What did that idea say about Malcolm Penn-Leith? Was his silence an action, in the end? Or merely a void of unsaid thoughts?
And at this point, did the distinction matter?
Malcolm’s hesitation had made his feelings clear. And staring at the man would solve nothing.
Viola jerked her head away from him.
Unfortunately, the movement merely forced her eyes to Kendall.
The smug aristocrat merely tipped his wine glass in her direction, a sardonicI-find-this-entire-situation-vastly-amusinglift to his lips.
Oof!
Speaking of actions revealing the intent of one’s heart . . .
Must Kendallbesuch an ass?
Perhaps someone needed to tell him that other behavioral selections were available. That he didn’t have to wake every morning andchooseass-ishness.
Ethan shifted beside her, his breath tickling her ear. “You look beautiful this evening. I daresay the very angels in heaven are brought to shame by your presence.”
“I am hardly as perfect as an angel of God,” Viola whispered in return. “I should not like to be the cause of such blasphemy.”
He leaned closer. “Adoring you could never be considered blasphemous—”
“I say, Sir Rafe, aren’t they simply the bonniest of couples.” Mrs. Ruxton called down to the foot of the table.
Ah. Ten times.They had progressed to double-digits it seemed.
“Most certainly, Mrs. Ruxton.” Sir Rafe lifted his wine glass in a salute.
Ethan beamed. Viola bit her lip.
And still, she could feel the press of Malcolm’s gaze on her.
It seemed the farther the day took her from their fraught, brief exchange, the greater it loomed in her head, until it had ballooned to mountainous proportions and Viola could see nothing beyond it.
Footmen cleared the cheese course and brought in frosted glasses of strawberry dessert ice on silver trays. Just as the last glass of ice was placed before guests, Ethan unexpectedly rose, lifting his wine goblet with him.
All eyes turned his way.
He stood confident and tall, his glass in one hand, the other hand folded behind his back. Unlike his brother, Ethan hadnotforegone his kilt for the evening. He looked every inch the Highland Poet—his wry grin charming and roguish, hair tousled as if he had just raced in off the moor.
The Viola Brodure she had been three months ago would have swooned at the sight.
Now, Ethan Penn-Leith in all his glory—clearly intent on sayingSomething Important—merely filled her with anxious worry.
“Your Grace. My lord. My lady.” He nodded toward Kendall and Lord and Lady Hadley. “Esteemed guests.” He gave Viola a triumphant smile. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He swept his glass to indicate Sir Rafe, Lady Sophie, and the rest of the room. “Please forgive my interruption.” Ethan’s unrepentant expression made clear that no one ever categorized his desire to speak as an ‘interruption.’ “But I can sit in silence no longer. We have all been the fortunate recipients of Miss Brodure’s company over these past seven weeks. I believe I speak for us all when I say that I have never met such a gracious, kind lady.”
“Hear, hear!” Sir Rafe encouraged.
Kendall shot his half-brother a repressive look. Sir Rafe grinned in reply.
Viola spared a glance for Ethan. What was he leading up to?
“Thank ye.” Ethan lifted his glass in Sir Rafe’s direction. “I have been pondering as of late the truths of life, particularly those pertaining to love.”
Thatgot a lively laugh from the room.
