Nest
The late afternoon sun draped golden fingers through the oak leaves overhead, casting dappled shadows that danced across Elisha’s muslin gown as she walked beside Edgar along a secluded path in the expansive gardens.
Sweet-scented roses climbed ancient stone walls, their heavy blooms nodding in the gentle breeze that carried hints of lavender and freshly cut grass.
The crunch of gravel beneath their feet mingled with the distant call of wood pigeons and the gentle splash of the fountain in the Italian garden beyond.
Edgar’s hand, warm and sure against her own, sent delicious shivers up her arm. His thumb traced lazy circles on her palm. Here, sheltered by thick yew hedges and carefully tended topiaries, they might have been the only two souls in existence.
“Tell me, Elisha,” Edgar began, his rich baritone carrying that particular tender note she had come to recognize as solely hers, “what occupies your pen these days? I find myself most curious about your current literary endeavors.”
The gentle inquiry sent a flutter of unease through her breast. Elisha watched a pair of butterflies dance past, their wings catching the sunlight like scattered diamonds.
She was loath to deceive him, yet revealing her identity as Miss Lovelace felt akin to handling a powder keg with trembling hands.
The sharp-tongued critic who exchanged increasingly heated missives with a man had become the talk of every scandal sheet in London.
Despite the warmth of the day, a chill crept along her spine.
Her reputation—no, more than that, Edgar’s reputation by association—could be irreparably damaged.
She stole a glance at his profile, noble and striking in the afternoon light.
His dark hair gleamed with hints of chocolate where the sun touched it, and concern seemed to etch fine lines around his eyes that only heightened his appeal.
They paused beside a marble bench nestled among a bower of climbing roses. The sweet perfume of the flowers enveloped them as Edgar turned to face her, his expression so full of tender regard that her heart ached.
She drew a steadying breath, the stays of her corset suddenly feeling too tight. “Edgar,” she began, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts at composure, “there’s something I must confess to you.”
His eyes, their blue depths brightening in the golden light, fixed upon her face with unwavering attention. The intensity of his gaze made her pulse quicken, and she found herself gripping the delicate silk of her parasol too tightly.
“I… I am Miss Lovelace.”
Something shifted in Edgar’s expression—his eyes seemed to widen with what looked like surprise, understanding, and perhaps relief. He hesitated, and Elisha noticed his hand flex at his side, as though he, too, was wrestling with secrets of his own.
“You’re Miss Lovelace?” His voice was soft but intent.
Elisha nodded, heat flooding her cheeks.
The breeze picked up, carrying the distant toll of church bells across the garden.
A curl escaped her carefully arranged coiffure, dancing against her cheek until Edgar, with exquisite gentleness, tucked it behind her ear.
The brief contact left her skin tingling.
“Yes,” she managed, fighting the urge to lean into his touch. “I’ve been writing under that pseudonym for some time now. I pray you’re not too disappointed in me for keeping it from you.”
“Disappointed?” Edgar’s laugh was rich and warm as honey. “No, not at all.” His hand lingered near her face, his thumb brushing her cheek with devastating tenderness. “I’m impressed, truly. Your writing is remarkable, Elisha. But why did you feel you needed to hide this from me?”
She lowered her eyes, watching the play of shadows across the gravel path.
Her fingers worried the delicate lace of her gloves.
“I feared it might change how you saw me. That you might not approve of my rather outspoken opinions.” She glanced up through her lashes, finding his gaze still fixed upon her with an intensity that made her mouth go dry.
“The colorful missives, drawing attention to myself in such a public manner… It was not my choice, if that helps. Amelia and I decided to publish the letters out of necessity, due to our difficulty attracting new readers.”
Edgar gently lifted her chin with one finger, compelling her to meet his gaze fully. The touch, though slight, sent warmth coursing through her entire body. “Elisha, if I had any issues with your opinions and your ability to express them, I would have fled the first day we met.”
