Page 51 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
She thought of Snowy’s kiss and amended that. With a little encouragement. But men kissed easily, from what she had been told.
He had called her magnificent, in the heat of an argument with Martin. She wasn’t. Martin’s description was closer to the truth. Snowy must know that.
Pauline was waiting patiently for an answer.
“If he truly wanted me as his wife, I would marry him,” she said, honestly. “I won’t marry a man who only wants to save face any more than one who wants only my title or my fortune.”
Pauline finished her bun and dusted her fingers. “He won’t be blamed for refusing to go ahead with the betrothal. He is a man, and probably a viscount. You will be the one to suffer.”
Margaret shrugged. “I will be the one to suffer most in an unhappy marriage. If he does not want to marry me…” she grimaced. She had lived through one scandal. She dreaded another.
“You are titled and wealthy, and your friends will stand by you,” Pauline soothed. “And even last time, the year of your debut, was largely forgiven by the time you came out of mourning.”
Not by her father or brothers. Nor by Aunt Aurelia. But they—and Martin—were the only ones to know the truth of the liberties Martin had taken. Now only her great-aunt and Martin were left. Pauline was correct. His nasty remarks last night could be brushed off as sour grapes. She could live through the disapproval of the cohort of sour old women whose scorn served to keep the ladies of the ton from any show of independence or initiative.
She would have to. For she must tell Snowy the whole, and—for all his fine words—when he knew she wasn’t pure, he would not want her.
*
Poppy, who wasa regular reader, sent SnowyThe Teatime Tattlerwith his morning coffee, the article circled. “This says I proposed to Lady Charmain last night,” he said to Rahat, who was laying out Snowy’s clothes for the day.
“I heard what you said about marrying her.” Rahat smoothed the cravat he was holding out on the bed, a smooth, snowy field of crisp linen. “Did you mean to propose?” he asked, then changed the question. “Did youwantto?”
Snowy reread the fateful paragraphs as he considered his answer. Of course, he wanted to. But he’d grown up in a brothel and at the farm belonging to a brothel. He had taken part of his schooling in the rough alleys of one of London’s poorest areas. She was a countess! A peer in her own right.
Yes, he’d been born to the manor; was a peer himself, in fact. He had yet to prove it, but he’d thought, maybe after…
But the moment was upon him. Did he dare take advantage of it? “I didn’t set out to propose, but yes, I want her for my wife. The real question is, does she want me for her husband?”
“I suppose you are going to have to ask her,” Rahat said. “Properly, this time.”
So, before he left for the Winshire mansion, Snowy sent Tommy to Margaret’s house, with a note asking if he could wait on her at one in the afternoon. “Take the answer to Westruthers,” he told Tommy. He planned to head there after visiting Winshire, and then Wakefield and Wakefield, and finally, his solicitor. It would be a busy, but he hoped productive, morning.
*
Half an hourlater, he was admitted by the Duke of Winshire’s butler, and he asked for Lord Andrew. “I have been instructed to show you to the duke’s study, Lord Snowden,” said the butler.
Drew was there, waiting for him, but so were the duke, his eldest son Lord Sutton, and a tall, bearded retainer.
Snowy bowed. “Your Grace. My lords.”
The duke nodded in return. “Snowden, you have met my sons. Allow me to make known to you my aide and dear friend, Yousef ibn Ahmed.”
Snowy bowed again. Unsure of the correct way to address the gentleman, he settled for, “Sir.”
Yousef ibn Ahmed returned the bow. “Lord Snowden.” He glanced at the duke, with one eyebrow raised. The duke nodded.
“I took the liberty of questioning the guest you consigned to Drew Bey’s care,” the aide said. “He sang like a lark, Lord Snowden. He was apparently under the impression he would have been favored by a certain lady were you out of the way.”
He inclined slightly again in another bow. “He complained about his sorrows to the gentleman who is the rival claimant to your viscountcy. This gentleman gave him the poison and instructed him in its use.”
“The question is,” said the duke, “what is to be done with him?”
Snowy frowned, thinking. “When my valet tried to kill me, I put him in the hands of the runners. He was murdered in the cells. While I would not weep if Hungerford-Fox suffered the same fate, I cannot in good conscience send him to it. Nor am I willing to let him go, for the same reason.”
“Quite apart from the fact that letting him go would be an abuse of justice,” Drew pointed out.
Lord Sutton spoke for the first time. “I have a possible solution, if I may.”
