Page 11

Marian clapped her hands together softly. “Painting, the violin, and the pianoforte! Good heavens, you are a regular academy. How on earth did you manage to master all three? You must have had a remarkably strict upbringing. I know how difficult I made it for my mama to learn only the pianoforte.”

“In truth, yes, I did have a strict upbringing,” Leonora murmured, looking down at her hands. “My guardian insisted on a rigorous schedule when we were growing up. There were hours set aside for languages, music, and art. Sometimes it felt terribly tedious, and there were days when I wanted nothing more than to throw the violin out the window. But as I grew older, I found a sort of comfort in the music. Though, if we are being entirely honest, the violin is still my least favourite to practice. It is dreadfully unforgiving when one’s fingers slip.”

“I completely understand,” Marian chuckled, scratching behind the orange tabby’s ears. “A violin demands perfection, and human beings are rarely perfect. I would know. Anthony can be quite a handful. Sometimes he is the absolute bane of our existence.”

Leonora seized the opening instantly. Hearing the dowager speak about the Duke sparked a calculating thought in her mind. If she could extract a bit more information about Anthony now, she might just find the leverage she needed to pay him back for this trap later. She leaned forward just a fraction, feigning a polite, innocent curiosity.

“Speaking of Anthony, Your Grace. Has he always been so... vex –” Leonora asked, almost letting the word she was thinking slip before catching herself. She instantly coughed into her fist, pasting on a wide, artificial smile. “Caring. Has he always been so remarkably... caring?”

Marian let out a wheezing laugh. “Caring? Oh, my dear child, Anthony is many things, but caring in the traditional sense is a jacket he rarely bothers to wear. Anthony has always been Anthony. He is quite simply impossible.”

“Is he?” Leonora prompted softly, her mind racing with possibilities of how to use his flaws against him.

“Oh, endlessly,” Marian sighed, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “The boy is fiercely stubborn. He never listens to advice, least of all mine. He takes his own sweet time to act on matters, turning things over in his head until everyone around him is ready to tear their hair out. He loves his work, buries himself in ledgers and estate business for days on end, yet he can be surprisingly playful when you least expect it. He will talk your ear off about railway shares, and then stare at you in complete silence for hours without uttering a single word. You can never truly tell what is going on behind those vivid blue eyes of his. He says one thing and means entirely another. He barely knows his own mind half the time.”

Leonora listened intently. It matched her own impression of the man down to the last syllable. “I agree.”

“He is quite something, I’ll tell you,” Marian’s tone softened. “He lost his father quite a while ago, you see. The entire title and the weight of this estate crashed down upon him. But I think he was always ready for the responsibility. He built an armor around himself, learning to carry every burden alone. But do not let his haughty manners fool you. He is strong and unyielding. In that way, he is so very much like his father. My son was cut from the exact same cloth. Though, truth be told, that stubborn pride is practically the only thing they share. In temperament and spirit, they were entirely different men.”

Leonora tilted her head, watching the older woman closely. “When did the late Duke pass away?” she asked gently.

Marian stopped stroking the cat. Her hand froze flat against the orange fur, and her gaze drifted away from Leonora, staring blankly toward the curtains. An uncomfortable silence stretched across the room, lasting far longer than a normal pause should. The cheerful, talkative dowager seemed to vanish, replaced by a fragile stillness.

Leonora held her breath, realizing a moment too late that she had stumbled into the very labyrinth of Marian’s memory lapses.

After a long, agonizing stretch, Marian blinked, her eyes clearing slightly as she turned back to Leonora with a disjointed smile.

“Would you like to see my collection?” Marian asked cheerfully as though nothing had happened.

“Your collection?”

“My porcelain miniature animals,” she explained, gesturing proudly toward a tall, glass-fronted cabinet standing in the corner of the room. “Every single one has a name and a distinct personality, though Anthony insists on calling them dust collectors.”

Leonora stared at her for a beat, a wave of sympathy washing over her. She remembered Anthony’s warning about how quickly her mind could slip backward or sideways. Instead of pressing further, Leonora offered a warm, accommodating smile and folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“I should love to see your collection, Your Grace,” Leonora said softly.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Do you simply enjoy playing games with people’s lives, Your Grace?”

Leonora did not bother to wait for the butler to announce her. She had stormed through the corridors of Glenhaven with a single purpose. To find Anthony. Marian had decided she wanted to take a nap and that had given Leonora the opportunity to call it a day.

When she reached the Duke’s private study, with the help of the maids who had pointed her in the right direction, she pushed the door open with enough force to make the brass hinges groan. She stepped inside, slammed the heavy wood shut behind her, and turned the iron lock with a click. She was not going to allow anyone to interrupt this conversation.

Anthony was seated behind his desk, completely surrounded by tall stacks of papers and thick parchment documents. The study was a beautiful, intimidatingly masculine room, smelling faintly of sandalwood, old leather, and expensive ink. Rain had just begun to patter against the glass windows.

Anthony did not flinch when the door slammed. He did not jump. He simply lowered his silver quill, leaned back in his leather chair, and watched her.

“I take it your afternoon tea with my grandmother was a resounding success?” he asked smoothly, lacing his fingers together over his waist.

“A success?” Leonora marched forward until she was standing directly in front of his desk. She planted her hands firmly on the wood and leaned in, her eyes blazing with outrage. “You left me in a room with eight cats and an elderly woman who spent the last hour discussing the merits of a spring wedding. She showed me her porcelain collection. She told me she wants me to wear a veil made of vintage Brussels lace. You told her I was your betrothed.”

“I did,” Anthony agreed, not looking the least bit apologetic.

“Why?” Leonora demanded, her voice rising in frustration. She pushed off the desk and began to pace the length of the rug. “We had a deal. Three months as her companion. That was the agreement we made in the drawing room right before I was ambushed. At no point did you mention that I would have to pretend to be your future wife. I am not a pawn for you to move around a chessboard, Your Grace.”

“If I had mentioned it, you would have walked out the front door,” Anthony pointed out reasonably. He watched her pace, his blue eyes tracking her every movement.