Malcolm let it drop. His stupidly infatuated heart unhelpfully pointed out that Viola Brodurewasrather close to perfection.
“I’m fair on my way tae falling for her, I ken,” Ethan continued, reaching for the gravy.
He spoke the words with his typical bonhomie, much as one would declare,This meal has been delightful, orYe should pop by on a Tuesday.
“What do ye like about her?” Malcolm had to ask, wondering if his brother saw the same strength and joy in her that Malcolm did.
The question pulled Ethan up short. As if he hadn’t pinpointed what, precisely, he liked about the lady.
“Miss Brodure is . . . decidedly lovely,” he said after a hesitation. “And she has the most beautiful . . . manners.”
“Very gracious,” Leah agreed.
“Aye,” Ethan nodded, warming to the topic. “She has this delightful way of cocking her head and looking inquisitive as she listens. She isn’t one of those women who revels in the sound of her own voice.”
That’s it?Malcolm felt like asking.That is why you’re fair on your way tae falling for her?
“Did she discuss her writing?” he asked instead.
Ethan frowned. “No . . . we never quite got around tae it. She asked how I write my poems, and I told her about that boat trip from Montrose to Arbroath last year.”
“The one with the aggressive seal that ye shouldnae have pestered?” Malcolm squinted his eyes at his brother.
“Och, I didn’t pester the creature.” Ethan paused under the weight of Malcolm’s stare. “Or if I did, it makes for a good story. Very inspiring. Miss Brodure even laughed in a place or two.”
Malcolm gritted his teeth, reading between the lines to what Ethan hadn’t conveyed. His brother had barreled into the Brodure’s parlor and prattled on about himself instead of endeavoring to know the lady.
Miss Brodure deserved songs of praise or bouquets of flowers or—
“Ye should write Miss Brodure a sonnet, telling her what ye like about her,” Malcolm said.
A brief silence ensued as Ethan pondered this, chewing his roast beef slowly.
“Aye,” his brother said after swallowing, expression a trifle glum. “I suppose Ishouldwrite a sonnet about her.”
“Why the dour face then?” Malcolm grunted in reply. “Surely, Miss Brodure rouses your poetic faculties.”
“Will she pull ye from your writing doldrums, do ye ken?” Leah asked, sopping up gravy with her Yorkshire pudding.
“Possibly. It’s hard to say at the moment.” Ethan tossed his fork down, shrugging. “I just wish I could dredge more concrete ideas from my brain.”
“They will come,” Leah said softly.
“Perhaps.” Ethan loosed a self-deprecating laugh. “Though I suppose I should simply recognize that it’s generally more enjoyable tae bask in the fame of being hailed a celebrated poet than tae actually do the work required tobeone.”
Malcolm felt his eyebrows fly nearly to his hairline.
That was likely the most self-aware statement his brother had ever uttered.
Leah chuckled as she patted Ethan’s hand. “Ye are far too hard on yourself. Ye were born for greatness, but like everything one aspires to, it must be reached one slow step at a time. Now, how can I help your suit with Miss Brodure?”
Ethan brightened. “We had mentioned the possibility of organizing a picnic in the folly along the Rocks of Solitude. Would ye be willing tae take that in hand, Leah?”
“Of course. Leave it with me. I will plan a lovely afternoon out.” Leah sat back in her chair, nursing her wine glass. “We can invite the usual array of characters, as well as Dr. and Miss Brodure.” She turned to Malcolm, motioning with her glass. “And you, brother. I should like tae see ye there, too.”
Malcolm chewed his roast beef, already manufacturing ways to bow out of attending, no matter Leah’s—
“Quit your plotting, Malcolm. I can practically hear ye thinking.” She pointed a finger at him. “You’ll be coming tae the folly picnic, too. Ye need tae get out in society more. I’ll hear no arguing.”
