“You didn’t have to bring me back. I wanted to leave. I want to marry Jackson.” She fixed Lord Crawford with an unflinching gaze.
“You’ll marry whom you’re told to marry,” her father cut in.
It was a stalemate. There could be no compromise on either side. Lord Crawford would not show weakness in breaking off the arrangement, and Eloise would not concede defeat by agreeing to marry him. She was in love with Jackson, and that love was stronger than any feeling she had felt before. It had grown stronger in their separation, a separation which had only sought to confirm what she desired and what she intended to resist.
“Perhaps that’s why Alice left. You drove her away, didn’t you? There’s something you’re not telling me. Something you’ve never told me.”
“Enough about Alice! I won’t hear her name mentioned. This isn’t about Alice, this is about you, Eloise. Forget Alice. She’s gone. You’ll marry Lord Crawford. That’s the end of it. Do you understand?” Her father banged his hand down on the arm of his chair.
Tears rolled down Eloise’s cheeks. She could not bear the thought of what was to become of her. She turned her face away, shaking her head.
“I won’t…” she whispered, but her resistance was futile, and her future appeared only bleak.
CHAPTER19
“Is there something wrong with it?” the Baron of Loxbury asked, pointing to Jackson’s plate.
Jackson had been pushing a mutton chop listlessly around it for the past five minutes. He looked up at his uncle, as though roused from a dream.
“I… I’m not hungry, Uncle,” he replied, putting down his knife and fork with a sigh.
His uncle narrowed his eyes and shook his head.
“Forget her, Jackson. Leave her in the past. It wasn’t meant to be. You’ll find someone else.”
His words were dismissive, as though he believed a woman could simply be chosen from amongst a set of possibilities. Love, affection, feeling – none of that came into it. Jackson looked up at his uncle and shook his head.
“It was meant to be, Uncle. More than anything, it was meant to be. It still is,” he insisted, even as his uncle gave him a withering look.
It had been a week since Jackson had last heard anything from Eloise. He knew nothing of her fate following his encounter with her father, though the ton rumored that Lord Crawford intended to marry her. That was nothing new, but her father’s refusal to admit him to the house suggested it was an imminent probability. Jackson felt helpless.
“You’re clinging to a possibility, one which is only going to make you miserable, Jackson.” the Baron pushed aside his empty plate and rose to his feet.
Jackson sighed and did the same.
“She can’t marry him, Uncle. You know his reputation. He’s a cruel and heartless man. He doesn’t love her, not as I do.”
“All this nonsense about love? What is it with young people and love?” his uncle exclaimed, and without waiting for a reply, tossed down his napkin and stormed out of the dining room, banging the door behind him, and causing the candles in their sconces to gutter.
Jackson shook his head. His uncle had never married. He could not possibly understand Jackson’s feelings. It suited Jackson’s uncle to see him remain unmarried. The archaic dictate over the inheritance gave his uncle power so long as his vows remained unpronounced. But when Jackson was married, that power would cease.
“But he doesn’t want that, does he?” Jackson mumbled to himself, as he made his way to the drawing room.
It was growing late, and rain was battering against the windows. Darkness had fallen, and Jackson was glad of the fire, next to which he huddled, lost in thought. The butler brought him a brandy, and he stared into its heady depths as he swilled the glass beneath his nose.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” the butler asked.
“No, thank you, Giles, just leave me to my thoughts and…” Jackson began, but his words were cut short by a banging at the door of the house.
He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly midnight. The butler, too, looked startled. Callers at this hour could only mean trouble. The banging came again, and Jackson rose to his feet, accompanying the butler into the hallway, where the sound of the rain against the windows echoed over the marbled floor.
“Brigands, Your Grace,” the butler muttered, but at that moment, a woman’s voice was heard from the other side of the door.
“Please, Your Grace, let me in,” it called.
Jackson did not recognize the voice, but the shout came again, even more desperate.
“Let her in,” Jackson said, and the butler hurried to open the door, muttering something about a decoy.