Page 48 of Her Lion of a Duke
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.
