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Chapter Eight
Jackson walked up the front steps of the townhouse on Park Lane, his heart racing furiously. He felt rather sick to his stomach, now that he was here. A fact that was even worse by having just seen Lord Cardigan driving past in his carriage in the opposite direction. The man had obviously just finished his call upon Lady Patricia.
Cardigan had looked smug, sitting back in his carriage. But then, he always looked like this. The man wore his complacency around his shoulders like a cloak. As he took a deep breath, rapping on the door, he reminded himself that it did not necessarily mean Cardigan’s visit to the lady had gone well. He still might have a chance with her.
Do not delude yourself, said a small, mean voice in his head.What would a beautiful young lady like her want with a man so broken? A man made visibly ugly by a scar?
He took another deep breath, waiting for the door to open, trying desperately to quell that voice within his head. The voice that was always telling him he wasn’t good enough anymore. The voice that had ruled his life, ever since he had returned from that godforsaken war all those years ago.
For a moment, he toyed with the idea of running back to the carriage. The door hadn’t opened yet – no one knew he was here. He could go to his club and have a port. He could go anywhere he wanted to. Anywhere but here, standing on this doorstep and sweating like a fool.
But then he thought of his father. His frail, lifeless body on the bed. And the promise he had made to him, after he had found that letter.
I shall try, Papa. I shall try to change.
The door slowly opened. He was staring into the face of a stooped, aged butler with thinning white hair. He cleared his throat. He could not back out of this now. He could not run away down the steps and retreat back into his carriage, like a frightened schoolboy.
“Good morning,” he said, handing his card. “Is the Lady Patricia at home by any chance?”
* * *
The butler led him into the drawing room. He gazed around. It was painted a soft eggshell blue, with a powder white ceiling, from which hung a low crystal chandelier. There was a pianoforte in one corner of the room, in addition to a few pieces of expensive mahogany furniture. A blue and green pattered Abyssinian rug laid on the floor upon which stood the seats.
It was not as grand as the drawing room at St. James to be sure, but it was tastefully decorated showing an elegance that spoke of a womanly touch in the design. Something that was sorely lacking in his own homes. Both the house at St. James and Thornbury Manor were more utilitarian. Rooms to dwell comfortably in, certainly, but without any finesse or aplomb. Homes that had been dwelt in by men for many years.
Two ladies were standing in the center of the room. One of them was middle aged, although still handsome. She wore a cream mob cap on her greying fair hair. The other was far younger, with golden ringlets falling on either side of her face. She wore an elegant rose-colored muslin gown, very high waisted, with short, puffed sleeves. She turned her extraordinary honey-coloured eyes in his direction and stared at him openly.
His heart seized. Lady Patricia.
For a full moment, he could only gaze upon her. It seemed odd, but he had forgotten how truly beautiful she was. As small as a pixie, with her lithe figure, but womanly just the same. The Lady Patricia was all woman. Embarrassingly, his loins stirred. He simply could not help the immediate physical reaction to her presence.
She came forward, smiling, in that charming way she had. She looked genuinely pleased to see him.
“Your Grace,” she said, her eyes shining. “This is a very unexpected pleasure, indeed!”
He gazed at her awkwardly for a moment. Then he remembered the posy in his hand. Inelegantly, he thrust it into her own hands. It was such a sudden gesture that she almost dropped it.
She hid her embarrassment by pressing her nose into it, breathing deeply.
“How beautiful,” she said, raising her head, staring straight at him. “White roses are my favourite. And the pink carnations are a lovely touch.”
He cleared his throat. “I am so very glad you like them, my Lady.”
The older lady swept over to them, smiling in welcome. “Your Grace,” she said, curtseying deeply. “I am Lady Hunter. Welcome to our home. We are so very honoured by your visit.” Her face turned solemn. “May I extend my sincerest condolences on the recent loss of your father. I had the pleasure of meeting him on a few occasions and he was an exceptional gentleman.”
Jackson smiled. “Thank you, Lady Hunter. I do hope I am not intruding?”
“Oh no, not at all,” said the lady, her smile widening. “Although, you must excuse me, for just a moment. I have a rather pressing meeting with our cook, regarding the menu for a dinner party this evening.” She gazed at her daughter. “Patricia, you are quite capable of entertaining His Grace? I shall send for more tea.”
Lady Patricia looked shocked but nodded. “Of course, Mama.”
Jackson felt a trifle uncomfortable. It was not the done thing for mothers to leave their unmarried daughters unchaperoned, even in their own homes. What was Lady Hunter thinking?
But the lady herself didn’t look embarrassed in the least. She simply curtseyed again, drifting out of the room.
They were alone.
“Please, do sit down,” said Lady Patricia, moving towards the velvet chaise lounge. Jackson followed her, sitting opposite. The tea service from Cardigan’s visit was still on the table in front of them.
