Chapter 18 The Forbidden Fruit
The Forbidden Fruit
The morning light filtered through her attic window as Elisha carefully penned her response to Mr. Steele’s vulnerable letter. His questions about love had stirred something deep within her, and she found herself being more honest than she’d ever been with a stranger.
Dear Mr. Steele,
I confess to being lost in matters of love. While I’ve received gentlemen’s attentions, my focus on my profession has precluded serious thoughts of matrimony. Perhaps I’ve yet to meet a man of inspiring character and intellect.
My educated yet humble origins place me in an ambiguous social position. Finding an educated man who accepts a wife more devoted to her vocation than domesticity proves challenging.
What of your circumstances, Mr. Steele? What keeps you unattached, if you are? If married, does your wife desire professional and financial autonomy?
Forgive this uncharacteristic vulnerability. I’m astonished to find my once-impenetrable heart affected by two fleeting encounters.
With the utmost regard,
E. Lovelace
As she sealed her response, Elisha couldn’t help but wonder why she’d been so forthcoming. There was something about Steele’s recent correspondence that made her feel safe to reveal her deepest thoughts—a quality she’d never experienced with any of her other literary correspondents.
On that balmy June evening, Elisha found herself in the affluent drawing room of Lady Gale’s townhouse, feeling more keenly than ever the divide between her two worlds.
Here she sat among London’s literary elite, ostensibly to report on Mrs. Anna Maria Hall’s reading, while her mind drifted to the erotic pamphlets being distributed in the East End—pamphlets she strongly suspected were connected to a certain duke.
Mrs. Hall’s melodious voice filled the room, reading from Marian; or, A Young Maid’s Fortunes—a tale of a common girl who dared to love above her station. The coincidence was not lost on Elisha.
It was then that she saw him.
Edgar stood against the far wall, a shadow of his usual resplendent self.
His customarily immaculate appearance had given way to a carefully concealed dishevelment that only someone who knew him well would notice.
But it was his eyes that caught and held her attention—hollow, haunted, rimmed with the darkness of sleepless nights.
They didn’t belong to a rake who had simply spent too many nights seducing women.
There was something else there, something that made her chest tighten with concern.
Their gazes met across the crowded room, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. In that brief connection, she saw not just exhaustion or longing, but a bone-deep weariness that spoke of battles fought in darkness.
“…and so our Marian learned that true love knows no boundaries of class or circumstance.” Mrs. Hall’s voice penetrated Elisha’s consciousness, followed by polite applause.
As the guests began to mingle, Elisha found herself torn between duty and desire.
Mrs. Hall’s story was exactly the kind of social commentary the Metropolitan needed—a bold challenge to Society’s rigid hierarchies.
Yet her eyes kept straying to where Edgar stood, noting how even the simple act of maintaining his posture seemed to require tremendous effort.
“Elisha,” Amelia appeared at her elbow, eyes bright with excitement. “Mrs. Hall has agreed to speak with us. She specifically mentioned wanting to discuss her views on class barriers in romantic literature.”
Elisha nodded and absentmindedly followed her friend, though her gaze drifted back to Edgar’s corner. But he was gone, as though he’d never been there at all.
“Did you see His Grace?” Amelia whispered, following Elisha’s line of sight. “He looked… unwell.”
“He looked haunted,” Elisha murmured.
Amelia studied her friend’s face with knowing eyes. “I am sorry for your distress. I know you care deeply for him.”
“I can’t afford to,” Elisha said firmly.
“And yet?”
Elisha sighed. “And yet I find myself wondering what keeps him sleepless at night. What shadows darken his door.” She straightened her shoulders with visible effort. “But it doesn’t matter. We have work to do.”
As Amelia led her toward Mrs. Hall, Elisha couldn’t shake the feeling that she was missing something vital—some piece of the puzzle that would explain Edgar’s state, his mysterious activities in the East End, and the growing sense that greater forces were at work around them all.
But such mysteries would have to wait. She had a story to write, a reputation to protect, and a heart to guard. For now, that would have to be enough.
Several days later, Elisha received another letter from Steele that left her breathless with its emotional honesty.
