Over the past hour, the dread in Viola’s stomach had grown fangs and wings and claws and was now well on its way to becoming a fully-fledged monster.
Stepping from Kendall’s carriage, she looked through the large bow window of Thistle Muir to see Malcolm, Ethan, Lord Hadley, and Sir Rafe inside.
The beast in her stomach twisted and roiled.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave . . .
As Dr. Ruxton had related the whole sorry tale to her father and Kendall, Viola had sat in shock, her tongue cemented to the roof of her mouth.
After all, how could she defend herself?
She should have told Ethan when she had the chance. She and Malcolm should have been more open with their courtship.
And now, what was she to do? Her actions had compromised her virtue.
Malcolm had hesitated the day before when faced with the prospect of truly committing to her, to them, to a life together.
But she knew him—honorable, good,stoicMalcolm—would immediately offer for her today.
Ethan, too, most likely.
Viola refused to trap either man, or herself, in a marriagenotof their own choosing.
It was a wonder she could breathe through her nerves. Or, perhaps, it was as she thought earlier—she was beyond nerves. Despite the emotional tumult, her breath and limbs floated in a sort of surreal numbness.
She followed her father and Kendall into Thistle Muir.
Naturally, Ethan rushed to her side the moment she stepped from the small entryway into the parlor.
“My dear Miss Brodure,” he said, clasping both her gloved hands in his and looking at her with his earnest green eyes. “I regret that the news today has accelerated that happy event which we had both perhaps already anticipated.”
“Well-spoken, Mr. Penn-Leith,” her father looked on, his expression part relief, part parental concern.
After all, Papa knew that she did not wish to marry Ethan.
Without asking for her permission, her eyes drifted past Ethan’s shoulder to meet Malcolm’s gaze.
Oh.
He looked as weary and heart-sore as herself. Eyes haunted and lined with shadows. Hair askew and begging her fingers to set it to rights.
He had never looked quite so handsome.
Ethan frowned, following the direction of her eyes, pivoting to look at his brother.
“Ethan,” Malcolm rasped. Defeated. Apologetic. Weary.
Just two syllables of sound, and yet . . . somehow Malcolm layered them with a world of meaning—confession, contrition, remorse.
Ethan’s frown deepened.
Malcolm sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Ethan, ye ken it was myself who . . .” He paused and then continued on an exhale. “. . .carriedMiss Brodure into Thistle Muir that first week.”
Silence.
Very damning, ringing silence.
Lord Hadley and Sir Rafe both paused—Hadley folding his arms, Sir Rafe tilting his head—as they looked between herself and Malcolm.
