Page 18

T he following morning, Bella dressed quickly before Emmaline arrived to help her. She chose a light blue gown with pale yellow flowers on it, tied in the back. She was up before dawn, her mind racing with all the thoughts about the book, the man, and his library. She told herself it was not the howl of the wolf that kept her awake most of the night, clutching the blankets to her chin and cowering under them. The howls seemed every closer than the previous night.

She quickly scribbled a note and left it on her pillow, knowing Emmaline would find it. She didn’t want the girl to worry, but she didn’t want to explain why she was leaving at the crack of dawn either.

In her stocking feet, she hurried down the stairs. At the bottom, she paused to slip on her shoes. And then she hurried to the library where the offending book remained where she left it. The cover was still closed. The parchment with her scrawled notes rested next to it. She folded the paper and tucked it inside the cover and then scooped it up.

Moments later, she was slipping out of the front door and heading down the gravel drive. She only paused once to glance back and see the pristine condition of the manor house. It looked as it did when she was a child, making memories erupt of her mother and father and happier times.

Shoving that aside, she hurried to town to meet Leopold’s carriage. He offered to pick her up outside Hawthorne Hall, but she had refused. She preferred instead to meet the carriage in town where she would not have to explain where she was going and why.

The footman and driver and, much to her surprise, Dickens waited for her. He stood tall, stoic, his face devoid of all emotion. Which, she was learning, was normal for Dickens. His dark glittering gaze landed on her as she approached and for a moment, she thought he might smile.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he merely gave a half bow. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Good morning, Dickens.” She said it in her best singsong, cheerful voice despite the fatigue pounding through her. She even plastered on a bright smile.

He opened the door for her. She climbed in and then he followed, closing the door. It surprised her. He perched on the bench across from her and then they were away. An awkward silence stretched between them as they rumbled down the road.

Bella disliked uncomfortable silence. “So,” she began, aware she was about to start making small talk. “How long have you known Mr. Thornhurst?”

His gaze flickered from the window to her, a curious glint in his dark eyes. “Many years, my lady.”

She toyed with a loose thread on the edge of her sleeve. “How many years is that?”

An inane curiosity fluttered at the back of her mind. Lord Vincent was several years her senior, of that she was sure. But Leopold? She was unable to venture a guess to his age. Why it was so important at the moment, she hadn’t a clue, but she was desperate to know.

He lifted one thick dark brow at her, pressing his lips together as through trying to decide how to answer. “ Many years.”

“Since he was a boy?”

The brow dropped back into place. A strained smile stretched across his lips. “Indeed, my lady.”

He didn’t seem to want to elaborate, which gave her no more information than when she asked in the first place. Frustration edged through her. She turned away and peered out the window, watching as the countryside rattled by. The closer they got to his castle, the darker and gloomier it got. As if the shadows clung to the estate like a curse etched into every stone.

A curse.

Was the estate cursed as well as the man?

She cut a glance back to Dickens who regarded her with a cool, measured expression.

“You have more questions, my lady?” he asked.

Of course, she did. She had a thousand more questions. But which one or what to ask? It didn’t seem proper to ask about the cursed man living in the castle. What was his curse? How did it affect him? And how did he expect to break it? Instead, she shook her head.

“No,” she said, though she knew it was a lie.

The carriage slowed as they approached the entrance. She blew out a heated breath, grateful to finally arrive at the castle.

Or was she? It took a lot of courage for her to return to this place, to continue her work with the book, to step foot once again into that library with the hovering candelabras that emitted blue-white light.

“Ah, we have arrived,” Dickens said, pointing out the obvious.

Perhaps he was as uncomfortable as she was.

When the carriage halted, he flung open the door and stepped out. Bella clutched the book to her chest as he opened her door and held out his hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, stepping down from the carriage of her own accord.

The door opened and Leopold stepped out into the faint morning light. The moment he did, her heart clawed its way to her throat. He wore a long, deep brown coat, the edges embroidered in silver thread, its collar turned up against the morning breeze. Beneath it, a muted waistcoat of dark wine-red, buttoned with precise care, though one button sat slightly askew as if done in haste. His shirt was crisp but collarless, open enough to suggest he’d dressed quickly or slept very little.

His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times. And his pale eyes—sharp, searching—were shadowed underneath, the faint bruise of exhaustion etched into the skin below. Even tired, he carried himself with that same quiet gravity, but it was dimmer somehow.

When he saw her, he smiled, and the smile lit up his eyes. He looked genuinely happy to see her. Perhaps he was worried she wouldn’t return. Perhaps that’s why he sent Dickens to make sure she came.

“Bella, it’s good to see you again.” His voice was warm, welcoming. He waved toward the open door in invitation. “Dickens, thank you for escorting Miss Rinaldi.”

He inclined his head slightly. “The pleasure was mine, my pr—my lord.”