8 June 1840
Miss Lovelace,
The anguish born of love is a torment unparalleled, a wound that deepens with each moment of reflection and regret, leaving naught but a scar to serve as a poignant reminder of the yearning once felt.
Yet, amidst this anguish, one cannot help but feel most keenly alive, the pain a stark reminder of the precarious nature of inner tranquility, and how we ought to cherish those dear to us while they remain within our grasp.
I comprehend the depths of your suffering.
It is a simple matter to safeguard one’s heart when there exists no threat from which to protect it.
In the face of true sentiment, however, such defenses prove nigh impossible to maintain.
I do not believe any man or woman, regardless of their fortitude, possesses the strength to resist love’s siren call.
As to my own circumstances, I remain unattached and unwed. Like yourself, I have grappled with the constraints imposed by the rigid stratification of our Society, finding myself enamored of women deemed unsuitable or, perhaps more cruelly, the right woman at an inopportune moment.
I confess to a propensity for falling in love with great ease and abandon, for I find myself irresistibly drawn to those rare inner qualities possessed by but a select few of the fairer sex.
When I perceive these qualities in a lady, I find myself powerless to restrain the yearnings of my heart.
Indeed, I freely admit to waging such a battle even as I pen these words, for I feel we have become confidants of a sort, and you have been most generous in sharing your own secrets.
Regarding your fleeting encounter, I assure you that even a single interaction possesses the power to move hearts and alter the fabric of one’s soul, Miss Lovelace.
There exists no warrior stalwart enough to reverse such a profound change.
The fortunate gentleman who has succeeded in stirring your emotions may well be grappling with sentiments of his own, for you are, without doubt, a lady of singular quality.
You embody all that an honorable man could desire in a companion.
With the utmost regard and deepest sympathy,
Aengus Steele
Elisha’s hands trembled as she set the letter aside.
The man’s pain was palpable, his vulnerability so raw it made her own heart ache in sympathy.
Who was this Aengus Steele who could write with such eloquence about love and loss?
And why did his words resonate so deeply with her own confused feelings?
She found herself staring out her small window at the bustling streets below, wondering if somewhere in this vast city, a man was pouring his heart onto paper just as she did each night when sleep eluded her. The thought was both comforting and unsettling.
*
Edgar sat at his desk, reading Elisha’s latest letter for the hundredth time.
To his valet’s continued exasperation, his usually immaculate appearance had given way to a disheveled state—a thick beard obscured his jaw and his hair stood in complete disarray.
But he couldn’t bring himself to care about such trivial matters when he had wounded her so deeply.
Two encounters. Edgar’s chest constricted. She must be referring to their kiss in the garden, their passionate moment in the carriage. She was affected by him, even as she corresponded with him unknowingly as Steele. The memories were almost too painful to bear.
He could still feel Elisha trembling beneath his touch, hear the soft catches in her breath, see the trust and desire in her eyes before reality had crashed back in. She’d offered him her forever, and he’d had to refuse it. The pain on her face had cut deeper than any blade.
“Cannot promise matrimony,” he muttered, fury rising in his throat. The decanter of brandy beckoned from his desk, but he ignored it. He didn’t deserve the numbing embrace of spirits. This pain was his penance.
A proper man would leave her alone, give her the chance to find happiness with someone who could offer her everything she deserved.
Thornton was a good match, as much as Edgar loathed to admit it.
She would have a comfortable life, respect in Society, children who would never know the shame of scandal.
But when Edgar closed his eyes, all he could see was the way she’d bloomed under his touch, how perfectly she fit in his arms. The thought of another man holding her, touching her, loving her… his fist clenched until his knuckles whitened.
“Damn it all to hell.”
This wasn’t mere lust—if it were, he could master it. No, what he felt for Elisha had taken root in his soul. Her quiet strength, the way her eyes danced when she challenged him intellectually… he loved every part of her.
A sharp knock at the door startled Edgar from his thoughts. Without waiting for a response, the Marquess of Hereford sauntered in, followed by the Earl of Carlisle and his wife, Charlotte, with Patrick Adams bringing up the rear.
“Good God, Lancaster!” Hereford exclaimed, handing him a letter while taking in Edgar’s appearance with obvious shock. “Have you taken up residence in a bear’s den?”