Elinor met his gaze. “You are kind to say that.”
“It is merely the truth,” he said. “Don’t give your uncle any more power than he already has.”
“You are right,” Elinor said, her voice gaining strength.
Alden smirked. “I usually am. It is what makes me so charming.”
A laugh escaped Elinor’s lips. “You are vexing,” she said lightly.
“But not charming?” he prompted.
“No, more vexing,” Elinor quipped, a glint of mirth in her eyes.
Lord Inglewood’s curt voice cut through their exchange. “Is something amusing, Elinor?” he asked.
The humor drained from Elinor’s expression. “No, Uncle,” she replied, her voice much more subdued.
After they stepped into the dining room, Alden pulled out a chair for Elinor. He knew this was going to be a long, and no doubt tedious, dinner, but there was no other place he would rather be.
Elinor tried to pretend that her uncle’s intense glares didn’t bother her, but they did. How in the blazes had he found her? She had been so careful to hide herself away in Scotland. When his letters had first arrived, she had been surprised but never truly believed he would travel all this way to retrieve her in person.
Not that she had any intention of going anywhere with him. She refused to return home and marry the Duke of Mardale. The mere thought of the old duke, with his gouty bandaged feet, made her shudder. She didn’t care that he was a duke.
She glanced at Alden, grateful for his steadying presence beside her. She had thought herself brave enough to face her uncle alone, but she had been wrong. She needed Alden by her side more than she realized.
The footmen stepped forward, placing bowls of steaming soup in front of them. From his place at the head of the table, Lord Inglewood picked up his spoon and took a sip. “This isn’t awful,” he remarked with grudging approval before placing the spoon back down.
Her aunt spoke up. “I shall inform the cook of your praise,” she said dryly.
Uncle Matthew met Aunt Cecilia’s gaze. “Why are you here?”
With a slight shrug of her shoulders, Aunt Cecilia replied, “I could ask you the same thing, my lord.”
“I am her guardian,” her uncle snapped.
“I do believe Elinor no longer requires a guardian, especially given the fine job you did,” Aunt Cecilia retorted.
Uncle Matthew glared at her. “I must assume I have you to thank for her running away at the chapel.”
Elinor spoke up, her voice determined. “No, I chose to do that on my own.”
“And what a foolish mistake that was,” her uncle said. “Fortunately, the duke understands that you simply had cold feet and is still willing to marry you.”
“I do not wish to marry him,” Elinor responded.
“You would be a duchess,” her uncle argued, leaning forward.
Elinor shook her head. “The duke only wants to marry me because he wants an heir. Any young woman would do.”
“No, you caught the duke’s eye, and he is very interested in furthering your acquaintance,” her uncle said.
“I won’t do it,” Elinor asserted.
“Then I shall remain here until you do change your mind,” her uncle stated.
Aunt Cecilia picked up a roll and tossed it at Lord Inglewood, the bread hitting him squarely on the shoulder. “My apologies, my lord. It must have slipped,” she said, her tone devoid of any genuine regret.
Her uncle brushed off the crumbs on his jacket, his expression one of barely contained irritation. “Truly?” he asked. “Is this the example you wish to set for Lady Elinor?”