A smile curved her lips at the memory, relief washing over her like a summer rain. Edgar opened his mouth to say something but hesitated. She waited patiently, her brows furrowed with questions when he said, “Thank you for trusting me with this, Elisha. It means more than you know.”
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, and Elisha found herself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by an invisible force as inexorable as the tide.
*
Later that evening, Elisha sat at her escritoire, the rich scent of leatherbound books mingling with the sharp tang of ink. Across the carpet, Edgar rustled through Parliamentary documents, his broad shoulders casting a looming shadow against the mahogany-paneled walls.
The flickering candlelight cast honeyed shadows across the study, reaching Elisha’s corner where half of her was cast in shadow.
She paused in her writing, the quill hovering above parchment as she watched a drop of ink fall, black as midnight, onto the creamy paper.
Her copper curls, escaping their pins after hours of work, caught the golden light as she raised her eyes.
She found Edgar watching her, his sapphire eyes intent beneath the strong arch of his brow.
A hint of a smile played about his lips—those aristocratic lips that had no business causing such a flutter in her breast. He held her gaze a moment longer than propriety dictated before returning to his papers, the signet ring on his finger glinting as he shifted the documents.
The mantel clock ticked away precious minutes as Elisha attempted to focus on her novel. The muslin of her day dress whispered against the chair as she adjusted her position, acutely aware of the tension building between them like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
Edgar loosened his cravat, the silk rustling softly.
The action exposed the strong column of his throat, and Elisha’s fingers tightened around her quill.
When she dared look up again, she found him watching her again, his eyes dark as a stormy sea.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she quickly lowered her gaze to her manuscript, where the words swam before her eyes like wayward fish.
The thunder struck. Elisha started, her hand jerking toward her inkwell. The delicate glass vessel wobbled precariously, and she steadied it with trembling fingers. A drop of ink stained her sleeve, blooming like a black rose against the pale fabric.
“Allow me,” Edgar’s deep voice broke the silence as he rose, withdrawing a pristine handkerchief from his coat pocket. He moved toward her, his steps muffled by the thick carpet.
“Pray, do not trouble yourself,” Elisha protested. But he was already beside her, the heat of him warming her more surely than any fire could. His clean, masculine scent enveloped her as he bent to examine the stain.
“It is no trouble,” he murmured, his breath stirring the loose curls near her ear. As he pressed the handkerchief to her sleeve, his fingers brushed against her arm through the thin muslin. The touch, though fleeting, sent a shiver racing down her spine.
Elisha’s breath caught audibly in her throat. Edgar’s hand stilled, and for a moment, neither moved. The air between them grew thick with unspoken words. She could hear his breathing, slightly uneven, matching the rapid flutter of her own heart.
“I fear the stain may set,” she managed to say, though her voice emerged husky and strange to her own ears.
“Indeed.” Edgar straightened slowly, his usual grace somewhat diminished. He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting its careful arrangement. The resulting dishevelment only served to heighten his appeal, much to Elisha’s dismay.
When he returned to his desk, the room seemed larger and colder for the distance between them.
Elisha rose on unsteady legs, smoothing her skirts with damp palms. She made her way to the bookshelf, feeling his gaze follow her movement like a physical caress.
Her fingers trailed along the leather spines, unseeing, as she struggled to calm her racing pulse.
She reached for a volume at random, using the moment to gather her composure. As she turned, she caught Edgar’s reflection in the darkened window. He appeared to have abandoned all pretense of work, his heated gaze fixed upon her with an intensity that made her fingers tremble on the book’s spine.
Returning to her seat, Elisha tucked an errant curl behind her ear, the pins in her hair now hopelessly loose.
The copper strands caught the candlelight, gleaming like newly minted pennies.
Through lowered lashes, she observed Edgar’s chest rise and fall with what seemed like quickened breaths, his right hand clenched upon the arm of his chair until his signet ring appeared to press white marks into his flesh.
