He loved her.
There would never be another lass but her.
Kendall snorted again at Malcolm’s side.
“And to think,” the duke said softly, “I was accused of enacting a Drury Lane farce earlier.” The man laughed. “I can assure you, tonight has beendecidedlymore melodramatic.”
Malcolm stood by the fountain long after Kendall wandered back into the dining room.
Hating that the duke, despite everything, had described the evening with unerring accuracy.
20
Viola woke the next morning to her maid, Mary, opening the shutters of the cottage bedroom, spilling cheery sunshine across the counterpane. Birds chirped merrily outside the window.
It was all so perfectly bucolic and joyful that it made Viola want to smash things.
Mary set a jug of hot water on the washstand and bent to stir the fire.
On a sigh, Viola sat up in bed, pushing her thick braid off her shoulder.
The day before surfaced from her memory, jagged shards of arctic ice threatening to slice her. Kendall’s promised threats, and her father’s devastated hurt. Ethan’s earnest declarations, and Malcolm’s frozen indecision.
The sting of Malcolm’s hesitation along the lane was the cut that lingered, particularly when contrasted with the initial concern he had shown during her asthma attack at dinner. But once Ethan and Hadley had her well in hand, Malcolm had faded into the background.
As a weatherglass of his heart, the man’s actions were at best inconclusive.
And what was she to do now? Was their rupture a fatal wound? Or would a small bit of patience on her part give Malcolm time to come to his senses?
Yet . . . just pondering the thought . . .
She didn’t want a man who had to be cajoled into desiring her in return. If Malcolm wished to be back in her good graces, he would have to grovel.
Yes. That was it.
Stretching her arms over her head, she tried to hold on to her resolve. Truly she did.
But the thought of Malcolm Penn-Leith becoming a mere anecdotal chapter in her life, instead of the main plot line, left her feeling hollowed out and melancholy.
“Shall I fetch some tea, miss?” Mary bobbed a curtsy.
“Yes, please. Is there any shortbread to be had?”
“No shortbread, but Cook made a lovely almond cake. We got word last night that Isla Liston—she’s the wife of the overseer over at Thistle Muir—finally had her babe. A wee girl. Cook was up well past dark baking away her nerves—poor Isla is a dear friend of hers and nearly died giving birth—and Cook was desperate for news. But all is well today, the Good Lord be thanked.”
Thistle Muir.
The very name sent a lancing pain through Viola’s heart.
She nodded and asked for some of the cake to be sent up with her tea.
But the mention of Thistle Muir eventually led to thoughts of Ethan.
Oof.
A fraught conversation with the younger Penn-Leith loomed on her morning calendar. Perhaps she could simply rewrite her letter—omitting mention of Malcolm this time—and send it over with Mary.
Viola felt weary at the thought.
