Captain Carnegie thanked Viola and her father for attending.
Ethan gave her a warm smile and bowed lavishly over her hand.
His Grace merely nodded and then turned to stare off into the half distance, as if questioning his decision to travel into the wilds of Scotland, and thereby, forcing him into close quarters with lesser mortals.
It was all unbearably awkward.
As her father spoke with Ethan and Captain Carnegie—Kendall’s haughty silence a millstone around their conversation—Viola’s eyes drifted toward the other guests.
Lady Stewart chatted with Leah and Mrs. Ruxton.
Finally, Viola spotted Malcolm well behind the ladies, hovering at the edge of the crowd, listening to Sir Robert Stewart.
Malcolm seemed out of place in his pressed kilt and bushy beard. A raiding wolf amid a flock of fluttery geese.
Viola was sure he had only come today because his sister and brother-in-law were hosting the picnic and, therefore, his absence would have been conspicuously peculiar.
It felt odd to see Malcolm among the aristocracy.
When speaking with him privately, she never felt the social distance between them. They were equals in every way that mattered.
But here today . . .
She saw it clearly for the first time:
Malcolm Penn-Leith truly was not a member of her world.
He held himself apart, eyes wary, bowing stiffly when Mrs. Ruxton approached.
By contrast, when Viola turned back to Ethan, she noted how the younger Penn-Leith brother laughed and spoke easily with her father and Captain Carnegie. Ethan Penn-Leith’s impeccable manners had clearly been polished and honed against the blade of theton’s fascination with him.
Case in point, he even skillfully attempted to draw Kendall into conversation. Ethan’s friendliness seemed to remind Kendall that he needed to be civil if he wished the poet to go along with his aims. The duke tilted his head toward the poet.
“Malcolm!” Ethan eagerly called just as Kendall drew breath to speak.
His Grace winced, brow furrowing.
Ethan gazed beyond Viola’s shoulder, flashing his signature knee-weakening smile.
Viola turned to see Leah approaching with Malcolm at her side. He met Viola’s eyes for one fleeting moment, before shifting his eyes away.
“Come meet His Grace,” Ethan continued, waving his brother over. If he noticed or cared about the difference between his own refined deportment and his brother’s more uncertain bearing, it didn’t show. Viola liked Ethan all the more for it.
Malcolm’s expression, however, turned stoic, as if to mask his discomfort.
Viola’s heart panged in her chest.
“Your Grace,” Leah said politely, giving Ethan a quelling look, “I do not believe ye have had the opportunity tae make the acquaintance of my other brother, Mr. Malcolm Penn-Leith.”
“Your Grace.” Malcolm bowed. It was a credible bow, but even Viola noted that it lacked Ethan’s polished finesse.
Kendall surveyed Malcolm with a cool eye before nodding his head—the barest of acknowledgments.
Viola could practically see the gears turning in Kendall’s brain. Clearly, the duke disliked having to accept an acquaintance with a man of Malcolm’s lowly status. But he also needed Ethan to fall into line with his matrimonial plotting, and therefore, being impolite to the poet’s older brother seemed ill-advised.
A gleam lit in Malcolm’s eye, as if he, too, had reached the same conclusion.
“It’s a right pleasure tae have ye here, Your Grace. Did ye have a fine journey north?” Malcolm asked with uncharacteristic chattiness.
