Page 113

“Be quiet! Just be quiet, do you hear me! I don’t want to hear any more!” She clapped her hands over her ears, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Haven’t you done enough for one day? Just leave me be,” she sobbed, turning to run from the room.

Deveraux started after her.

“Let her go, Nigel,” said Lady Nevin.

“No, I must explain?—”

“Nigel, let the poor girl go. She has suffered enough this day.” Lady Nevin rose tiredly to her feet. “You make me feel so old. . . .You are an imbecile, ” she said, coming up next to him.

"I know, Maman, I know.”

She shook her head sadly. “I do not understand all that has happened, but I have a good notion.”

Deveraux laughed harshly. “Most likely a very good notion.”

“Still, I would understand more. Sometimes even a man needs a mother, non? So come, sit down with me and explain this mess of your making. Perhaps I may be of some little help in straightening out this imbroglio.”

Leona rarely cried. So infrequently did tears flow that the villagers of Crawfords Dean gossiped about Leona’s lack of tears.

No one recalled her publicly shedding tears at funerals or weddings.

Long-time family retainers reported that the last time they knew of her crying occurred when reports circulated that her mother lay dying.

Showing misty eyes was the closest she came to tears.

When emotions welled and her eyes filled, her sense of duty kicked in to dry her eyes.

With duty, she maintained, there was no time for maudlin displays of tears.

Castle Marin was rapidly proving her undoing.

At Rose Cottage, she thrived on her perceived duties and their adjunct responsibilities.

They were her identity. At Castle Marin, there were no duties.

Like a person floundering at sea, she tried to find something worthwhile she could grasp onto.

Every time she did, Deveraux was there to rip it away.

She felt lost, helpless, and directionless.

Now, twice in one day she suffered bitter bouts of tears that left her drained and headachy.

She lay on her back on top of the coverlets and stared up at the ceiling and the wooden crown above the bed with its swagged apricot silk hangings.

She studied the contrast of hand-carved oak, sturdy and timeless, against the soft flowing silk with its watered pattern and fluttering appearance.

For all its beauty, Silk was a strong fabric, but it was nothing compared to oak.

She sighed and raised her arm, laying it over her eyes to cut off the sight of silk and oak. Why would he do such a thing? Why would he invite the Sharplys to Castle Marin?

He must not believe her capable of managing her affairs, or that any woman was capable of doing what a man did.

The truth was, not all men were created with equal intelligence.

But if women were behind the lowest man, then they were low indeed in Deveraux’s mind!

Then again, maybe he’d tired of protecting her; perhaps he never wanted the task, his words were lip service, and he’d called in Sharply to take her off his hands.

Or perhaps—worst of all—he, too, thought her guilty.

The thought ran through her like the thrust of cold steel.

She winced as the pain cleft her heart. She rolled over.

Tomorrow she would make plans to leave Castle Marin, for she doubted she possessed the strength to float alone any longer, let alone fight.

She was so tired. Deveraux was correct; she was not accustomed to defending herself.

Defending herself would mean first drawing attention to herself, Leona Clymene Leonard.

It would mean revealing herself. She wasn’t comfortable with that, especially to Deveraux.

All her life she was the last child, the tag-along after two headstrong, madcap brothers; her existence only tolerated if she proved useful and kept quiet. But most of the time she was ignored, her very existence forgotten.

Until her mother died.

Her beautiful, smiling mother was a shrunken shell the last time Leona was called to her bedside.

Her face was drawn, her skin the color of parchment.

Dark circles rimmed dull green eyes that once sparkled like emeralds when she laughed.

Her beautiful blond hair lay drab and thin.

The only thing the illness failed to take away from her was the beauty in her smile when Leona came to her bedside.

That smile meant the world to Leona, and for a moment, she held its existence as proof that her mother would not die.

Too soon, the evidence of the other ravages to her mother’s body stole away that brief moment of hope.

Leona was twelve, struggling fitfully between childhood and womanhood.

But after that day, she closed the door on childhood forever.

Her mother admitted, as gently as she was able, that she was dying.

She let Leona cry for a moment then told her she must put away her tears, for in the future she would have no time for sorrow.

She confided quite frankly to the young girl what she saw as the personality faults of her two older brothers and her father.

They were selfish, vain men. It was how they were born and was how they would always be.

One learned to accept another’s faults and even learned to work around them.

No one was perfect, and there were all manners of faults.

To her brothers’ credit, they were not stuffy or haughty, which was often an adjunct of those with a selfish, vain temperament.

On the contrary, they were quite fun-loving, and that must stand in their favor.

Still, her mother worried about them. Because of their selfishness, they did not always judge situations correctly.

They needed to be gently and continually guided.

That was Leona’s role. That was her duty.

She must take care of them, stand up for them, and protect them—as much from themselves as from others—to the best of her ability.

Her mother warned it would not be an easy job, and she must expect that they would sometimes resent her interference.

But that must be her duty until they marry and their wives assume that mantle.

For ten years she scrupulously followed her mother’s request, never thinking of herself.

It was ironic. She hadn’t realized until she came to Castle Marin to what extent her mother’s last words to her had completely shaped her life.

She was so continually involved with taking care of others and their concerns that she never had time for herself.

