Let the fruit be a reminder to her of all they had shared. It was the only gesture he dared, and even this symbolic offering he knew he should avoid, but he could not help himself. Before she had left his study in the company of the odious Rayne, she had told him she never wanted to see him or speak to him again.
The coldness of her voice still shook him now. She had not yelled, had not railed against him. Instead, she had been passionless, as though all the life and vibrancy had been stolen from her.
And he was the one who had stolen it, he supposed. He had taken what was not his, her love, her trust, her innocence. Everything she possessed. Even her dowry, meager though it had been, was his.
He had manipulated and used her. He had also deceived her.
Her whispered words from their moment of tender passion in the gamekeeper’s cottage earlier returned to him, mocking, reminding him of all he had lost.
Morgan, I love you.
But he had destroyed that love. Just as he had destroyed her. She had been the only light in his darkness. The best damn thing to have ever happened to him. And he had ruined her. Ruined whatever tender feelings she once possessed for him.
He poured another brandy, took a sip, and then he hurled his full snifter into the fireplace, savoring the crash as glass collided with brick. It shattered into a thousand jagged slivers. All the glittering pieces that remained were useless and dangerous.
Just like him.
*
Leonora told herselfshe was prepared for siege.
She had locked the door between her chamber and Searle’s. She had refused to descend to dinner and sit at her husband’s side as if nothing had occurred. She had also refused the tray which had been sent to her following her polite—and disingenuous—refusal. The supper tray had almost certainly beenhisdoing, and she did not wish to eat a morsel of food if her husband was the source of its offering.
She was not ill as she had claimed, but she felt as if she were. Her heart ached. Her stomach was a sea of sickness. Her head pounded, and in all, she had never felt more miserable than she did now. She could blame it on getting caught in the unexpected thunderstorms during her ride. She could claim a lung infection had settled upon her, and it would do as an excuse.
For the moment, at least. She would not feel guilty for the deception she was perpetrating upon the household. After all, the Marquess of Searle had never known a moment of guilt for the deception he had perpetrated upon her.
The uncomfortable settee in the sitting area had become her haven in the last few hours. A place she had eschewed altogether, for its outmoded and rigid furnishings—from thirty years prior or more, unless she missed her guess—had been uninviting in the extreme. The old and faded wall coverings, the worn rugs, the tired pictures on the walls, and grim furniture had not been worthy of her concern before, because she had never intended to spend her evenings trapped within the confines of the chambers.
But they bothered her now, for they were pointed reminders. Reminders she did not belong here. Reminders that everything she had experienced as the Marchioness of Searle thus far, had been a lie.
A carefully cultivated, horrible lie.
The breath left her once more, and she sat, fully dressed in the sprigged muslin afternoon gown she had changed into upon her earlier return from riding with her husband.Nay, not her husband, for that title seemed far too intimate for what the Marquess of Searle was to her.
In truth, he was a stranger. Perhaps even an enemy. How easily and fluently he had crafted his deception, making her believe he was honorable enough to wed her after he had ruined her. In truth, he had not been concerned for her wellbeing at all. He had ruined her quite intentionally, knowing who she was, knowing how he would use her to incite her brother’s reaction.
At least she had Caesar for companionship, his warm little body curled against her in feline fashion, gently snoring whilst she fretted away and absentmindedly scratched his silken head. She had reclaimed the dog, taking back the gift she had given him, for he did not deserve the loyal adoration of the pup. His machinations deserved suffering and loneliness. Machinations that still confused her and left her reeling from her untenable position in the morass he had fashioned for her.
There remained much she needed to decipher.
Pieces of her past interactions with him returned to haunt her now. How foolish she had been to think him honest. To think him a good man suffering from the scars of his past.
In truth, the scars she had seen and felt upon his flesh were only a small part of the story.
And it all made horrible, disgusting sense. She was a spinster wallflower who suffered from an unfortunate limp, the laughingstock of her peers. Her only suitor prior to Searle, was a lord who intended to win a handful of notes in a wager. How stupid she had been. How shamefully, embarrassingly easy to manipulate.
She felt silly now. And stupid. So very stupid for falling prey to his handsome face and knowing hands and skillful lips. An intelligent woman such as herself ought to have known the difference. She should have deciphered his true motivation. If she had, she could have avoided all of this…
Suffering.
Yes, that was the only manner in which one could reasonably explain the sad state in which she found herself. She was suffering. Lonely and miserable and mortified, ashamed of herself, hungry because her pride had not allowed her to consume dinner, and—
A knock sounded upon her door just then, interrupting the ragged meanderings of her mind. Caesar started into wakefulness, letting out a sharp yip of disapproval. Leonora calmed him with some gentle, reassuring pats.
“You may enter,” she called, not wishing to cross the chamber, and open the door herself. Her leg was paining her more than ordinary after her fall earlier. As if realizing she had been deceived and manipulated by Searle had not been humiliating enough, her graceless plummet to the floor had heightened the indignity.
She supposed her visitor was another servant bearing a tray or perhaps her lady’s maid. But she was startled when Alessandro entered the chamber, closing the door softly at his back. Her half-brother was tall, far taller than she, bearing the dark hair and eyes of his mother. His stubborn jaw, high cheekbones, and the blade of his nose were all their father, however.
