Chapter 12

“Iwas seven when I lost my mother. Did Max ever tell you that?” Percival asked.

Anna shook her head. “He never speaks of your past. He has always said he would tell me one day, but that day has never come.”

There were a thousand other things she wanted to say, to prove to him that he was wrong, and that every word out of his mouth was nonsense, but she held her tongue. Not because she thought he was right, but she could see upon his pained face that it was not merely the injury making him suffer. There was a weight he needed to unburden himself of, and she was about to relieve him, if she but showed a little patience.

“I suppose that day might be today,” he said, grimacing. “My mother and father were a love match. When she died, he was… devastated. I do not know if you have ever seen a man weep, but it is something I shall never forget. He grieved her, he wept, he screamed, he tore at his hair, he cursed at the heavens for taking her away. For months and months. We grieved together, sharing in our pain, and I thought… having had a love like that, how could he ever find someone to take my mother’s place.”

Is that why he resents love, because it can be taken away? She kept her questions to herself, her breath catching as his fingers curved around her hand, holding it more tightly.

“He met my stepmother when I was not yet nine, and it was as if my mother had never existed,” he went on, his voice hitching. “It was immediate. The sorrow was there, and then it was not, and he was grinning and laughing and declaring my stepmother to be an angel in human form, calling her my new mother before we had even been introduced. Indeed, he loved my stepmother to the point of madness.

“I did my best to be happy for my father. It was beautiful, in some ways, to see him find joy again, and I let that be a balm to my own prevailing grief.” He closed his eyes once more. “She was kind enough to me, until they were married. After that, she pretended I did not exist either, and if my father attempted to spend time with me, she would weep and complain, and he would cast me aside in favor of her. Eventually, he began to shun me too, especially after she started to blame me for things I had not done. She would break things and say it was me.”

Anna shuffled closer to the side of the settee, and with a shyness she had not felt in Percival’s presence before, she lightly rested her other hand upon his arm. Letting him know she was there, and she was listening.

“But when she became with-child, any pretense of pleasantness vanished,” he whispered, his brow furrowing. “At eleven, I was sent away to Eton, and hoped that when I returned for holidays and suchlike, things would be better. That distance, and my brother’s arrival, might make them tolerate me more.”

“It did not?”

He shook his head. “That first holiday, just before Christmastide, she came to me, said she was sorry she had not been kinder, and offered me some cakes. They tasted peculiar, but I wanted to be good, and I wanted my father to see that I was behaving.” His throat bobbed. “She poisoned me.”

Horror bit like a snake in Anna’s stomach, her heart lurching in her chest. “No… My goodness, no.”

“I was sick for days and no physician was sent for, but by the grace of my old housekeeper who tended to me in secret, I survived,” he said. “I told my father what I suspected, and the housekeeper came forward as my witness. But he loved my stepmother too much to believe it. He screamed at me and called me a wicked liar, for she was incapable of any wrongdoing in his eyes. I returned to Eton early.”

Anna gulped. “Why would she do that to you?”

“So my brother would be the only heir,” he replied, his eyes still closed. “When Max befriended me, and asked if I might like to spend the summer at your residence, I leaped at the chance. Being at your home was the only way I could be safe, for I knew she would try again if I ever returned to Granville. Being at your home showed me what a family should look like, for you had all suffered the loss of a mother too, but you became closer, not further apart.”

Anna blinked rapidly to hold back the tears welling in her eyes. If you had suffered all that, why did you become so unkind to me? I adored you once. She could not bring herself to say her thoughts out loud, fearful that it might make her seem selfish if she added insult to injury.

“I went back once in all those years,” he told her. “My father asked me about all of you—you, Max, Dickie, your father. I told him a story about you, for some reason. You had picked an orchid for Max, and I showed you how to press it so it would keep forever. You gave it to me when it was pressed. I was proud of it, because it was the first gift anyone had given me in a long time, so I showed it to my father.”

A vague memory drifted to the forefront of Anna’s mind, of her as a little girl, marveling at the perfect, dried-out orchid that had emerged from one of her father’s library tomes. In all these years, she had forgotten it.

“My stepmother called me wretched and complained that I never played with my brother like that. She made it sound like I had chosen not to get to know my brother.” His expression tightened, the strain of remembrance bringing out the cords of his neck. “My father immediately flew to her defense. He called me pathetic and weak, behaving like a brother toward someone else’s sister instead of my own kin. He ripped up the orchid and trampled it. I never behaved kindly toward you again, after that.”