The candles burned lower. Wax dripped like tears down their sides.
Yet neither made a move to depart, caught in this delicious tension that crackled between them just like the lightning illuminating the room.
Each glance exchanged added fuel to the fire building in Elisha’s chest, propriety warring with desire as the night drew its dark velvet cloak around the study.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck ten, its sonorous chimes breaking the spell that held them bound.
Elisha started, her book nearly slipping from nerveless fingers.
She had not read a single word in the past quarter hour, her mind consumed by the overwhelming presence of the man across the room.
“I fear I have kept you overlong,” Edgar said, his voice rough with what sounded like poorly concealed emotion. He stood, adjusting his waistcoat with hands that seemed less steady than usual. “The hour grows late.”
“Indeed.” Elisha rose as well, gathering her papers with careful movements that belied the chaos of her thoughts. A loose sheet escaped her grasp, floating to the carpet like a fallen leaf.
They both moved to retrieve it, their hands meeting over the errant page.
Edgar’s fingers were warm against hers, slightly calloused despite his noble birth—evidence of his fondness for riding.
The touch lasted barely a heartbeat before propriety forced them apart, but it left Elisha’s skin tingling as though branded.
“Edgar,” she whispered, his name a forbidden pleasure on her tongue. The single word seemed to spark something within him. In two fluid strides, he closed the remaining distance between them.
“Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his face mere inches from hers. The heat radiating from him made her head spin. “Tell me this is madness, and I shall leave this instant.”
Instead, Elisha found her fingers curling into his coat lapel, the fabric warm from his body. Her heart thundered against her ribs like a wild creature seeking escape. “I cannot,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “God help me, I cannot.”
Time seemed to slow, then stopped entirely.
Edgar’s hand rose to cup her cheek, his touch featherlight, as though she were spun glass that might shatter at any moment.
His thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, leaving trails of fire in its wake.
Elisha’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, a soft gasp escaping her lips.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. When she did, the raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath remained in her lungs.
“Edgar,” she breathed again, and this time he moved like a man possessed.
His lips met hers with desperate intensity, months of restraint crumbling like ancient stone.
One hand tangled in her hair, loosening what remained of her pinned curls, while the other pressed against the small of her back, drawing her closer until she could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her breast.
Elisha melted into him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath fine fabric. His kiss was both gentle and fierce, reverent and demanding. He tasted of fine brandy and desire, and she found herself intoxicated by the combination.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Edgar rested his forehead against hers. His usually immaculate hair was mussed where she had threaded her fingers through it.
“I must stop,” he whispered hoarsely, though he made no move to release her from his embrace. “You—”
Elisha silenced him with another kiss, this one slower, deeper. She poured every unspoken word, every stolen glance, every midnight dream into it. His groan of surrender rumbled through his chest, and his arms tightened around her waist.
When they parted again, reality began to seep back in. She became acutely aware of their compromising position, the danger of this attraction. Yet she could not bring herself to regret it.
“We can never go back from this moment,” she said softly, her fingers straightening his lapels with trembling care.
Edgar caught her hand in his, pressing a fervent kiss to her palm. “I do not wish to go back,” he said, his voice carrying a conviction that sent warmth spiraling through her chest.
A noise in the corridor outside snapped them apart. They stood staring at each other, chests heaving, as footsteps passed by the study door. In the flickering candlelight, Edgar looked wild and dangerous and utterly irresistible.
“I should retire to bed,” Elisha whispered, though every fiber of her being protested the very thought.
“Yes,” Edgar agreed, his Adam’s apple bopping as he swallowed. “Though it takes every ounce of my willpower to let you.”
She gathered her papers with unsteady hands, acutely aware of his presence behind her. As she reached the study door, his voice stopped her.
“Elisha.” She turned to find him watching her with an intensity that made her knees weak. “Dream of me tonight.”
The intimacy of his request sent a shiver down her spine. “As if I could dream of anything else.”