Surely she hadn’t raised Ethan’s expectations to that point. She had been so careful in her visits with him.
Kendall was simply attempting to tie her in mental knots.
That he was marginally succeeding only stoked the toxic mix ofangerfrustrationanxietyroiling under her sternum.
“B-but that is others’ behavior, others’ wishes, not m-mine,” she argued, hating how Kendall’s needling tangled her tongue. “I haven’t encouraged him.”
“Won’t you please be seated, Your Grace?” Dr. Brodure tried again, motioning toward the sofa opposite the bare hearth.
But Kendall was still pacing, jaw clenched. Were he a lesser man, he would likely be raking a hand through his silver hair in frustration.
Viola watched him, her fingers trembling more and more with each passing minute.
Heavens above! Why must so much of her life hang on this one aristocrat?
“I can only be so lenient, Miss Brodure,” Kendall finally said, turning hard eyes back to Viola. “My goals and aims remain the same. I cannot have you speaking in direct opposition to them. I cannot have a vicar tied to my estate,” he pointed at Dr. Brodure, “who is not in harmony with my own principles. Her Majesty certainly will not take kindly to a bishop who does not display those ideals, as well.”
The duke went back to his pacing, eyebrows bunching like a thundercloud.
Viola swallowed.
So.
Here it was.
The moment she had always feared would come.
And . . .
Yes, it felt as knife-in-the-gut awful as she had imagined it would. She wanted to double over from the pain and scream her rage and dismay.
“I have valued my relationship with you both.” Kendall paused in his pacing, his dark eyes glittering in the light. “Please do not force me to take actions against you, to see yourselves tossed out of house and home. I do not wish to be cruel, but you are rapidly leaving me with little other choice.”
Viola’s throat seized up; spots hovered in her vision and the room darkened at the edges.
Her father instantly noted her troubled breathing. Reaching out, he cupped her elbow.
“Viola and I are always at your service, Your Grace, as we have ever been.” Dr. Brodure led Viola to the sofa and helped her sit. “Please forgive us. My daughter’s asthma is often triggered by stressful conversation.”
“I will be f-fine, Papa—”
“Hush, child.”
“Please remove him,” she mouthed to her father, eyes flicking to Kendall.
She couldn’t endure another moment in the duke’s presence.
Her father nodded. “Stay here, child. I will speak with His Grace in my study. I’ll have the maid fetch some coffee for your throat. Your Grace?”
Her father left the room, Kendall at his heels.
Viola dug her fingernails into the velvet of the sofa, her eyes stinging and lungs laboring to breathe.
What was she to do now?
Kendall’s voice rose from the next room, her father’s a low murmur. Dr. Brodure would placate the duke. For better or worse, her father always knew the right thing to say to a Duke of Kendall.
The maid brought in some black coffee. Viola sipped the bitter brew, willing the tightness in her chest to ease.
