“Love. A metaphor.”
“Why do ye need my help with a metaphor?”
“Ialwaysneed your help with metaphors. Ye practically breathe the things.” Ethan tapped the papers in his hand. “I’m trying to write yet another sonnet for Miss Brodure, but my thoughts are stillgubbed. I need your help until I can get my feet under my pen, so tae speak.”
As usual, Ethan’s mention of Viola sent a stab of guilt through Malcolm’s chest.
“Why not just write what ye feel?” Malcolm suggested, setting aside his jacket. He wrapped his neckcloth around his neck and turned to the mirror with a frown. He so rarely attempted a complicated knot, he was unsure where to start.
“Yes, yes.” Ethan set down his papers and stepped in, batting Malcolm’s hands away from the neckcloth and grasping the ends himself. “That’s all well and good, but I need a proper metaphor to capture the depth of my affections.”
Malcolm looked up at the ceiling as his brother tugged on his offending neckwear.
“And how deep is your affection, precisely?” Malcolmhadto ask it.
He was going to Hell. That was a certainty.
He would burn in Perdition for allowing this deception to carry on so long.
“My affections?” Ethan gave a soft laugh. “I’m asking ye for a metaphor about love. Doesn’t that say it all?”
Oof.A horse kick to the solar plexus would have winded Malcolm less.
“Are ye sure ye love Miss Brodure, Ethan?” he asked. “Or is this more a case of being in love with the idea of love?”
“In love with love?” Ethan snorted. “As if I’m too naive to understand my own mind? Give me a wee bit more credit than that.”
Bloody hell. Guilt rode Malcolm hard.
Spurred on by self-reproach, he searched his mind. What was it he had said to Viola weeks ago about taking risks?
“Well, in that case, why not something about how living without her love would be a death, that actual death isnae how we die most or some such,” Malcolm offered.
“Mmmm.” Ethan stepped back, surveying the neckcloth.
Malcolm waited, not sure if his brother’s frown was for Malcolm’s metaphor suggestion or his clothing.
“Though I appreciate the sentiment,” Ethan turned back to his papers, “I fear that’s a wee bit morbid for Miss Brodure. I need something more refined.”
Malcolm surveyed his cravat in the mirror. If he required proof of the difference between his lot in life and Ethan’s, Malcolm needed to look no further than his reflection at present—his wee brother had tied the neckcloth with effortless precision.
Malcolm reached for his coat.
“The problem as I see it,” Ethan continued, “is that I have been too hesitant with Miss Brodure, and therefore, I fear she does not understand the depth of my regard. She is naturally timid and reserved, and so I have moderated my passions to suit her temperament. But no more. I have determined to be bolder, starting this evening.”
Malcolm froze, one arm in his coat sleeve.
Timid and reserved?Viola?!
Oh, for the love of—
“Miss Brodure isshy, Ethan. That isnae the same thing as being timid. And as with most shy people, I presume she becomes more open the more ye get to know her.”
Which begged the question: in all his time spent with Viola, why hadn’t Ethan come to know her better?
“Shy?!” Ethan’s head reared back, nose scrunching up as if the very notion was absurd.
And then slowly, like pale dawn washing the horizon, understanding flowed in.
