Edgar’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched Thornton lean closer to whisper something in Elisha’s ear. She shifted slightly, trying to create distance, but Thornton merely adjusted his position to maintain their proximity.
He doesn’t even see her discomfort, Edgar thought with disgust. He sees only what he wants to possess.
“Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain…”
Wordsworth’s words seemed to mock Edgar’s situation. How could he turn this necessity—this impossible love—to any sort of gain? There was only loss here, only the slow torture of wanting what he could never have.
A small boy raised his hand, and Edgar found himself momentarily distracted by the child’s earnest question about making soup from old vegetables. The boy’s simple metaphor—finding sustenance where others might see waste—struck him with unexpected force.
Was that not what Elisha had done with her life? Taken the waste of her circumstances—orphaned, impoverished, discarded by society—and transformed it into something beautiful and meaningful? She had turned necessity into glorious gain, while he remained trapped by privilege and position.
His gaze found her again across the room.
She had moved away from Thornton, edging toward the side of the classroom, and Edgar felt a moment of savage satisfaction when her fingers brushed against his as she passed.
The brief contact sent fire through his veins, a reminder of what they had shared in the carriage.
But then Thornton was calling her name, asking for a private discussion about the program’s future, and Edgar felt the walls of duty and expectation closing in around her just as they did around him.
“Miss Linde,” Thornton’s voice carried clearly in the small space. “Might we speak privately after the reading? There are matters I wish to discuss regarding the program’s future.”
Edgar’s jaw clenched. He could read between the lines of that polite request. Thornton intended to propose—tonight, while the success of the evening was fresh in everyone’s minds, while Elisha was flush with triumph and gratitude.
“Of course, Mr. Thornton,” she replied steadily, though Edgar could hear the strain beneath her composure. “After all, the future of the program must be our primary concern.”
The words were like daggers in his chest. She would accept Thornton. Of course she would. It was the sensible choice, the only choice that made sense for a woman in her position. Thornton could offer her everything Edgar could not—respectability, security, a future free from scandal.
Wordsworth’s voice rose again, reciting another verse:
“Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind…”
Edgar felt something break inside him at those words. The hour of splendor—their stolen moments in the tea garden, in his carriage—was ending. Soon there would be nothing left but the memory of her taste, her touch, her surrender in his arms.
He watched as she lifted her chin and smiled at something one of the children said, the expression so false it made his heart ache. She was already preparing herself, already building the walls that would keep her heart safe from further damage.
This is for the best, he told himself. She deserves better than a duke’s castoff, better than a life lived in shadows and shame.
But as the reading concluded and he watched Thornton approach her with that confident, possessive stride, Edgar found himself taking a step forward before catching himself. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could offer that would change the fundamental impossibility of their situation.
He was the Duke of Lancaster. She was from the workhouses. And no amount of desire, no depth of feeling, could bridge that chasm.
As the guests began to disperse and Edgar prepared to take his leave, he allowed himself one last look at Elisha. She was speaking with one of the children, her face animated with genuine warmth and affection. This was her world, her purpose, her calling.
Perhaps it was enough. Perhaps her work, her mission to educate and uplift others, would be sufficient compensation for the sacrifice of her heart. Perhaps she would find happiness with Thornton, or at least contentment.
Edgar turned away before he could do something foolish, like stride across the room and claim her as his own, damn the consequences. Some battles could not be won, no matter how desperately one might wish otherwise.
The carriage ride home passed in a blur of London streets and gaslight. It wasn’t until he was safely behind the doors of his townhouse that Edgar allowed himself to truly feel the weight of what he had lost.
He had found the one woman who could see past his title to the man beneath, who challenged him to be better, who made him want to deserve her good opinion. And he would have to let her go.
But as he sat in his study with a glass of brandy, staring into the dying embers of the fire, Edgar made himself a promise.
He would not forget her. He would not forget the way she had looked at him with such hope and longing, the way she had trembled in his arms, the way she had chosen her principles over her heart.
If she was to be Thornton’s wife, then Edgar would ensure she never wanted for anything. The literacy program would have his support, his protection, his funding for as long as he drew breath. It was the only gift he could give her, the only way he could show his love without destroying them both.
It would have to be enough.