Page 43 of Mail-Order Viscountess

“Is there?” Thomas met his brother’s gaze. “Because from where Kate’s standing, it probably looks the same.”

Another group of people telling her what’s best. Another situation where her choices have been taken away.

“Then give her a choice.” James’s quiet words carried across the room. “A real one.”

James was right. Kate deserved the choice. But giving her that choice—actually asking her to marry him—meant he’d have to be willing to set aside his own dreams.

He stared at the grain of the wooden table, tracing the knots with his eyes while his mind churned. California had been his escape plan for months now—the promise of something that was entirely his, untainted by family expectations or the weight of a title he hadn’t earned.

But the image that rose in his mind wasn’t golden hills or a herd of horses grazing free on open range. It was Kate’s face in the firelight, the way she’d looked at him when he told her about Charles. The way she’d called him brave when he’d felt like anything but.

He had to do the right thing for her. The honorable thing.

“What are you thinking, little brother?” James leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “When you go quiet like this, it’s usually a sign you’re about to do something either foolhardy or heroic.”

He sent a glare James’s way. That was another rub in this whole situation. If he married Kate—did the noble deed—his brothers would get what they’d wanted to begin with. What they’d lied and schemed to accomplish.

He slouched back in his chair and blew out a hard breath.

This was about Kate, not his brothers. Not even really about him, unless he wanted to be a selfish pig.

He’d talk to her in the morning. Give her a full proposal so she’d know he was all in. Let her decide from there.

He scanned the gazes around the table once more—Enoch’s steady patience, James’s concerned intensity, Robert’s quiet calculation, Mrs. Wang’s sharp assessment. Even Mandie and Rose watched him with that feminine intuition that said they’d already guessed which way this would fall.

“Well.” He pushed his chair back and stood, ignoring the protest from his ribs. “This has been a delightful evening of everyone staring at me like I’m a horse they might purchase. But I think I’ll retire before you start checking my teeth.”

“Thomas—” Enoch started.

“I’ll tell you in the morning.” He kept his tone light despite the weight pressing on his chest. “After I’ve had a chance to sleep on something that isn’t frozen stone and think about more than how to keep from dying in a blizzard.”

Mrs. Wang’s eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You think sleeping make choice easier?”

“No. But it’ll make me less likely to say something I’ll regret.” He offered her a slight bow—the kind that always made her swat at him. “Good night, all. Try not to plan my entire life while I’m gone.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and headed for the stairs as their eyes tracked him across the room. He kept his head high, showing every ounce of the fortitude his brothers assumed he lacked.

CHAPTER 15

Something about the light was all wrong. Kate squinted at the unfamiliar ceiling as she struggled to clear her sleep-fogged mind. Like a wave crashing on rocks, the memories surged in.

Montana. The Balfour ranch. The cave. Thomas.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, then let it out. Today was a new day. With a good night’s rest, she could face it all with more strength than she had before.

She turned her head on the pillow. Clara slept beside her, honey-blonde hair spilling from her braid across the white pillowcase, her breathing deep and even. The worry lines that had etched themselves around her sister’s mouth yesterday smoothed away in sleep, leaving her looking younger than her nineteen years.

Kate eased herself upright, doing her best not to disturb the bed. Morning light streamed through the window—brilliant and clean, the kind of light that came after storms had scrubbed the world raw. The mountains beyond the glass stood sharp against a sky so blue it almost hurt to look at.

Everything deceptively perfect. As though yesterday hadn’t happened at all.

Except it had. And Edmund Hartwell’s words still echoed in her mind with the clarity of a death knell: Reputation is the only currency that matters out here. Once lost, it cannot be recovered.

The seamstress business that had come together so easily that she’d dared to cling to real hope for the first time—gone. The future she’d planned—shattered. The independence she’d fought so hard to claim—stripped away by circumstances and one person’s rigid judgment. The same way her stepmother had judged her common and worthless all those years ago.

She pressed her fingers against her eyes, willing back the pressure building behind them. Crying wouldn’t change anything. It never had.

As she stood, the floorboards held the morning chill beneath her stockinged feet. She’d slept in her chemise and petticoat, too exhausted to change into anything clean. Now the wrinkled fabric clung to her skin, a reminder of how far she’d fallen from the careful standards she’d maintained her whole life.