Or perhaps the ringing in Malcolm’s own ears had turned the world silent.
Miss Brodure darted a glance in their direction, looking first at Leah and Fox before moving on to Malcolm.
Their gazes tangled for the briefest of moments.
The force of her eyes, wide and cobalt blue, punched the air from his lungs. Then, just as she had with Lord and Lady Hadley, she flushed and demurely lowered her head, fingers twisting her reticule strings into knots.
Dr. Ruxton made introductions. Malcolm, Leah, Fox, and the children bobbed their heads in murmured greetings.
Miss Brodure did the same, but her eyes remained fixed on the ground. She seemed utterly different from the engaging woman Malcolm had met along that foggy road.
He frowned.
Where was the charming lady who had laughed in delight over Coolius Caesar and William Shakespurr? The one who had petted Beowoof with such happy abandon? Where was the revolutionary who had possibly writtenA Hard Truth? Though given Miss Brodure’s hesitant behavior, perhaps Malcolm was mistaken in that.
Frown deepening, Malcolm stepped aside, following Leah and Fox.
Ethan took their place before Miss Brodure.
The assembled villagers canted forward, eager to witness the celebrated Scottish poet greet the famous English novelist.
“Miss Brodure.” Ethan offered her his most charming smile. The one that Malcolm had dubbedThe Swooner. The one that had caused many an unsuspecting lass to buckle on the spot; Malcolm had witnessed it.
“Mr. Penn-Leith,” Miss Brodure replied. Her low cultured voice barely carried to Malcolm’s ears.
She raised her head and met Ethan’s gaze briefly, before blushing and looking down at her folded hands nested like a pair of doves at her waist.
They made a striking couple—Ethan with his wind-swept, Highland gallantry and Miss Brodure in her refined, ladylike reserve.
Malcolm was sure this moment would be retold over hearth fires for years to come. Without a doubt, he would read about it in some magazine—‘The Highland Poet Meets Miss Brodure’—printed alongside a lithograph of Ethan in kilt and cap, bowing extravagantly over Miss Brodure’s hand, just as he was at present.
“Miss Brodure, permit me tae say,” Ethan lifted his head, “how ardently I admire your writing. Ye grace our kirkyard with your presence.”
A sigh ran through the crowd.
“How romantic,” a female voice murmured somewhere near the entrance gate.
Miss Brodure clearly heard the woman, as her blush deepened, eyes remaining downcast. “Mr. Penn-Leith, you are too kind.”
Miss Brodure curtsied, still not raising her head fully to look at Ethan, as if she were . . .shy.
Malcolm nearly grunted in surprise.
WasMiss Brodure shy?
She certainly hadn’t seemed shy during their conversation on the lane. But given the number of people waiting to speak with her, he supposed it would be natural to feel overwhelmed. After all, she was such a wee wisp of a woman—the top of her head didn’t quite reach his shoulders—the gathered crowd likely felt akin to a colossus looming over her.
And yet . . . the thought of Miss Brodure being shy was an ill-fitting shoe, rubbing and chafing the inside of his chest.
Viola forced herselfto take in a deep, slow breath.
Her lungs resisted, hardening and tightening in her ribcage.
Ethan Penn-Leith continued to grin at her, his wide smile nearly bludgeoning in its force.
Mmmm, the broadsheets certainly had not exaggerated the magnetism of his person.Lord Byron reborn, she remembered a newspaper article declaring.
Ethan was rather alarmingly handsome, with a roguish lock tumbling across his brow and framing a pair of startling green eyes.
