Page 17 of Her Lion of a Duke (Dukes & Beasts #3)

Leonard did not mind that Cecilia was in the attic.

It was her home, too, and she had every right to be there. He simply had never expected her to enter it, and he had certainly not expected her to find the one painting he did not have the wherewithal to destroy.

He remembered the day it was made. It was a formal portrait of his mother, father, himself, and Henry—one for posterity.

It had hung proudly in the drawing room until the day after Henry’s death.

From that day, Leonard could no longer bear the sight of it, and yet he did not have the heart to have it burned.

“It is beautiful,” Cecilia noted softly. “You were so small.”

“It was a long day. My father had to hold me in place, for I had been sitting still for hours. I was restless.”

“I can imagine. But I must say that it has made something make sense.”

“And what might that be?”

“Well, when I saw your brother, I wondered why you did not resemble him. You were larger than him, and though you had similar coloring, you could not have been more different. At last, I understand why. You look like your father, while Henry looks like your mother.”

She could not have known, but it gave Leonard an immense sense of pride to be seen as his father’s son. He had always wanted to be a great man like him, and he had never once felt like he even held a candle to him.

“We were very different from one another. Henry was always the stronger one, the one destined to be a great man. I lived in his shadow, as you saw.”

She looked at him curiously. “Is that what you think people saw?”

“I know it. Henry was always surrounded by people, and they were desperate to get to know him. I was never part of that.”

They sat on the floor, Cecilia carefully tucking her skirts so as not to ruin them, and she rested her head against his shoulder.

“That does not mean that you were lacking in anything,” she murmured. “It meant that the ton cared for the man with the title. That is not to say that your brother was fundamentally better than you, only older.”

“And now, I am older than he was,” he said quietly.

“It is strange to think about, isn’t it? My mother said the same thing when she turned the same age as my grandmother was when she died. I suppose it reminds us that time passes, whether we like it or not.”

“I agree. I used to like the time passing quickly, for I so wanted to be a man, but now I wish that I could slow it down. I wish that I could be a boy again, but knowing what I do now. Perhaps my brother and I might have found our way back to each other.”

Cecilia looked up at him curiously. She never had any siblings and had therefore never experienced sibling rivalry. The closest she had was Clara, but she protected her cousin rather than seeing her as competition.

“As boys,” Leonard continued, “we knew that Henry was more important, but we did not know why, and we did not care. All that we cared about was who could run the fastest and climb the tallest tree. I spent my life chasing after him, but when we were children, it was at least fair. I was faster than him, and he climbed higher. I fenced better, and he was a better shot. We were equals in all ways but one, and the trouble started when that one thing became the only thing that mattered.”

“To whom?”

“To everyone.”

“Not to me. I dare say that it did not matter to Henry either. I would say that he missed you every bit as much as you missed him.”

Leonard had never thought of it that way.

When he thought of Henry, he could only remember the tension, the disputes, the bitterness that he could not help but show.

He had always envied his brother, and he had never once considered how Henry felt about him, instead assuming that he thought he was better than him.

“It is not as though anything can be done now,” he sighed. “He has been gone for years. I do not have any other surviving family.”

“You are wrong,” she said firmly. “You have a family. I am here.”

She took his hand in hers, and he squeezed it instinctively.

She was right; he had formed a family with a woman he was falling in love with. He had always admired her strength and the way she spoke up for herself, but there was the other side to her, too—the gentleness and kindness she possessed, the softness she showed when she thought nobody was looking.

It did not matter what he did; he was always going to fall for her.

“Besides,” she continued, “it is not as though they are not here. They must be buried nearby. We could visit them whenever you please.”

Leonard thought of their burial site, his mother and father side by side, and Henry next to his father. There was a plot next to his mother’s grave saved for him, and the thought of it made him shudder.

“One day.” He nodded. “But not now. I cannot do it.”

“That is perfectly fine. At least this way, we are both avoiding our families.” She laughed softly, pulling away and studying the painting.

“We ought to see them soon,” he said gently.

“I know. I shall arrange it after your cousin’s visit. I know I need to write to them, but it has been so long now that I do not know what to say. They must be furious with me.”

“They will understand. Regardless, it is as you said. Time will not wait for us; it passes. If we do not do something now, we may run out of time to do anything at all.”

She went still for a moment and then nodded, rising to her feet.

“I shall write to them today,” she said decidedly. “I do not know what I will say, but it has to be done.”

“Before you leave,” he called, and she turned back. “I-I think we should have this portrait hung up. I do not know where, but if we are changing what my mother had, I still want her presence somewhere.”

Cecilia nodded, smiling softly. “That will be perfect. I shall speak with Mrs. Herrington and see where she thinks it would go best.”

She stepped out of the attic, leaving him alone.

Leonard looked back at the painting, noting the faint smile of his younger self.

He was supposed to be solemn, since it was a portrait, but he had been incapable of keeping a straight face.

He was pleased that the artist had captured his smile, but something else caught his eye.

Henry’s arm brushed against his, leaning against him slightly rather than sitting perfectly upright.

Perhaps his brother had needed him more than he had known.

“I did,” Henry said, appearing beside him and looking at the painting. “I was fine alone, but I could have used your assistance.”

“You never needed me, not when we were grown men.”

“Of course, I did. You are in my position now, and yet you need me.”

“I do not,” Leonard protested, his voice quieter. “I can handle matters alone, the way you did.”

“Then why am I here?” Henry taunted. “If you did not need me, I would have been long gone. Face it, Leo. You do not know who you are outside of who I was.”

Leonard turned away, leaving his brother in the attic. He hated that his mind would not stop conjuring him up, and he wished that he could do something to fix it.

He was a madman, he knew it, and Cecilia would eventually catch him in the act and think the same of him. He would lose her if he allowed it to continue, and he could not take that risk.

He locked himself in his study, not daring to blink in case Henry returned.

Ever since his wedding day, his brother had no longer been confined to those four walls. He followed him everywhere, haunting him incessantly.

When Henry was alive, Leonard had yearned to be his own man, only answering to himself, but that had never happened. He still did as he was told, even though he knew he was only talking to himself.

Henry was not there, ghosts were not real, and he was thinking the contrary because he had been driven mad. That was all.

And yet his brother seemed real.

Mrs. Herrington came to see him that evening and found him resting his head on his desk.

“I was hoping that we might talk,” she suggested.

He wordlessly pointed to a seat.

“You should know that I am still not pleased,” she continued, “and I believe you should be honest with Her Grace, but I have known you all your life. I know that you are out of sorts right now and that she will soon be cleared.”

“That is what I am hoping for, too.”

“It is what I know will happen. She is not capable of cruelty, and she would never do anything to hurt you. All that she has done this afternoon is talk about you and how she hopes that you like what she has planned. She speaks so highly of you, Your Grace.”

“And I am accusing her of trying to ruin me. Is that what you are trying to say?”

“Not at all. I know that you do not believe it is her either. You would not have changed so much if you did not like her, and if I know you, I know that you would never have decided to have that painting hung up were it not for her.”

Leonard sat up, looking at the housekeeper. It was clear to others now that he had fallen for his wife.

He wondered if Cecilia had realized it, too.