Page 38 of Her Lion of a Duke
“In what way, Your Grace? Come now, we all know that she was merely a frightening bluestocking. She took pride in that role. You need not be angry with us simply because she now has to pretend otherwise.”
“She is not pretending to be anything other than who she truly is.”
But Leonard knew that was a lie.
Cecilia had changed since their wedding. She had softened around her edges, made herself smaller so that she could belong. It was the one thing that he had never wanted her to do, but he had no control over it. She wanted, for the first time, to bend to what Society wanted, and that had come at the cost of her sharp wit.
Simply put, Leonard missed that.
“You must know that we are not being unkind,” Lord Pendleton added. “It is a compliment that you have made her a more… functioning member of society, and that she has finally cracked that stone heart of yours.”
“There was nothing to crack,” Leonard protested. “Neither one of you knows the first thing about my marriage. I have not spoken to you in years.”
“No, but we all know why that is. You were afraid that anyone you spoke to could have been?—”
Lord Fenton nudged Lord Pendleton sharply with his elbow, cutting him off.
Leonard arched an eyebrow. “Could have been what, Pendleton?” he asked in a low but firm voice.
“Well, could have been the one who hurt your brother.”
“Is that why you think I no longer wished to be around you?” he said, laughing incredulously as he rose from his seat. “Do you truly believe that I could ever think you capable of such an act?”
“The ton believed it of you, even though I knew that you could never. It was a difficult time for us all, you know. I admired the late Duke a good deal.”
“Oh, yes, everybody did. Everybody adored my brother, and they were all so devastated when he passed that they had to blame someone. You might like to know that I have never once accused anyone of killing him. You all believe you knew him, but none of you did. The only person who knew who Henry truly was was me, which means I am the only one who understands that it could have been anyone.”
“Steady, Pridefield. There is no need to be so angry.”
But the anger was already there, buried deep inside him. Leonard had spent years pushing it down, hoping that it would eventually disappear, but it had all become too much.
He hated that he, and therefore his wife, would always be subjected to such bitter hatred and speculation, and all because of something Henry had done years ago.
It did not matter that Leonard was innocent; the whole ton assumed the contrary, and there was no escaping that.
“Go home to your wives,” he snapped, walking away. “Let them believe that your marriages are as happy as mine.”
He stormed out of White’s, but he did not go home. Instead, he found an empty park bench and sat on it, looking out across the dark fields.
He did not know what to say to Cecilia when he returned home, so he decided to remain there until he had thought of something.
“It is good to see you again.”
He groaned upon hearing Henry’s voice. He glanced around to make sure that nobody would hear him.
“If you are going to haunt me, at least do it in my study.”
“I come when you need me. I must say, I am rather proud of you for what you did in there.”
“No, you are not. You are disappointed. You always were.”
“I would not say that. It is more a case of my being pleased that the real Leonard is still in there. The anger, the bitterness—I thought it had disappeared.”
“It had. Ithas.”
“You can keep telling yourself that, if it makes you happier.”
Leonard sighed, trying to ignore the meaning behind his brother’s words.
