He had experienced—and lost—his one great love.
There would be no other woman for him.
Viola Brodure was meant for Ethan.
The sooner they met, fell in love, and began their happily ever after—leaving Malcolm to his habitual, solitary existence —the better.
“I find thisentire situation alarming,” Ethan said the next day, tossing a letter down on the table beside his chair. “I’m fearful of setting foot outside the house. The village nosynebbieshave been terrifyingly persistent.”
Ethan relaxed into Malcolm’s favorite wingback chair before the fire in the front parlor of Thistle Muir, reading a bundle of correspondence from his publisher.
Malcolm sat at the desk beside one of the large windows, petting William Shakespurr on his lap with one hand while reviewing plans for his cattle herd and drafting a letter to his business partner, Sir Rafe Gordon, with the other.
Unlike typical Scottish farmhouses, Thistle Muir was an elegant, modern dwelling with symmetrical windows, a wee triangle pediment over the front door, and generous panes of glass that let in cheery, warm sunlight. The large sash windows overlooked a graveled drive to the front and a courtyard ringed with the dairy and wash house in the back.
Their father had built the house for their wealthy, aristocratic mother—a home worthy of the fine lady she had been.
Not that either brother could summon a single memory of her. She had died shortly after giving birth to Ethan, when Malcolm had been scarcely three years old himself. Both brothers had only heard stories of her from their much older sister, Leah, who had raised them.
Ethan slumped further in his chair. “I wouldn’t put it past Mrs. Buchan tae force me into a compromising position with Miss Brodure just so she could set up a stall on market day and charge her neighbors a tuppence tae hear the tale. And now I’ve received this—” He tapped a finger on the letter he had just set down. “—a letter from His Grace, the Duke of Kendall.”
Frowning, Malcolm set his pen in the inkwell perched on the desk. “Ye correspond with the Duke of Kendall? Truly, Ethan, ye do nothing by halves, do ye?”
William Shakespurr butted Malcolm’s free hand, demanding another stroke. Malcolm obliged. White and impossibly fluffy, the cat was a bit of aprima donna, not unlike his namesake. His sire, Mr. Dandylion McFluffles, lived with Leah and her husband, Fox, and was every whit as tyrannical.
“That’s just it, Malcolm,” Ethan said. “I believe His Grace and I were introduced at Mrs. Armand’s evening soiree earlier in the year, but we didn’t speak more than five words to one another. We are scarcely acquainted.”
“So why is he writing ye?”
Ethan rolled his eyes and picked up the letter. “His Grace says, ‘It would please me greatly to hear that you are courting Miss Viola Brodure in earnest.’”
“Pardon?” Malcolm’s eyebrows lifted. “Why in heaven’s name should the Duke of Kendall care who ye court?”
“How the hell should I know.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows inched higher. He glanced down at his own correspondence. “How odd that ye mention Kendall. I am currently writing Sir Rafe Gordon to arrange a visit next week.”
“Ah. I had forgotten that Sir Rafe is assisting ye with your coos. I cannot imagine he has any hand in Kendall’s meddling.” Ethan set the duke’s letter down. “They may be half-brothers, but I have never heard tell of Kendall or Sir Rafe spending time in one another’s company.”
“Aye, but after the old duke’s death last year, perhaps young Kendall has decided to step out of his father’s shadow? Mend family fences?”
The scandal surrounding the previous Duke of Kendall had become the stuff of legend. Even nearly twenty-five years on, people still spoke of it in hushed tones. How the prior duke had been a bigamist, resulting in Sir Rafe’s illegitimacy. Desperate for a legitimate heir, the old duke had remarried a young Italian noblewoman, legally this time, and sired twins—Kendall and his sister—not even a year later.
“Having met both the elder and younger duke, I must disagree with ye,” Ethan said. “The present duke appears tae be cast from the same mold as his father.”
“Och, the letter in your hand would disabuse that notion. Seems a wee bit romantic for an overbearing duke.” William Shakespurr seemed to agree, as he meowed and hopped down from Malcolm’s lap.
“Or perhaps it is the behavior of an aristocrat who believes he can force the entire world to obey his every whim. Though why Kendall should care about Miss Viola Brodure, I cannot say.”
Malcolm shrugged in agreement.
“As I keep saying, just because I’m a poet and Miss Brodure is an authoress, it doesn’t follow that we will be suited,” Ethan continued, running a hand through his brown hair. “I will not be thrust into a relationship simply because somebampotduke and the village gossips think it a romantic idea. No matter that the lady has journeyed the entire length of Britain to meet me, despite the tale that they are merely on holiday to visit the Ruxtons.”
Malcolm tugged at his beard, pivoting back to his desk and the letter to Sir Rafe. He declined to state the obvious to his brother. That anyone who had met both Ethan and Miss Brodure correctly assumed that they were, in fact, perfectly suited.
His brother would realize this soon enough.
After a moment, Ethan said from behind, “I am half tempted to write Kendall and tell himhemay have Miss Brodure, if he is so enamored of the lady.”