It was as if someone had hurled a croquet ball directly at Anna’s chest, for she had always wondered why his behavior had altered so dramatically and so quickly. If she had been given ten years to figure it out, she would not have found the right answer; it was too awful to comprehend.

“The year you came at me like a feral beast,” he continued, “was the year my father became unwell. He died a few months after I left Greenfield House that summer, and I became the Duke of Granville. My stepmother never did succeed in her evil task, and though I offered—perhaps foolishly—to let her stay at Granville Manor, she refused. She took my brother to Scotland, and remained there until she died a few years ago. I have made sure that Norman is well taken care of, but I cannot remember the last time I saw him. Years ago. I suppose I do not trust that he will not try to succeed where his mother failed.”

I suppose you do not trust anyone… How could you, after that?

Anna read between the lines, uncovering mysteries about Percival’s character that she had assumed were just innate flaws. His awkwardness, his dependence on Max, his unkindness toward her, his clumsy attempts to emulate Max and Dickie, his desire to always be at Greenfield House in the summer, despite her obvious dislike for him. It was likely still his only safe place, and Max, the only person he could trust.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, hurriedly wiping her tears from her face before he opened his eyes and saw them. “Why trust me with your story?”

His eyes did open. “Because you are the only person that has ever been brutally honest with me. True, I have regretted being a thorn in your side, over the years, but from our quarreling has come a… strange sort of anchor. I know what to expect from you, and that is an uncommon thing. A twisted kind of comfort.”

“I would call you quite mad, but I no longer think I have the right,” she said, laughing stiffly.

“Do not cease being honest with me now,” he urged. “As a duke, most people hesitate to be honest with me. Not you. For years, you have made it clear that you do not like me, and you disagree at every turn with my opinions and ideas. It is refreshing, so I insist you do not stop. Although, I would ask that you do not put a croquet ball through my head the next time I anger you.”

She smiled at that. “See, that was funny. You rarely get it right.”

“I am aware.” He peered up at her, and she was suddenly aware of how close they had become.

Her hand had somehow moved up to his shoulder after she had wiped her tears away, her fingertips now grazing the bare skin of his neck, while her other hand was not merely covered by his, it was being held tightly by his. Their proximity, and the intimacy of those touches, made her feel too warm, all of a sudden. As if all of the air had gone out of the grand drawing room.

“You were incredulous the last time I said this,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming, his tone so soft she had to lean closer to hear him properly. “But that is why I consider you to be a friend.”

With that one final word, clarity exploded in Anna’s mind. Questioning what on earth she was doing, she drew her hands away from him, letting his own hand fall to his side, and offered a small nod of understanding.

“It makes little sense, but if that is what you think of me, I shall accept it.” She paused. “And I forgive you for the years of misjudged teasing and mockery. It is clear to me now that you did not know any better—deep down, you were still trying to appease your father… not to mention having two jesters as tutors.” She forced a laugh, but her heart was still heavy with the weight of his story.

“I forgive you, too, for that mighty swing… and I am grateful that you listened.”

She smiled and got to her feet. “I always listen to stories, Percival. It is what I excel at. So, all of that time spent reading was not wasted, after all.”

He grimaced, but before he could say anything more in defense of his previous words, the drawing room door opened, and Beatrice walked in with a wooden box.

“I have done what I can,” Anna said in a rush, “but I am afraid I have sullied your water jug.”

Beatrice came to take Anna’s place. “No matter. I never liked that jug anyway.” She offered the box to the younger woman. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“No, I should return to my brothers before Dickie declares the beginning of a game that will see your name in the scandal sheets.” Anna was at the garden doors before Beatrice could insist, but as she stepped out onto the velvet green lawns, she paused to catch her breath.

Moving out of sight of the windows, she rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest, puzzled by the wayward beating of her heart. It felt like a butterfly was trapped in there, fluttering wildly.

Just the heat, she told herself. Just the heat, and the relief that I did not kill a man today.

She would repeat that, over and over, until her addled heart calmed. For in that drawing room, there was nothing but a friend. A probably delirious friend who would forget or regret what he had told her. Meanwhile, something more was potentially waiting for her in the summer house. She would not keep Simon in suspense.