The abrupt change in topic had Malcolm scrambling. “Pardon?”
“The fog,” she clarified. “How can it be windy and foggy at the same time? I find it most puzzling.”
Oh.Thathe could answer.
He surveyed the humid mist. “The fog is calledhaar, and it blows in off the North Sea in early summer, though it usually doesnae reach this far inlan—”
The sound of an approaching carriage stopped him short.
“That must be my father.” Miss Brodure turned toward the noise, giving him one last chance to stare at her unashamedly.
She was lovely. Enchanting. A vivid sunrise over a glassy sea.
But two facts Malcolm understood clearly.
One, Miss Brodure obviously held some affection for his brother. She had written to Ethan. Her journey to Fettermill had a purpose.
Two, knowing his brother as Malcolm did, Ethan was going to adore her. She was too lovely, too vibrant, too eloquently charming not to love.
Viola Brodure and Ethan Penn-Leith were destined for one another.
And that was . . .
That was . . .
. . . precisely what Malcolm wanted.
Yes.
Yes, that was it.
Miss Brodure would be perfect for Ethan.
Malcolm had treasured his slice of heaven with Aileen. Ethan deserved to have the same. His brother needed to settle down, marry, and anchor his life so that the whims of fame and popularity didn’t set him utterly adrift.
Surely, as Malcolm watched Ethan charm and woo Miss Brodure, his initial attraction to the lady would fade into something more appropriately sibling-like.
Because any other path . . .
Well, any other path was simply unthinkable.
4
How fares your asthma, daughter?”
At her father’s question, Viola looked up from her writing. She took in a deep breath, testing her lungs.
“’Tis fine, Papa. Why do you ask?”
Viola and her father sat before the fire in the parlor of the country cottage they had let for the summer. The house was small compared to their vicarage in Westacre, but Viola already adored its coziness, the sense of home.
The parlor itself exuded Scottish charm: from the stag horns mounted over the door, to the russet and blue tartan of the drapes framing the bow window, to the sofa and pair of wingback chairs before the fire. And even though daylight hours lingered this far north, she appreciated the cheerful fire in the grate taking the chill from the air.
Viola sat curled into one of the wingback chairs, a notebook and pencil in her hand. Across from her, Dr. Brodure rested in the matching chair, hunched over his traveling lap desk, attending to his correspondence.
“I am writing a letter to Kendall and wished to inform him of your health.” Her father pushed his wired spectacles up his nose, dipping his quill in the small inkwell inlaid along the edge of the lap desk. “His Grace, of course, will also want to know how your work on his short story progresses.”
Of course, he will, Viola suppressed a sigh. She had yet to write a word of the dreaded tale.
