Page 43 of Once Upon an Enchanted Castle

A curse.

Was the estate cursed as well as the man?

She cut a glance back to Dickens who regarded her with a cool, measured expression.

“You have more questions, my lady?” he asked.

Of course, she did. She had a thousand more questions. But which one or what to ask? It didn’t seem proper to ask about the cursed man living in the castle. What was his curse? How did it affect him? And how did he expect to break it? Instead, she shook her head.

“No,” she said, though she knew it was a lie.

The carriage slowed as they approached the entrance. She blew out a heated breath, grateful to finally arrive at the castle.

Or was she? It took a lot of courage for her to return to this place, to continue her work with the book, to step foot once again into that library with the hovering candelabras that emitted blue-white light.

“Ah, we have arrived,” Dickens said, pointing out the obvious.

Perhaps he was as uncomfortable as she was.

When the carriage halted, he flung open the door and stepped out. Bella clutched the book to her chest as he opened her door and held out his hand. She didn’t take it. Instead, stepping down from the carriage of her own accord.

The door opened and Leopold stepped out into the faint morning light. The moment he did, her heart clawed its way to her throat. He wore a long, deep brown coat, the edges embroidered in silver thread, its collar turned up against the morning breeze. Beneath it, a muted waistcoat of dark wine-red, buttoned with precise care, though one button sat slightly askew as if done in haste. His shirt was crisp but collarless, open enough to suggest he’d dressed quickly or slept very little.

His dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times. And his pale eyes—sharp, searching—were shadowed underneath, the faint bruise of exhaustion etched into the skin below. Even tired, he carried himself with that same quiet gravity, but it was dimmer somehow.

When he saw her, he smiled, and the smile lit up his eyes. He looked genuinely happy to see her. Perhaps he was worried she wouldn’t return. Perhaps that’s why he sent Dickens to make sure she came.

“Bella, it’s good to see you again.” His voice was warm, welcoming. He waved toward the open door in invitation. “Dickens, thank you for escorting Miss Rinaldi.”

He inclined his head slightly. “The pleasure was mine, my pr—my lord.”

Leopold shot him a warning scowl as Dickens slipped past him and into the castle. He turned back to her, extending a hand, the scowl falling away and a more pleasant expression plastered on his face.

“Please, come in. Have you breakfasted? Would you like tea?”

“No, thank you.” Despite her response, her stomach growled loudly. She only hoped he didn’t hear it as her cheeks flushed hot.

He gave her a knowing grin. “Tea, then. Dickens? Prepare the dining room. The small one.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary—” she began.

“I must insist. We can’t have you working on an empty stomach, now, can we?”

His charming grin obliterated any objection she might have. He extended his arm to her in invitation. How could she resist? She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, acutely aware of the fine material of his coat under her fingers.

He led her through a quiet corridor, the floor creaking faintly beneath their steps, to a small dining salon tucked into the eastern wing. The cozy room was paneled in dark walnut, with faded morning light filtering through the tall windows overlooking one of the castle’s shadow-draped lawns.

A table was in the center, suited for small informal conversation seating four. The maple surface was polished to a high shine, gleaming softly under the blue-white light of the overhead chandelier. It was set with fine porcelain plates and silver. In the center, a crystal vase with an arrangement of indigo roses, their faint sweet fragrance drifting through the air.

Beyond the windows, the lawn stretched out like a dream half-remembered, framed by mist and distant hedges curving into unnatural shapes. The light didn’t quite reach the far edge, where something darker lingered among the trees. Watching, perhaps, or simply waiting.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, adding warmth to the room, but it didn’t quite chase away the chill clinging to the stone walls.

And it was quiet. The room itself appeared to listen.

The highboard to the side of the room had already been laid with delectable smelling food. Steam rose from a silver teapot, the scent of Darjeeling rising through the confines of the room. Fresh from the oven, blueberry scones were wrapped in a linen-lined basket and served with lemon curd and clotted cream. Next to that, a platter of poached eggs.

Elegant, perfect, and far too normal for the eccentric castle, its inhabitants, or the way her heart raced.

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