The two men stared at one another, looking similar to a pair of bulls facing off.
“Yes. It was . . . tolerable,” His Grace said.
“Aye, ’tis lovely weather we’ve been having,” Ethan added.
Silence descended on their group, Kendall’s aloof presence chilling the words on Viola’s tongue.
Unlike his older brother and the duke, however, Ethan struggled to dwell in that silence.
“Malcolm has been developing a new breed of Highland cow, Your Grace,” Ethan offered. “Even Her Majesty has expressed an interest in them.”
“Indeed.” Kendall’s tone implied a vast sea of indifference when it came to cows. His gaze flicked over Malcolm. “So, Mr. Penn-Leith, unlike your renowned poet of a brother, you are a . . . farmer?” His Grace imbued the wordfarmerwith several hundred years of autocratic disdain.
Malcolm’s eyes tightened, the tiniest twitch of emotion. He stared at the duke with unrelenting calculation.
“Aye, Your Grace. I consider it my civic duty tae improve the quality of my cattle tae help feed our nation, somethingsomenoblemen see the importance of. I’ve been breeding the coos with the assistance of Sir Rafe Gordon.”
Kendall’s nostrils flared.
Malcolm’s expression said he clearly understood he was now baiting his fellow bull.
Viola frowned. More was being said here than she understood. Who was Sir Rafe Gordon? The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“I see,” Kendall narrowed his eyes. “I would be mindful of the company you keep, Mr. Penn-Leith.”
“Oh, aye, that I’m doing,” Malcolm replied with uncharacteristic breeziness.
Kendall froze further, if it were possible.
But, of course, no one could out-duke a duke.
“Well, I am sure that is an interesting . . . enterprise.” Dipping his head in the barest of nods, Kendall turned to Dr. Brodure, leaving Malcolm with a direct view of his shoulders.
Viola could scarcely contain a gasp. Leah’s eyes widened at the slight.
It was not precisely the cut direct, but it was a snub. A very ducal way of saying, ‘I do not wish to be rude to my hosts, but I am not pleased with your presence.’
Malcolm caught Viola’s eye. His expression had not changed, but Viola felt the weight of it. Of the social chasm wide and yawning between them.
But before she could so much as blink, he had rotated back to his sister.
Viola pressed a trembling, gloved hand to her forehead.
Heavens, why must her nerves be such a restless jumble?
Two hours later, Viola was unsure if her body was capable of absorbing any more tension without collapse.
The guests were seated upon colorful tartan wool blankets, dining on a repast of roast beef sandwiches, crowdie cheese on oatcakes, scones with bright strawberry jam, and treacle tarts, all washed down with an excellent Spanish white wine.
After an hour of stony silence, several solicitous questions from the vicars present and two glasses of fineriojafinally succeeded in loosening Kendall’s tongue.
Too loose, perhaps.
So far, the Duke of Kendall had pontificated about the price of corn shares, the role of a true gentleman in animal husbandry, the possibility of Ethan being invited to dine with the Queen, the encroaching nature of unwanted and illicit relatives, the corruption of breeding stock by ignorant farmers, and the chaotic disorder of London’s street traffic.
In that precise order.
Kendall was an insufferable ass.
