“Duke Felton,” he said, paying his respects. At least as much as he could give, because he was a little nervous. Nervous, not intimidated. How are you supposed to ask someone to marry you when you’re disliked in almost every way - he was going to find that out in the middle of a lion’s den. He didn’t know a lot of things but he knew one thing: he wanted his permission. But he also didn’t want to disgrace her by marrying her. She was still young and of high standing, and without their permission she would be finished as quickly as he was.
The atmosphere in the study was unbearable and he just stood there, arms folded neatly behind his back. But his voice, yes, it was firmer, he stood his ground. “I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” he said genuinely, watching the duke from head to toe, wondering how she had become so lively and friendly.
“I ask only for her,” he said again, already hinting at what he had been thinking about for a very long time, “I don’t want your money.” He would have needed it, yes, but not if it put her in danger. It would have secured him for a while, but not forever, so why insist. He had thought for a long time before, imagining all possible scenarios but he wasn’t down yet, there were still chances. “Duke Felton,” he took a deep breath, “I do not want her to be scorned because I insist on marrying her without your permission. I refuse her dowry if you give us your permission. She should and must retain her social and moral standing.”
Well, that didn’t take long. It appeared Lord Alastair Talbot wasn’t the type to beat around the bush. Usually, being a man who decidedly liked straightforwardness, the Duke would have held such abruptness in good esteem. Yet coming from a man who he did not view as his equal – nor did he have any reason to – he found himself irked instead. Duke Felton raised his chin, regarding Lord Alastair down his nose. At least the man had the sense to ask, though the question itself was impertinent.
An impertinence which did not disappear, as the man went on. Unable to help himself, the Duke let out a barked scoff of laughter, his ruddy cheeks flapping for a moment. “Don’t want my money,” he repeated, with more than a touch of disbelief. So the Talbot name was only asking for his sole daughter for her status, then? “Well, I am glad you cleared that up. Here I was imagining my daughter to have taken up with a beggar, but no, no, it would appear instead she has taken a shine to a penniless fool.” With his broad fingers twitching at his sides, Duke John Felton paced for a moment, his long-turned-white moustache bristling with indignation. Yes, Augustine had always had a streak, and he quite awfully regretted not having had it torn out of her, long ago.
His opinion of the Talbots had not always been so dim, of course. Way back, decades ago, when he and Earl of St. Maur and the Baron were young, they had enjoyed their summers together. Drinking. Hunting. Playing cards. Leaving the ladies, the nannies, and the squealing babes behind. They’d trouped about the South West like the strapping young men they’d been. Had shared laughter, discussion, debate. Yes, there was a time they had been friends! But the Baron had always had a streak to him that Duke Felton disliked. A certain tendency to drink too much. An inability to put his cards down, long past the point the game had been an entertaining one. Even a cruelty when hunting, aiming not to kill, but to make an animal suffer.
Maybe years ago, maybe in the summer of his youth, the Duke might have promised one of his children to the Talbots. But even then it would not have been his daughter. He would not let his Augustine marry down.
And now, now, to carry the name Talbot was not only a descent in rank. It was more than that. It was a drop into hardship. It was a drop into scandal. It was a drop into mediocrity. And the Duke would not let his dear girl suffer mediocrity.
He turned to his drinks cabinet, and poured himself a little more than just a finger of whisky. Lord Alastair still spoke, and as the Duke peered into the amber pool of his glass, he saw the reflection of his twisted lips. “Oh, I dare say she should,” he retorted, and turned on the spot to face the young man again. Young, for what was thirty years old? Nothing, compared to his fifty-five years. Nothing at all. “And what would becoming Lady Augustine Talbot do to her social standing? What, do you suppose, would become of her morality, with your father as her father-in-law?” Asking this, the Duke pointed his index finger out from beyond the body of his tumbler, clearly accusatory.
He huffed, something like a sharp, snorting sigh, and walked back towards his desk. “Lord Alastair,” he addressed. “Please understand I have nothing against you personally. I remember when you were still a lad, about yea tall.” With his free hand, he gestured to the top of his thigh, looking down as if he could still see that young lad, always too serious, always protective of his younger siblings. He’d never met a boy less inclined to smiling and playing. “But my daughter,” at this, his hand, which had been parallel to the floor, curled as if around a small head. Fond. Tender. “She cannot become tainted by your name.”
