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Lord Crawford had picked himself up from the ground. His lip was rapidly growing purple. He took a handkerchief and wiped the trickling blood from his lip.
“I’d get satisfaction, Kenwood,” he growled.
“And I’d be delighted to give it,” Jackson challenged, turning to Lord Crawford as though readying himself for a duel.
“Please… no. Let’s just go,” Eloise begged.
“Yes, listen to your little woman, Kenwood. Run away from a fight and prove yourself a coward,” Lord Crawford jeered, smirking, despite his wounds.
“There’s only one coward here, Crawford. The man who’d assault a defenseless woman and have sisters assist him,” Jackson spat, and taking Eloise’s arm, he led her away across the garden towards the terrace.
Eloise’s heart was beating fast. She glanced over her shoulder to see Lord Crawford, Penelope and Claudia watching their retreat, their faces set like thunder.
“Oh, it’s too awful. Why did he do that?” she whimpered, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Because he’s a coward. Because he wants to possess you. Because he’s the sort of man who believes in his own self-entitlement. But don’t worry, Eloise. You don’t ever have to see him again. I promise.”
But Eloise could only fear what Lord Crawford was capable of. He had shown his true colors often enough for her to realize he would not allow the matter to rest. She could only imagine what wicked deeds he intended to do, even as it terrified her to think of them.
“But he was so angry. I’ve never known anything like it. It’s like he won’t ever give up. Not until I’m his. But he doesn’t want me. He just doesn’t want to lose. Oh, what came between the two of you? Why does he hate you so much?” Eloise asked.
She knew it was not her place to do so, and that prying into his past could well not be the right thing to do. But she was curious. He had defended her honor, but more than that, he had taken Lord Crawford’s insult personally, as though it were a vendetta on his part for a past misdemeanor. Jackson sighed and turned to her. He smiled ruefully and shook his head, leaning forward to kiss her.
“It’s a long time ago, when we were at school together. He took an immediate dislike to me. He claimed we had a family history of sorts. Our grandfathers were at odds, but I knew nothing of it. It was long ago, in the past. It didn’t concern us. But he made it concern us. He made my life a misery, him and his friends. But I had my revenge. I bided my time, you see,” he recounted.
Eloise did not push him any further in telling her what had happened. The look on his face was enough for her to know it pained him, and she slipped her hand into his and squeezed.
“It’s all right. I understand. You don’t need to tell me,” she said, and he gave a weak smile.
“Come now. Let’s not allow him to spoil our evening. I asked the steward to send a bottle of claret to that table at the far end of the terrace. Let’s sit there and forget everything else that’s happened.” Jackson motioned at a table where a bottle of claret and two glasses had been placed.
They walked together across the terrace, enduring the glances of the couples gathered there and the whisperings so obviously related to them and their presence in the procession.
“Who’d have thought it? She’s so obsessed with finding her sister, I never thought she’d ever marry,” one woman said, hardly trying to lower her voice as Eloise and Jackson passed by.
But Eloise no longer cared what they thought. She and Jackson were to be married, and it was not up to the gossipers, the whisperers, or any member of society to whether they did or not. They could think what they liked, for Eloise no longer saw herself as involved in a ruse, but rather happily engaged to a man she had fallen completely in love with.
“I don’t feel like dancing again tonight. I merely want to sit here with you,” Jackson admitted, as he poured them each a glass of wine.
“And I’ll happily sit here with you.” Eloise smiled at him.
Another waltz had struck up, and from her position on the terrace, Eloise could see Lord Crawford dancing with Penelope, the two of them moving stiffly with blank expressions on their faces.
“Those two sisters, Macbeth’s witches, that’s what I called them. There’s no man in all of London who’d marry either of them.” Jackson shook his head and took a sip of wine.
Eloise giggled. He had a way of putting her at ease, and in his company, she felt as though anything was possible.
“I suppose they’re bitter about it, too. They can’t find their own happiness, so they make sure no one else is happy, either,” she theorized.
Jackson nodded.
“That’s precisely it. I pity them and Lord Crawford, as much as I despise the man. Anyway, we’ve done what we needed to do here, haven’t we? We’ve shown society we’re serious. No one can doubt we mean to marry. They’ve seen us together. They know we’re serious,” he said confidently, and Eloise nodded.
“Did it mean something to you?” she asked, and Jackson smiled.
“It did. More than I expected it to. I… I’m glad we’re getting married, and I don’t mean because of any inheritance or satisfaction for my uncle. I really mean it,” he admitted, and Eloise reached out and took his hand in hers.
“I’m glad. I mean it, too. I’m so happy at the prospect. I really am.” For a moment, they gazed into each other’s eyes, and Eloise could not help but feel happy at what was to come.