Leopold shot him a warning scowl as Dickens slipped past him and into the castle. He turned back to her, extending a hand, the scowl falling away and a more pleasant expression plastered on his face.

“Please, come in. Have you breakfasted? Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” Despite her response, her stomach growled loudly. She only hoped he didn’t hear it as her cheeks flushed hot.

He gave her a knowing grin. “Tea, then. Dickens? Prepare the dining room. The small one.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—” she began.

“I must insist. We can’t have you working on an empty stomach, now, can we?”

His charming grin obliterated any objection she might have. He extended his arm to her in invitation. How could she resist? She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, acutely aware of the fine material of his coat under her fingers.

He led her through a quiet corridor, the floor creaking faintly beneath their steps, to a small dining salon tucked into the eastern wing. The cozy room was paneled in dark walnut, with faded morning light filtering through the tall windows overlooking one of the castle’s shadow-draped lawns.

A table was in the center, suited for small informal conversation seating four. The maple surface was polished to a high shine, gleaming softly under the blue-white light of the overhead chandelier. It was set with fine porcelain plates and silver. In the center, a crystal vase with an arrangement of indigo roses, their faint sweet fragrance drifting through the air.

Beyond the windows, the lawn stretched out like a dream half-remembered, framed by mist and distant hedges curving into unnatural shapes. The light didn’t quite reach the far edge, where something darker lingered among the trees. Watching, perhaps, or simply waiting.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, adding warmth to the room, but it didn’t quite chase away the chill clinging to the stone walls.

And it was quiet. The room itself appeared to listen.

The highboard to the side of the room had already been laid with delectable smelling food. Steam rose from a silver teapot, the scent of Darjeeling rising through the confines of the room. Fresh from the oven, blueberry scones were wrapped in a linen-lined basket and served with lemon curd and clotted cream. Next to that, a platter of poached eggs.

Elegant, perfect, and far too normal for the eccentric castle, its inhabitants, or the way her heart raced.

He held a chair out for her. She sat, her nerves jangling, and placed the book to the side of her out of the way. He was the epitome of a gentleman as he took the seat opposite her. Moments later, Dickens arrived to serve them. He poured tea, offering her cream and sugar. She waved it away.

Leopold accepted the cream, placing dollops in his cup and stirring with a spoon. All the while, he eyed the book with the parchment sticking out of the edge. Curiosity lined his handsome face. She accepted the poached eggs on buttered toast, sprinkled lightly with parsley. As Dickens served Leopold, she picked up her fork.

“The night I returned to Hawthorne, I translated a few more lines of the book.”

Leopold froze, the teacup in his hand halfway to this mouth. His brows rose as he tried to make eye contact with her from across the table. She, however, keep her gaze downcast, focusing on the delicious meal in front of her.

“That will be all, Dickens.” His dismissal was curt. Dickens inclined his head and disappeared through a side door, leaving them alone. “Did you?”

She replaced her fork and reached for the paper, slipping it from the cover of the book. Unfolding it, she glanced down at her imperfect penmanship. Placing the parchment on the table, she slid it across the table to him.

He glanced down at it, his eyes skipping over the words. In a slow, methodical move, he replaced the teacup. But she was certain she saw his hand shake.

“This is incredible, Bella.” He breathed the words. He made no other comment about it.

“You told me you were cursed. Do you know what this means?”

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

His words seemed forced verging on the edge of untruthful. She didn’t want to accuse him of lying, but she sensed he might understand what the words meant. Her suspicious senses tingled. She forged on.

“Something strange happened that night,” she continued, the memory resurfacing.

He lifted his gaze, his face impassive. “Oh?”

“I was working alone in the library. Everyone else was asleep in the manor. It was late. There was…howling nearby. Something I’ve never heard before in the country.”

She peered at him intently, trying to gauge his reaction. But he gave nothing away. He cut a piece of toast with the edge of his fork as if they were talking of nothing more than daily pleasantries.

“I’m sure it was nothing.”

“I heard it the following night. And last night, too,” she added.

Again, she kept her gazed fixed on his face. He took a voracious interest in the plate in front of him. When she arrived, she noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept much. She also noticed his somewhat disheveled appearance. Since the moment the word curse alighted in her mind, she was unable to shake it.

“Did you hear anything like that?” she asked.

He put down his fork and then picked up his teacup, granting her a knee-melting smile in an attempt to wipe away the worry, the fear, and the thought of curses from her mind.

“I heard nothing like that.”

She wasn’t entirely convinced he was telling her the truth. She let it go for now and finished her breakfast. When they were both done, he escorted her from the dining salon to the library.

“Will you be staying?” She placed the book on the table. The candelabras emitted their otherworldly glow, leaving a puddle of light in the center of the table.

“I daresay I’d be a distraction for you while you work. But if you need anything, I’ll be close by.”

He gave her a low bow and then left her alone in the enormous room. Heaving a sigh, she sat and got to work.