Саша Кая – Leonie wants a romance with the Baron (страница 1)
Sasha Kaya
Leonie wants a romance with the Baron
Chapter 1. The Dream
And this is me? I, Leonie Smith, a staunch opponent of monarchy down to the very tips of my hair, suddenly find myself in royal chambers, surrounded on all sides by titled subjects dressed every which way. I look at myself in the mirror – I don’t seem all that different from the crowd: I’m wearing a lavish gown, my hair is piled high and looks like a wig, and a string of precious jewels is pressing down on my neck. What am I doing here?
The crowd parts – I see a young man. I’m seeing him for the first time in my life, yet I instantly understand: he’s the king. Everything suddenly makes sense. This is a dream. A nightmare. There’s only one reason I could be here. I frantically search for the pocket where there should be a sharpened blade or a loaded pistol hidden. Maybe it’s tucked in a stocking? While I’m discreetly trying to peek under the voluminous skirt, some lady stretches out her shriveled hand to me, trembling from the weight of rings and bracelets.
I lift my gaze and realize: I’m the center of attention. Have I been exposed?! No. The gawkers are smiling sweetly, lips pursed. There’s nothing to be done – secrecy above all. I take the old woman’s hand. I’m being led toward the crowned guy. Even better – I’ll seize the moment, and whatever happens, happens!
The bony hand places mine into the firm hand of the young king. I look into the eyes of my future victim… Oh no. Mistake. Now my hand might tremble. He’s smiling, his eyes are radiant, and he looks… harmless. Why do you have to be like this? ! I’m the one who’s supposed to be feared – not the other way around.
“My queen!” says the man beneath the crown, and the word echoes through the hall: queen! Queen! Queen!
And just a little disappointed that I’ll never rule a nation under the gentle gaze of radiant eyes. That’s when I wake up. I’m relieved I’m not in a palace, that I don’t have to kill anyone, that it’s my day off.
Chapter 2. The Tour
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the nineteenth century!”
A group of tourists trails behind the guide. They're hanging on his every word – it’s the very beginning of the tour, and later they’ll all scatter, some even getting lost in the castle. Though it's tucked away from civilization (thirty kilometers to the nearest shop), it remains a popular attraction. Over the years, all kinds of characters have been woven into its history – even ghosts and vampires haven’t been spared. But far more captivating, even after the hundredth retelling, is the story of the baron who lived here fifty years ago. His life bore little resemblance to a classic legend, which probably explains why, thanks to the efforts of enterprising guides, the story has only grown more mysterious with each new version.
Until now, I, Leonie Smith, had kept stopping – now in front of a painting, now a statue – without much desire to keep moving. I felt gloomy and sad. Sad for those who can’t even afford a ticket to visit this castle-turned-museum.
“Follow me!” our guide announced, waving his hand like a French revolutionary.
I liked that. I rushed after him without a care for how ridiculous I might look – after all, we were surrounded by antique furniture, not barricades.
“This room is probably standing empty, and yet twenty homeless people could fit in here,” I said to my mother, who was accompanying me on the tour. “If you took those tapestries off the walls and laid them on the floor, they’d make a better bed than bare earth.”
If anyone had asked those who knew her: What kind of person is my mother? – most would’ve answered without hesitation: a positive person. And it’s true – a smile always seemed to play on Olivia Smith’s face. Even when it wasn’t there, people could easily imagine it. Probably because of the charming dimples in her cheeks and the golden curls on her head.
My father… sadly, he was a whole lot of nothing, and he never really tried to be a dad.Ironically, and true to narrative law, my mother is a serious and quiet person. She’s also kind and, unfortunately, never says no. That’s probably why people came away thinking of her as cheerful – she never left anyone without a kind word. No one walked away from her in a bad mood, even if it cost her her own. And my mother – she’s a single mom, because one day, she didn’t refuse my father his wish for complete freedom – from both of us.
“I won’t buy yogurt. I’ll save up and get rich,” I say, trying to cheer her up even a little. Because yesterday my mom’s unreasonable boss – actually, why just yesterday? She’s unreasonable twenty-four hours a week – and it wears my mom down.
“Get rich, huh?” Mom smirks.
“Well, I read somewhere that someone in America got rich off dairy.”
“I think they went about it a bit differently… Look at that little table. That’s exactly the color I wanted for your bedroom set. The owners of this house must really be proud of it.”
“What’s there to be proud of? Land taken from enemies and gifted to their ancestors along with a title – and they still show it off, waving it around like a badge of honor. They’re so proud, they’ve invented their own code of behavior and decided it’s the standard not just for their circle, but for the world in general – in other words, they’ve placed the rest of us below them.”
He knew full well that the tourists weren’t hanging on his every word because of his brilliant historical insight or captivating storytelling – and he was perfectly fine with that.The guide raised his voice noticeably – clearly aware that Mom and I were getting distracted. We probably shouldn’t stand this close to him, knowing how easily our attention drifts. We’d already been shushed three times by younger women determined to stay close to our young and attractive guide.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, look to your right!”
As if on command, I turned sharply, nearly bumping into a large vase that stood alone on a narrow pedestal. At that very moment, I was thinking how the money from selling all these precious trinkets could probably feed an entire city—or maybe even a country in Africa. The thought barely had time to form in my head, and I was already dismissing it as silly: after all, objects worth millions of pounds wouldn’t magically change their value just because someone saw a better use for them. Then again, if one imagined passing that vase like a relay baton through the hands of the world’s wealthiest, it could probably raise a decent fortune… for what purpose exactly, I never quite finished thinking. The thought flickered out and vanished.
My eyes landed on a portrait – not as old as the others in the castle, but painted in the best traditions of early 20th-century portraiture. It depicted a handsome man of about thirty, one of the former owners of the estate. A wave of muffled sighs rolled through the crowd of mostly middle-aged women. The guide, nodding in satisfaction, presented the portrait:
“The Eleventh Baron Montgomery – Lord William Owen Colton Landon.”
“What a pompous turkey!” muttered a boy of about ten, earning a gentle tap on the back of his head from his mother.
Back then, I didn’t know that the man’s son – the only heir and current owner of the castle – was standing on the balcony, watching the group of tourists he was obliged to let into his private estate just to keep the place running: the castle, the garden, and all the people working there. He had a tendency to gain weight, though you wouldn’t know it now, because for the past six months he’d been eating nothing but salad for dinner. He had dark, almost black, slightly wavy hair; a moderately sized nose; a small – or rather tiny – mouth that gave him the look of a sulking child; thick, long eyebrows over grey-green eyes; and an open, questioning gaze that made people assume he was guileless – right up until he opened his mouth and shattered that illusion without a shred of sympathy for the deceived.
The young baron’s face held echoes of his ancestors. He looked like he’d stepped out of one of those old portraits. He wasn’t what you’d call handsome, yet I might’ve fallen in love with him at first sight – if I’d known he was the current baron. I didn’t care about his wealth, the respect he got from other aristocrats, or even from queens. The fact that he was an official link between generations made him compelling, romantically mysterious, and detached from the trivialities of everyday life. Through him, I could have fallen in love with eternity.
Chapter 3. The Reason
I, Leonie Smith, was standing on a hill with a good view of the castle. I had put on my most beautiful dress—the only expensive one I owned—bought long ago for my cousin’s wedding banquet. I had worn it only once, but it had reflected many times in the bathroom mirror of my apartment. From the old sideboard I took a wine glass with a long, thin stem. From my mother’s shelf I borrowed a plate from the porcelain set, along with a silver fork, spoon, and knife. I prepared some sandwiches, grabbed a bottle of lemonade, and packed everything—food and tableware—into a wicker basket.