Chapter 15 Temptation’s Price
Temptation’s Price
The newspaper trembled in Elisha’s hands, its headline stark and damning: “Duke of Lancaster Observed Departing Infamous House of Ill Repute with Two Companions.”
Elisha’s quill lay forgotten, drops of ink staining the half-written article before her. She had been writing about the importance of moral leadership in society—the irony was not lost on her.
“I thought you should hear it from me rather than gossip,” Amelia said softly, hovering by the desk. “Though perhaps I should have waited until—”
“No.” Elisha’s voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil beneath. “Better to know now, before I made an even greater fool of myself.” She forced her fingers to relax their grip on the paper. “Besides, did I not reject him? He owes me nothing.”
“Elisha—”
“It simply proves I was right about him.” The words tasted bitter. “A man of privilege playing at reform while indulging his basest appetites. I should be grateful for this confirmation of his character.”
Amelia’s silence spoke volumes.
“What?” Elisha demanded.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m disappointed. There’s a difference.”
“No,” Amelia said gently. “You’re angry because you care for him, despite your better judgment. And now you’re trying to convince yourself you never did.”
Before Elisha could formulate a denial, her eyes fell on the unopened letter from Mr. Steele. Here was a man who understood her, who challenged her intellectually without demanding she compromise her principles. Who had never presumed…
Her fingers broke the seal with more force than necessary.
As she read his philosophical musings on love, something shifted in her chest. His words spoke of yearning, of questioning, of the very struggle she herself faced. Was this not a safer harbor for her heart?
“He sounds like a man in love,” Amelia observed, reading over her shoulder.
“Perhaps.” Elisha traced the elegant script. “Or perhaps he simply understands that love, like any worthy pursuit, requires careful study and consideration rather than reckless abandonment to base instincts.”
The printing press below thundered to life, its rhythm matching her pulse. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward her, dipping her quill with renewed purpose.
“What will you write?” Amelia asked.
“The truth, as I understand it.” Elisha began to write, her script firm and clear. “That love without principles is merely appetite. That true partnership requires more than passion or position. That sometimes the hardest part of love is choosing not to pursue it.”
Each word felt like both bandage and blade, healing even as it cut.
*
Across London, Edgar stood at his window, a different newspaper crushed in his fist. The article about his supposed debauchery stared up at him, every word a deliberate knife twist.
“Quite the creative interpretation of events,” Hereford drawled from his chair. “Though I must say, helping two intoxicated companions into their carriage lacks the scandal they’re implying.”
“She’ll believe it,” Edgar said quietly. “She’ll see it as confirmation of everything she suspects about me.”
“Then tell her the truth.”
“To what end?” Edgar turned from the window. “She made her position clear. My title, my wealth, my way of life—they’re all anathema to her principles. Perhaps it’s better this way. Let her think the worst of me. It will make it easier for her to move on.”
“And you? Will it make it easier for you?”
Edgar’s laugh held no humor. “Nothing about this is easy, old friend.” He moved to his desk, where a half-written manuscript lay waiting. “But I have my responsibilities, my duties. She was right about one thing. I’ve been living without purpose.”
“And now?”
Edgar picked up his pen, studying the words he’d written as both Steele and himself. Words about love and pain, about the price of passion and the cost of denial.
“Now I write. I pour everything I cannot say to her into these pages. And perhaps, in time, that will be enough.”
But as he bent to his work, the image of Elisha’s face haunted him—not her beauty or her passion, but the fierce intelligence in her eyes when she spoke of making the world better. He had never wanted someone’s good opinion so desperately nor felt its loss so keenly.
“There’s something else you should know,” his friend said carefully. “Thornton has been making inquiries about Miss Linde’s background. Very… thorough inquiries.”
Edgar’s grip tightened on the pen. “What kind of inquiries?”
“The kind a man makes when he’s considering a proposal.” Hereford watched him closely. “He’s been visiting her former places of employment, speaking with people who knew her in the workhouse.”
The pen snapped in Edgar’s hand, ink staining his fingers. “He means to offer for her.”
“So it would seem.” Hereford leaned forward. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” Edgar laughed bitterly, wiping ink from his hands. “What can I do? She’s made her opinion of me quite clear. And Thornton…” He stood, pacing to the window and back. “Thornton can offer her everything she wants—the printing house, the literacy program, the chance to make a real difference.”
“Can he?” Hereford’s voice was quiet. “Or can he only offer her the means to continue what she’s already doing? You have the power to do so much more, if you choose to use it.”
Edgar stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a duke, man. You have influence in Parliament, connections throughout society. If you truly wanted to support her causes…” Hereford shrugged. “Well, I’d say that would be using your position for something worthwhile, wouldn’t it?”
The words had Edgar sinking into his chair, mind racing. “She accused me of living without purpose, of failing to use my advantages for the betterment of society.”
“And was she wrong?”
“No,” Edgar admitted softly. “But to change now, to throw my support behind social reform… everyone would know why. They’d say I was trying to curry favor with a commoner.”
“Let them talk.” Hereford stood. “The question is, which matters more—their good opinion or hers?”
Edgar looked down at his ink-stained hands, then at the half-written letter to Miss Lovelace. Everything he’d been too cowardly to say to Elisha in person, he’d poured onto these pages under a false name.
