Why, yes. She rather thought she did.
She crossed the room to her small desk and reached for her pen and notebook.
The London Tattler
February 14, 1844
Gentle Reader, we here atThe Tattlerhave one burning question: Will Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith and Miss Viola Brodure make a match of it?
Few can dispute the popularity and romanticism of Mr. Penn-Leith, our own Highland Poet. Why, just last month, he strolled down Bond Street in his customary great kilt, turning heads and causing several young ladies to swoon. Is it any wonder he is often compared to Lord Byron?
Similarly, all of London is well-acquainted with the popularity of Miss Brodure’s novels. Speculation continues regarding her latest book,Polly Pettifer, and its now infamous chapter eleven in which Miss Brodure, using Polly as her mouthpiece, proclaims the brilliance of Mr. Penn-Leith.
Now that Mr. Penn-Leith has returned home to Scotland to complete his second book of poetry, we wait with bated breath to see if he will reply to Miss Brodure’s overtures in a similarly literary fashion.
On this Valentine’s Day, when we celebrate love, we hold out hope that the two literary giants of our age will write a romantic tale of their own.
1
Hawthorn, principal seat of the Duke of Kendall
Wiltshire, England
March 1844
Viola had not anticipated that her marriage would be decided by committee.
Namely—
An autocratic duke.
An elderly baroness.
And her father.
All ruthlessly plotting Viola’s nuptials and writing career over thefishcourse, of all things.
“An August wedding, I should think,” Lady Whipple was saying from one end of the dining room table, leaning sideways as a footman slid a generous slice of trout in aspic onto her plate. “With her fair coloring, Miss Brodure should be a summer bride.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Dr. Brodure replied at Viola’s side. “Though September might be better for my Viola to wed Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith. There is much to accomplish between now and then.”
Her father shot her a quick smile. His gray hair stuck out in soft tufts above his ears, lending him an owlish appearance that tugged at her heart.
Viola attempted a weak smile in return. Her own face surely looked akin to a blacksmith’s forge—fiery red and scorching. Her heart certainly picked up the metaphor, hammering in her chest with punishing force.
Worse, her lungs threatened rebellion, her breathing tight. As usual, nerves and tension aggravated her asthma, and her current situation was the definition of nerve-wracking tension.
Taking in a shallow breath, Viola gathered her courage and steadied her shaking hands.
“If I m-may offer an opinion,” she said, attempting to control the wheezing warble in her voice, “I should prefer to actuallymeetmy prospective groom and, well . . . become acquainted, c-conduct a courtship, ascertain if we have affection for one another, and so forth . . .beforeplanning our n-nuptials.”
Her halting words dampened the enthusiasm in the room for approximately four seconds.
“September is an excellent month for a wedding,” the young Duke of Kendall intoned from the head of the table, swirling his wine glass and nodding toward his aunt, Lady Whipple. “Miss Brodure should marry Mr. Penn-Leith then.”
Though tall and imposing, His Grace had inherited his late father’s propensity to gray early in life. His salt-and-pepper hair more closely resembled a gentleman in his sixtieth year of life, not his twenty-third.
Viola found the contrast between the duke’s gray hair, dark eyes, and youthful face rather unnerving.
