“Isolde has two more years of study,” Lady Hadley was saying, “and I don’t know how I shall bear her continued absence.”
Malcolm knew that the village busybodies had raised their eyebrows at a woman attempting a university degree. But by all accounts, Lady Isolde had been determined, and the United States had one of the only universities in the world that would award a baccalaureate degree to a woman.
“It is difficult when they leave.” Lady Sophie nodded in agreement. “But just think of all the wonderful conversations we shall have when Isolde returns. Has she taken up mineralogy like yourself?”
“No,” Lady Hadley sounded appalled. “She prefers mechanics and physics, which truly, astounds me . . .” Their voices drifted away.
Malcolm pivoted at the fireplace, glancing toward the open door to the entrance hall.
No Viola.
He paced toward the bow window overlooking the back garden.
Sir Rafe had sidled up to Kendall.
It was striking to see Kendall and Sir Rafe side by side. Any onlooker would assume them to be brothers, or even father and son.
They were nearly of a height—tall and lean—with similarly dark eyes and hair equally gray, though Sir Rafe’s gray was more commensurate with his age.
Murmured words passed between them. Shamelessly, Malcolm edged closer to hear.
“ . . . why are ye truly here, Your Grace?” Sir Rafe was saying, giving his younger half-brother a rather guarded look.
“Why am I here?” A tight smile touched Kendall’s lips. “Believe it or not, I find this corner of Scotland somewhat diverting. The ongoing drama involving Ethan Penn-Leith and Viola Brodure amuses me. It has all the hallmarks of London’s finest melodramas. I should hate to miss the final act.”
“With all due respect,” Sir Rafe snorted, “I highly doubt ye are a closet romantic, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps I have a bit of a vested interest in the outcome of this whole affair.”
Sir Rafe eyed the younger man. “Pulling strings?”
“Something of the like.”
“Och, spoken like a true Duke of Kendall.” The scathing bite to Sir Rafe’s words left little doubt as to his opinion.
“And how would you know that?” Kendall’s tone matched Sir Rafe’s.
“More than a welp like yourself could ever understand.”
“Pardon?” Kendall turned to look at his brother full on.
Malcolm pretended interest in a painting of—he glanced up—a hunting dog with a brace of pheasants, it appeared.
Sir Rafe didn’t back down. “Ye be scarcely what? Twenty-three? I lived a lifetime under the cruel tyranny of our bastard of a sire. I thank God that man is now dead. He no longer plays the puppet-master. You’re free. Why prolong his legacy?”
Kendall’s brows drew down, his mouth opening as if to reply, but then stopped, eyes swinging toward the open door.
Malcolm followed his gaze.
Viola stood in the doorway, scanning the room.
She looked stunning in a pale pink silk gown that nipped in her tiny waist and slipped off her slim shoulders and glimmered in the candlelight.
But even from across the room, Malcolm could tell that she appeared a wee bitpeely-wally. High color flooded her cheeks, and her shoulders sagged as if carrying a weight. He wanted to go to her, to settle her slight hand on his arm.
But she did not look his way.
And Ethan, of course, raced across the room to her side, escorting her to greet Lord and Lady Hadley.
