“Do ye have tae play a villain straight from a Drury Lane farce?” Malcolm couldn’t stem the bitter words.
Kendall leveled him with a dark stare. The duke might be young yet, but he had already perfected an imperious gaze.
“I don’t think my life is the one that has devolved into a Drury Lane farce.” He looked to Viola meaningfully before fixing his gaze on Malcolm once more. “What precisely is your aim here, Mr. Penn-Leith? To drag this high-born lady down to your lowly level?”
Viola gasped at the insult.
Och, this fiery lass.
Kendall could destroy all her dreams, but if the duke took a figurative swing at Malcolm, Viola lifted her fists to fight.
Malcolm held her fast, tension coiling in his chest.
Kendall wasn’t done. “Do you think to marry Miss Brodure?” His laugh was caustic and cruel. “What is she going to do? Become a farmer’s wife? Set down her writerly pen and help you tend to your preciouscoos?” he said the noun with a sneer. “Grow old before her time, worn down by life on a farm?”
The duke’s arrow flew so true, Malcolm barely avoided flinching.
No wonder Kendall’s ancestors had become dukes. The damn man noticed the slightest chink in Malcolm’s armor and instantly stabbed a rapier into it.
But knowing that did not erase the truth in Kendall’s words.
Viola, of course, took in a stuttering breath and breathed out bravery.
“The r-relationship between myself and Mr. Penn-Leith is n-none of your affair, Your Grace,” she said, voice trembling but strong.
“Then please, by all means, continue to make a public spectacle of yourselves.” Giving them one last scoffing look, Kendall tipped his hat. “I suggest you consider your path carefully before making a choice, Miss Brodure. Your present course is charted straight for destruction. One week. You have one week to provide me with a suitable short story.”
And with that, Kendall pivoted and walked back up the lane.
Malcolm turned and immediately pulled Viola into his arms. The poor woman was shaking, her breathing harsh and labored.
“Dinnaefashyourself, lass,” he murmured. “Kendall willnae win. We’ll find a solution for you, and surely your father will understand once ye explain everything to him.”
Viola pushed back slightly. He expected her expression to be devastated. Instead, she nearly vibrated with rage.
“My father? I am too angry to think about him at the moment. How d-dare Kendall?” she stammered. “How dare he threaten you!”
“Of course, he will threaten me, lass. I’m a mere speck of irritating sand underneath his foot.” Malcolm tried—and mostly failed—to keep the bitterness out of his tone. “Have ye considered that an association with myself may force ye tae put down your pen, if only tae let the outraged gossip settle?”
“And so? Of course I would set down my pen for a year or two if it meant being with you,” she said, as if the idea were patently obvious.
Malcolm barely stopped himself from scoffing. “Nothing should come between yourself and your pen, Viola. Your words are too precious, too vital, for ye to stop writing because of me. And then how would ye spend your days? Help me with my coos? Become aged before your time? Kendall wasnae wrong about those things.”
Viola recoiled, her arms sliding off his waist. “Why would you automatically assume there is no place for me in your life?”
“Because your fine talent should not be hidden away! Because ye are such a fine lady, Viola, and I am not so fine a gentleman that—”
“The Gloves. Come. Off.” She neatly enunciated each word. “Just because the social level of our families does not precisely align, it’s no excuse for us to push one another away.”
And yet, that was exactly what Malcolm had to do—pull back before his irrational fears utterly owned him.
“I will fight to be with you, Malcolm,” she continued, “just as I expect you to fight to be with me!”
And there it was.
The place where Malcolm’s courage stuttered.
His heart hammered in his chest, images flitting through his mind, a kaleidoscope of warning.
