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He leant against it trying to breathe. He had tried and he had failed. What had he been hoping for, anyway? A last-minute reconciliation, where the old man would beg for his love and goodwill, telling him how proud he was of him? It was never going to happen. And now, it never would.
* * *
Gordon, the butler, walked into the late Duke’s study. Jackson barely glanced up at him from where he was sitting at his father’s desk. His late father’s desk, now. All that was in this room, as well as this house and the entire duchy estate, was now his. It was a strangely disconcerting thought. He had honestly thought this day would never come; that somehow his father was immortal.
“Your brandy, my Lord,” said the butler, placing a crystal decanter filled with brown liquid and a glass upon the desk. Suddenly, he straightened. “I do apologise, your Grace.”
Jackson stared at the stooped man. Gordon had been in his father’s service forever. “It is quite alright, Gordon. I am not used to the fact that I am the Duke of Merriweather yet either.”
The butler bowed. He looked like he wanted to say something else. But then he drifted out of the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Jackson was alone again.
He poured himself a tall brandy, gazing around the room. It had been a long, wearying day. A day that had started one way and ended in another direction entirely. He had been on the other side of the country this morning. Now he was in London, and he was suddenly a duke. It all seemed like some kind of hazy dream.
He sipped the warm liquid, feeling it hit his bloodstream like fire. Suddenly, his eyes alighted on a letter, hidden beneath some other documents. A letter with his name on it and in a familiar hand. The hand of his late father.
He couldn’t breathe for a moment. Slowly he placed down the glass, picking up the envelope and breaking the seal with trembling hands.
My dearest boy,
I trust you shall find this letter when you make an inventory of my study. It has been on my mind to write to you for a long time now. There is much to say, and I have been a coward in saying it. But I must before it is too late.
You are now the eighth Duke of Merriweather, an esteemed title, going back to the days of the War of the Roses. I should have prepared you for this. The only excuse I can give is that you reminded me too much of my dear departed Eliza, your mother, who died giving birth to you. I could never let myself get close to you without seeing her, reminding me of my loss. I am sorrier for this than I can say.
You are a fine man, Jackson, and will make a great duke. I am so very proud of you and the man you have become. I know that the war changed you. I know that you have tried to forget it in the arms of common women. But I beseech you, now that you the Duke, to put those days behind you. Take a wife, my son, and one day you may have an heir. Embrace your destiny, not just for my sake and the continuation of the line but for your own.
You are more than your scars, Jackson. Never forget it.
Your ever loving Father
Jackson let the letter fall from his hand onto the floor. He couldn’t even see through the blur of his tears.
He had ridden hard to speak to his father before he left this earth and he had failed. But now, with this letter, it was as if his fatherwasspeaking to him. As if he was in the room with him.
His father was proud of him. His father wanted him to finally heal. And his father wanted him to marry and continue the proud line.
Jackson knew it would not be easy. Once he had hoped to marry and have children. But the war, and the scar he carried from it, had changed everything. It was the reason he hid away from society and kept the company of common women. He was afeared that no worthy ladycould ever see past it. He was a broken man, inside and out.
But perhaps it was time, to finally attempt to lay it all to rest.
I will try, Father,he thought, letting the tears fall at long last. I will do my very best. For your sake.
He got up, walking towards the looking glass in the corner. A dark-haired man stared back at him. A man with a jagged scar marring his face. How could any lady ever gaze upon him without distaste?
