Page 7 of His Perfect Bride
It hit with a reverberating crash that sent shards of wood flying throughout the dining room. A sliver hit him in the face, but the overgrowth of his facial hair kept it from cutting his skin. Even if it had cut him, he deserved the pain and the punishment. It was the least he should endure when others had endured far worse.
A few final bolts rolled to a halt on the floor, and then silence settled over the destruction—utter silence except for the angry huffs of his labored breathing. Not even his servant Elliot, somewhere in the mansion, made a sound.
During outbursts like this, the fellow stayed well away from Jackson, giving him the space he needed. It wasn’t the first model bridge Jackson had destroyed, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. Because that’s what he was good at—making messes and mistakes.
At a firm knocking against the front door down the hallway from the dining room, Jackson scowled. Who was attempting to visit him so late at night?
He glanced to the thick draperies that were drawn to find bright light creeping through the slit between them. At some point, the night had passed and turned into morning. He’d obviously lost track of time and worked through the night again.
Not only had he lost track of time, but he couldn’t remember what day it was. His eyes stung from focusing for so long on the intricate details of the bridge, and his stomach gnawed inside him. When was the last time he’d slept or eaten?
He tried to make his brain recall the details of the past week, but it was a blur. In fact, the past four months since the accident were fuzzy. He’d done little else except to study his architecture and engineering books, draw elaborate diagrams, and build complicated models.
He peered around the dining room at the empty decanters, half-full glasses, and plates with stale food. Elliot had clearly tried to feed him.
The knocking on the front door resounded again, this time louder.
Jackson stepped into the dining room doorway and glanced in the direction of the stairway that led to the lower level and kitchen. He wanted to believe Elliot was gone to the market. But he was probably in his cups and foxed.
Jackson tentatively moved into the hallway. The barren floors were covered with dust and dried mud. The papered walls were without any pictures. The only thing on the wall was a gilded oval mirror.
As Jackson caught his reflection, he recoiled at the stranger that stared back at him. His dark hair was overlong and unkempt and needed not only combing but washing. The face was hidden behind a bushy beard, long sideburns, and a mustache. Gray-blue eyes were outlined by dark circles and the forehead was creased with lines.
He was coatless and vestless, with several buttons of his dress shirt undone. His trousers were wrinkled, and like everything else, needed laundering.
There was a wildness to his expression, one that reflected the turmoil of the monster that had taken up residence inside him. Yes, he was nothing more than a monster. Not only did he look like one, but he acted like one too.
“Hello?” came a woman’s voice from outside the front door.
A woman? Had Meredith come to pay him a visit?
His heart gave a rapid beat. He couldn’t let Meredith see him like this. He scanned himself in the mirror again, fresh disgust filling him. He was a filthy, bedraggled mess.
Hastily, Jackson ran his fingers through his hair, but the strands only stood up all the more. He fumbled for a button on his shirt, but he couldn’t find one and glanced down to see that only threads dangled there.
“Jackson?” the woman called.
Jackson halted his attempt at grooming. The voice was too firm and practical to belong to Meredith.
Besides, there was no reason for her to call on him. After the collapse of Queen’s Bridge back in May, he’d done what he should have much earlier—he’d cancelled their engagement and set her free.
Initially, she’d been upset about his decision, but that hadn’t lasted long.
His mind swirled with her last visit over two months ago when she’d come to tell him that she’d found someone new and was engaged again. He’d told her he was happy for her, and maybe part of him really was happy that she’d found a decent fellow to care about her after having to endure a bird-witted man like him who was consumed with his work.
The truth was, Meredith had deserved a husband who would be devoted to her—a man who could appreciate her and give her the time and attention she needed. He’d never been that kind of man, had never made her truly happy.
Regardless, she was married now—at least he assumed so. That meant she wouldn’t come visiting. Not anymore.
So, if not Meredith, who was the woman at the door?
“Jackson Lennox?” The female on the portico was persistent and pounded the door again, long and loud.
Jackson glanced again toward the servants’ entrance, hoping to see or hear Elliot coming, but there was still no sight of him. “Blast you, Elliot.”
Jackson growled in frustration at his incompetent servant. What use did he have for the fellow? For that matter, what use did he have for the enormous house he’d built for Meredith? He didn’t need twenty rooms, not for just himself. While Meredith had already started to decorate and fill some of the rooms, half were sitting empty.
“Jackson, are you home?” the woman called.
