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“I am so very sorry,” Miss Kinsey said softly, her liveliness quite gone as she wrapped a hand around Verity’s shoulder.

“I should have considered how this would affect you. I was so eager to protect you from Mr. Cole’s wiles, I quite forgot to protect you from the pain of the truth.

And you, being such a trusting friend, would feel this deeply.

I should have been more careful in my discourse, easing you toward the facts.

It was remiss of me. I have been callous. I am so sorry.”

A bloom of memory filled Verity’s mind. A different apology, equally heartfelt.

At the Macraes’ ball, Mr. Cole had humbled himself in this way, admitting mistakes of the past and the hurt they had caused.

His gift, he had assured her, had been sincerely meant, his intentions honorable, his manner of going about it regrettable.

Would he not feel the same about his behavior toward Lady Howell? Had he not grown since then?

Verity was completely torn. She wanted so much to believe in him, and she had seen plenty to give her hope.

But knowing that he had been capable of such subterfuge and plotting…

Could she ever trust a man like that completely?

Perhaps Miss Kinsey was right. It was well they had only been friends.

She was better off with an unassuming man like Dr. Westbridge.

A man who might not set her pulse racing but who also would not let her down.

As if the heavens approved her thoughts, Dr. Westbridge called across to them. “I have found a treasure trove of them! Come and see!”

He was so excited with his innocent discovery. It seemed to Verity that Dr. Westbridge showed far more enthusiasm in this moment than he ever had toward her as a woman. She sighed. Would this always be his way? And could that be enough?

If only she might live alone and not be a burden on her family, she would not have to make such thankless choices about men.

She stood up, Miss Kinsey’s hand slipping from her shoulder. “Are you all right?” Miss Kinsey asked. “I could occupy him while you find your equilibrium.”

“I am fine,” Verity lied. “Come, let us not waste the rest of the afternoon.” She smiled thinly, then proceeded toward the lake once more. A man’s voice behind her made her turn briefly to see the footman presenting Miss Kinsey’s wrap to her, then, upon her approval, placing it about her shoulders.

At the water’s edge, Dr. Westbridge joyfully showed his wondrous find.

Verity marveled at the clumps of yellow rice grains that were, in fact, tansy eggs, clinging to the underside of a broad leaf.

She had seen them before at her pond, and there was something calming about their familiarity.

Nature was predictable, reliable. Unlike men.

A further search produced a warbler nest filled with pale-blue, speckled eggs, and an angry parent nearby, trilling a warning.

Meanwhile, Miss Kinsey—who had kept herself somewhat apart, in a likely effort to promote intimacy between Verity and the doctor—had finished braiding her floral wreaths.

She now handed them to Dr. Westbridge. “Will you do the honors, sir?” She dipped her head for him to place the circlet over it.

Dr. Westbridge obliged, then readied the next for Verity, who lowered herself into a curtsey.

As he lifted his arms to deliver the wreath, Verity looked up and found herself staring right into his eyes.

He gave a genial smile. His gaze did not flame with desire, nor did he allow his hand to slip and touch her cheek.

But after the daisy chain was settled around her neck, he reached forward delicately and said, “If you’ll permit,” before removing a wayward strand of hair from her eyes.

The movement was neither brisk and businesslike nor slow and sensual.

It was kind, considerate… and had no effect on Verity whatsoever.

What is wrong with me? Verity had felt nothing at his touch.

Nor had she sensed any feeling emanating from him .

If any such emotion existed, he had exercised great restraint not to show it.

But Verity did not want restraint. She wanted his closeness to quicken his heart and hers.

Yet he stirred no tingling in her flesh.

Just a pleasant feeling of safety, as with one’s father or brother.

Oh, just wonderful! Dr. Westbridge feels like a brother! She wanted to bury her face in her hands.

Even if he was exercising admirable self-control, she had no inclination to do so. Verity was ready to be awoken in love. She wanted to be swept off her feet. But the steady gaze and direct touch of the good doctor had left her feeling… unmoved.

What did it matter if they shared the same passion in science if they did not share it more, well, carnally ? She had feelings like that for Mr. Cole by the bucketload! But he , by Miss Kinsey’s account, was not safe.

Bother men! Bother, bother, bother! She wanted neither brother nor cad. At this rate, she was better off on her own. Her mother might be keen to see her married, but Munro’s male population was sorely disappointing.

“Thank you,” she said to Dr. Westbridge as a courtesy without substance, just as his touch had felt functional and empty.

She caught Miss Kinsey’s eye and received a surreptitious wink, which she promptly ignored.

She was tired of games. Everyone thought they knew what she needed, pushing her toward matches that they believed right for her.

Her mother, her sister, Miss Kinsey, even the trio of Cole siblings.

Mr. Cole.

He was either an incredibly talented liar or a misguided fool who had learned his lesson. She could not remain friends with a dishonest man. But a fool she could forgive. A once-selfish boy who was finally becoming a man could earn her respect.

Then again, was friendship enough? Maybe it would be a mercy to despise him. She would finally be able to let him go.

“Sandwiches, anyone?” Miss Kinsey inquired.

She looped her arm through Verity’s and the other through Dr. Westbridge’s.

He did not protest. He did not withdraw his arm.

The man was completely indifferent as to who should lean upon him.

It mattered not. Nor did Verity want his arm.

The chance to brush his hand or breathe in his manly scent did not entice her.

All she cared about now was to confront William Cole.

To love him or loathe him as the truth would dictate.

But how? When?

The picnic! Mrs. Trenton would be there and her brother was staying with her.

He would most likely attend with their family.

With so many people there, it would be easy to speak to him unaccompanied while still in public, where all could see them without hearing their words.

Yes, that was it. She had a plan. The wait felt more bearable with a plan.

Today, she would nibble on crustless sandwiches and talk about tansy beetles. They would paint and revel in the freedom of the outdoors. She would have uninspired conversation with Dr. Westbridge and one-sided interactions with Miss Kinsey.

But next week, there would be a reckoning with William Cole.

If he was not the man she thought he was, they were done.

It would be a disappointment and a relief.

Still, he might have answers she could understand, points of view she had not considered.

They could remain friends. Excellent friends. Only friends.

It did not seem to Verity that either outcome was preferable. But she could not look him in the eye again without knowing who he really was.

Perhaps, if he was brave enough to share the truth of his past, and it did not repulse her, she would be bold enough to share her hopes for the future.

That she loved him. That she wanted so much for him to be worthy of such feeling.

That the thought of losing him—to war, to another woman, to a reputation she could not respect—cut her to the quick.

Next week, she would know. Would she be encouraging William Cole, whose passion may have driven him to great foolishness, or Dr. Westbridge, whose passion had yet to reveal itself?

From deep within, a voice she had forgotten, a whisper she had ignored here in the strangeness of the city of Munro, spoke to her in a moment of clarity. “First,” it said, with a love she should not have discarded, “you must choose yourself.”