“I need time,” he said finally. “Time to prove I can be the kind of man she could respect before Thornton…”
“Then I suggest you start immediately.” Hereford moved toward the door. “Because from the looks of it, Thornton isn’t planning to wait much longer.”
After his friend left, Edgar pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. This time, he didn’t write as Steele, but as himself—drafting letters to his solicitor, to his contacts in Parliament, to the various charitable organizations he’d ignored for so long.
If he was going to win Elisha’s respect, he would have to earn it. Not with grand gestures or passionate declarations, but with genuine commitment to the causes she held dear.
And perhaps, in becoming the kind of man worthy of her love, he might find that purpose she accused him of lacking.
He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
*
Metropolitan Review, 15 May 1840
My Dear Miss Lovelace,
I trust you have not been pining for my correspondence during this prolonged silence.
Pray, do not imagine that I have neglected our epistolary engagement.
On the contrary, I have been most persistently occupied in pursuit of a more profound understanding of that most enigmatic of human experiences: love and romance.
I have taken it upon myself to consult with various luminaries in the fields of psychology, physiology, and neurology on this most intriguing subject.
Furthermore, I have engaged in correspondence with authors of no small renown, seeking their insights on matters of the heart.
Specifically, I had wished to know the answers to these questions:
Why is anything worthwhile so difficult to attain? How does a heart break when it cannot break? Why must pain precede healing?
I find myself most eager to learn your thoughts on these weighty matters, Miss Lovelace. Pray, do not keep me in suspense regarding your own philosophies on this most captivating of subjects.
Yours in anticipation of your wise counsel,
Aengus Steele
Back at the Metropolitan Review, Elisha set aside her completed response to Mr. Steele, her thoughts still troubled. The printing press below had fallen silent, leaving an emptiness that seemed to echo her own.
“Elisha?” Thornton’s voice made her start. He stood in the doorway, more formally dressed than usual. “Might I have a word?”
She looked up, noting the unusual tension in his bearing. “Of course.”
He closed the door behind him, an action that made Elisha’s pulse quicken with unease. He rarely sought such privacy in their discussions.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began, moving to stand before her desk, “about the future of the Metropolitan Review.”
“Oh?” She kept her voice neutral, though something in his tone made her want to retreat.
“Yes. About its potential, its growth…” He paused, studying her face. “About what it needs to truly flourish.”
“We’ve made remarkable progress already,” Elisha said carefully. “The Wordsworth evening alone has brought new subscriptions and—”
“I’m not speaking merely of business matters.” His voice softened as he moved around the desk, too close for comfort. “I’m speaking of partnerships. Of joining forces in more… permanent ways.”
Elisha’s hands trembled slightly as she gathered her papers, trying to create some task to focus on. “Mr. Thornton—”
“Steven,” he corrected gently. “Please. After all we’ve built together, surely we can dispense with formalities.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes held genuine warmth, even affection, but something else lurked beneath—a certainty that made her nervous.
“I’ve made inquiries,” he continued. “About your background, your circumstances. I wanted to be sure that any… offer I made would be appropriate and welcome.”
Her stomach dropped. “Inquiries?”
“Nothing unseemly, I assure you. Merely ensuring that there were no impediments to what I hope to propose.”
“And what exactly are you proposing?” The words came out sharper than she intended.
Steven actually smiled at her tone. “That directness—it’s one of the things I admire most about you.” He reached for her hand, but she managed to shift away under the pretense of straightening more papers.
“You’re an extraordinary woman, Elisha. Your intelligence, your dedication to our cause, your beauty… you deserve more than the life of a mere employee.”
“I am quite content with my position,” she said firmly.
“But you could have so much more.” His voice grew earnest. “Together, we could expand the Review’s influence tenfold. The literacy program could reach every corner of London. Your dreams of education reform could become reality.”
Each word was like a snare, making it harder to escape. He was offering everything she’d worked for, everything she believed in. The practical choice, the sensible choice, the choice that would secure her future and her causes.
So why did it feel like chains closing around her?
“You’re very kind,” she managed, “but I—”
“Don’t answer now,” he cut in smoothly. “Take time to consider. I know it’s unexpected, though surely not entirely surprising. We work so well together, share so many goals…”
A knock at the door saved her from responding. Amelia entered, then stopped short at the scene before her.
“I apologize for interrupting,” she said, her sharp eyes taking in Elisha’s tension and her brother’s proximity. “But Mr. Wordsworth’s letter has arrived. He wishes to contribute a regular article on education.”
The news should have thrilled her. Instead, Elisha felt it like another brick in the wall being built around her future—a future tied inexorably to the Metropolitan Review and to Steven Thornton.
“Wonderful news,” Steven beamed. “You see, Elisha? Everything is falling into place.” He moved toward the door, pausing to add, “Think on what I’ve said. About our future together.”
Only after he left did Elisha release her held breath. Amelia approached cautiously.
“Did he just…?”
“Not officially,” Elisha said, her voice unsteady. “But the intent was clear enough.”
Amelia sat beside her. “What will you do?”
Elisha looked down at her desk—at Steele’s letter about love, at the newspaper with its tale of the duke’s supposed indiscretions, at the fresh contracts that would secure the Review’s future.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “For the first time in my life, I truly don’t know.”
The printing press rumbled to life below, its steady rhythm usually so comforting. But today it felt like a countdown, marking the moments until she would have to choose between her heart’s desires and her life’s work.
And she wasn’t sure, anymore, which was which.