She felt like an empty husk. She shifted uneasily on the bed.

That was neither a pretty nor a comfortable image.

At the sound of a timid knock on her bedroom door, Leona groaned. Struggling up on her elbows, she sat up. “Who is it?”

“It’s Lucy, Leona. May I come in?”

Leona closed her eyes briefly, her mind full of all the questions Lucy would ask when she saw her disheveled appearance.

Of course, there was the possibility—nay, the probability—that Lucy was fully aware of her lack of enthusiasm for Deveraux’s little surprise.

The Deverauxs were so close they could not understand the antipathy she felt for George Sharply.

How her sister could be happy with the man, Leona herself failed to understand.

But her sister, the eldest of the Leonard offspring, had been married for three years before their mother’s death.

More than thirteen years in total now. Perhaps thirteen years ago George wasn’t an officious fool. Somehow, Leona could not fathom that.

“Leona?” Lucy called through the door again, concern coloring her voice.

“Come in. . . . I was just lying down.” Leona got up quickly, turning her head away slightly.

She crossed to the dressing table, keeping her head down as she took out the hairpins.

A dark golden fall of hair tumbled down to her waist. She ran her fingers through the hair at her temples, seeking relief from the pounding headache that threatened to explode the top of her head off.

“I-I know you’re angry with Nigel.” Lucy hesitated, wishing Leona would look at her. “I hope you’re not angry with the rest of us, too. I didn’t know you didn’t get along with your brother-in-law. You never mentioned him.”

“It is because we do not get along that I did not mention him,” Leona said, pulling her brush through her hair.

Lucy winced. “Yes, well, I suppose I or someone should have figured that out.”

Leona laid the brush on the table. She sighed. “Don’t worry yourself. Even if you knew that I detest Sharply and had said as much to Deveraux, I’m certain he would have still brought him here. The man is a law unto himself and let others be damned.”

“Oh, no, not really. You don’t understand!”

“Perhaps not. But what do I gain by trying? Has he tried to understand me?”

“Not at first, perhaps. But I think he is now.”

“I think it’s a little bit too late for that now,” Leona said softly.

“Why?”

She picked up her brush again, needing the calming effect that rhythmic brushing provided. “Because I’ve decided to leave tomorrow.”

“But you can’t!” Lucy ran over to the dressing table and stared down at Leona’s reflection in the mirror. “Maman calls Nigel an imbecile in loving jest, whereas in truth, he is one. That I’ll agree with, but just because you feel the need to punish Nigel, don’t punish me, too!"

The rhythmic motion of Leona’s brush stilled. “I’m not punishing you.”

“You are. If you don’t stay for my betrothal ball, then you are punishing me.”

Leona looked up at her, then shook her head at the ceiling before looking at her again. “Lucy, I cannot stay under the roof of a man who has no respect for me.”

“That’s just running away. Hiding.”

Suddenly Leona felt the room rushing away from her as memories from the library poured into her mind.

Deveraux had accused her of hiding, of cowering.

He had said she was ready to fight another’s cause but not her own.

Was that true? Was all her strength some weak illusion that when the battle raged too close faded into nothingness?

She turned her head slowly to look in the mirror. What kind of person was she that she must only live her life through duty to others? Was it possible that she also held a duty to herself? A duty that she had previously ignored?

She was an empty husk. She was so busy tending to everyone else that she spared no time for herself. But then, why must she always be the one to look out for others? she wondered plaintively. Wasn’t there anyone to look out for her? Deveraux did.

The simple answer knocked the breath from her. Deveraux looked out for her. Oh, not perfectly, not wisely, not easily. But he tried. She wanted to laugh. All this time, she’d been looking through the wrong end of the telescope! It was ludicrous, but suddenly she felt free.

A crooked smile kicked up the corners of her lips.

The problem with Deveraux, she decided, was he tended to be heavy-handed.

He lacked her years of practice looking after others.

He’d been managing this estate for less than a year.

Before that, he’d avoided onerous duties because they were the province of his brother Brandon, and he would not intrude or give cause for comparisons with his older half-brother.

Lucy tentatively touched Leona’s shoulder. “Leona . . . Leona, are you all right? Do you wish me to get Maman?”

“Pardon? Oh, I’m sorry, Lucy. Something you said set my mind wandering. I’m sorry. But I’ve decided you’re right. It would be running away if I left before your ball, and I’m certain Maria would never forgive me if she had to miss it.”

“You’ll stay? You promise?”

Leona laughed. “Yes, I promise.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. I was hoping. . . Well, I also wondered if you’d care to dress in my room that night. Jewitt can do your hair. She is a wonder with hair. And I guess the truth is I’m a little nervous. I never had a London season, what with Brandon’s illness.”

“I haven’t either.”

“That’s right, I forgot.” She paused and sighed, then she bent down to hug Leona. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“Piffle.”

“I’d best be going now. I have to take my turn entertaining Mr. and Mrs. Sharply. Will you have a tray in your room tonight?”

Leona glanced in the mirror. The puffiness under her eyes was fading. She took a deep breath. Now was the time to start as she meant to go on. There would be no more hiding, cowering, or running away. “No—No, I don’t think so. I’ll be downstairs. I’ll not let you all suffer alone.”