Page 53 of The Duke of Kisses
A moment later, Graham pressed a tumbler into his hand. “Drink.”
David did as his secretary—no, his friend—instructed. Then he looked at Graham. “You heard?”
Graham grimaced. “The lot of it. What a bloody mess.”
“I don’t know what to do.” He knew what hewantedto do.
“What had you planned—before you walked in here with your mother?”
David’s chest tightened. “I was going to write to her. To Fanny. I was going to ask if I could court her.”
“Marry her, you mean. Because courtship leads to that. There’s no going back.” Graham’s tone was stern yet caring at the same time. “At least not without considerable difficulty.”
David shot him a skeptical look. “How did you become the marital expert?”
He gasped in mock affront. “Don’t you dare cast me in that role. I’m acting as your counselor. My father said I may need to do that from time to time.”
“I can’t help thinking what my father would say if he were alive. He’d be horrified to hear I wanted to marry a Snowden.”
“Do you really think so?” Graham cocked his head to the side. “Is there no chance he’d understand that she isn’t to blame for her relation’s crimes? The man I knew possessed a kind nature.”
That was true, but Graham hadn’t seen everything. “He rarely spoke of his sister, but when he did, his fury simmered just beneath the surface. More than once, he said he’d wanted to kill the man.”
And now, as David recalled his father’s threats, the name of the footman came back to him: Snowden. He felt as though he were being ripped in two.
His mother was right. Fate was incredibly cruel to have put Fanny in his path only to have her be from the one family he could never join with his.
“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Graham said. “But perhaps you should avoid Miss Snowden for the time being—until you work things out in your mind.”
“I don’t have to. She’s gone.”
Graham arched a brow in question.
“I just paid a call to Clare House. The Duke said she’s returned to the country with her sister. I don’t need to avoid her. I could simply never contact her again and let the entire…matter between us fade into the past.” God, that sounded awful, to relegate the feelings he had for her to some small moment in time that had come and gone like a migration.
“Perhaps that’s for the best.” Graham winced, then took a drink of his whisky.
David did the same, only he swallowed every drop. “I think more drinking is for the best.” He tracked across the study to the sideboard and refilled his glass.
He had time to work things out in his mind—and he would. But what was he to do about his heart?
* * *
Five more days.
Fanny could endure five more days at her parents’ house. She owed it to her brother John to see him wed. Plus, he was marrying Mercy, the younger sister of Fanny’s oldest and dearest friend, Patience Jeffers. Rather, Patience Smithson now.
Ivy had not accompanied Fanny. She was within the last several weeks of her pregnancy and had no desire to travel. Furthermore, she had no interest in visiting her estranged parents for more than a few hours at a time, and Fanny couldn’t blame her.
The room Fanny had once shared with Ivy—when she’d been Mary—seemed small and sparse when compared with the elegance of both Stour’s Edge and Clare House. Fanny’s bed, in which she and Ivy had both squeezed, took up a large portion of the space, while a tall, slim dresser occupied one corner, an ancient, rickety armoire stood in another, and a compact writing desk sat beneath the window.
She’d come upstairs to fetch her bonnet for a walk but found herself drawn to the desk. More accurately, to the pair of letters tucked into the top drawer. She pulled them out but didn’t open the parchment. It was enough to look at his handwriting, and she’d read them so many times to have memorized their contents.
David had sent the first one a week after she’d left London. In it, he’d apologized for his behavior and said he’d called on her at Clare House. He’d asked if he was the reason she’d left London. Then he’d asked to visit her at Stour’s Edge at the end of the Season. Which would be soon as June had just begun.
She wasn’t sure if she ought to expect him or not since she hadn’t responded. Not to that letter, nor to the second one he’d sent a fortnight later.
He’d asked if she’d received his first correspondence. Then he’d asked if she’d decided not to answer. He’d said if he didn’t get a response to that letter, he’d leave her alone.
