He had chuckled and kissed the back of her left hand . . . and then had bent to kiss the soft skin above her collarbone before moving on to her mouth . . . successfully obliterating every other thought from Allie’s head.
As for Kendall, he had been his typical autocratic self.
I have arranged a stay with Charswood for the first week of August. Hadley informs me that you are welcome to remain at Muirford House until then. I cannot say I am pleased with your recalcitrance in lingering there, particularly as you continue to associate with Lady Isolde and Ethan Penn-Leith. I adjure you to shun the poet’s company. It is rather obvious that he has developed a tendre for you, but nothing will be permitted to come of it. I have already taken steps to ensure it. I expect you to spend your time in quiet reflection and recognize that Charswood is the best choice for your future.
To that end, her overbearing brother had enclosed a note from Lord Charswood himself.
His lordship’s letter had been all that was polite and conciliatory, inquiring after her health, her past in Italy, and specific wishes for her future.
Allie had set down the foolscap with a sigh.
Charswoodwasa decent, honorable man, and he offered her the life she had long envisioned—the return of her mother’s Salzi Mine and freedom from Kendall’s control.
It was just . . .
The colorless monotony of that life paled when placed before the vitality of Ethan Penn-Leith. Any lady, Allie concluded, would struggle to settle forgoodandhonorableandsafewhen she basked in the blinding light of the Highland Poet’s regard.
Allie merely needed to remember that, no matter Ethan’s potent allure, her futurewouldlie elsewhere.
Kendall had made this abundantly clear.
And Allie herself still doubted she could piece her tattered heart back together enough to trust Ethan with it.
Life, she knew, was better unencumbered—free of entanglements that inevitably ended in hurt and betrayal.
On a sun-drenchedThursday in July, Lady Isolde urged Allie to slip away to meet Ethan.
“I shall tell Mamma you have a megrim,” Lady Isolde had said with a wink.
Though Allie rolled her eyes at Lady Isolde’s obvious matchmaking, she had still dutifully raced out the door.
She found Ethan along a wee burn that bordered the far end of Thistle Muir’s property. They easily fell into step, strolling alongside the stream, speaking of everything from her adolescent years living on the fringes of genteel society in Venice to his career as a poet.
“Did you always want to write poetry about Scotland?” she asked, tipping her head back, her skin once more seeking the sun. “A modern-day Robert Burns, as it were?”
“Nae, not precisely.” Ethan shook his head, pausing to pluck a wild pink rose from a bush growing along the burn. “Rabbie Burns wrote poetry in Scots for the Scots. He wanted tae elevate our maligned native dialect tae something more noble and artistic. For myself, I didn’t start out intending to focus on Scotland at all. But as Scotland has my heart, inevitably my words turned there. In the end, I think I merely wished my readers tae see Scotland as I see her—vibrant, wild, free. So perhaps ye could say that Burns wrote poetry for our native countrymen, and I write poetry for thesassanach.” He began to strip the rose of its thorns.
“So you are evangelizing Scotland through your words, as it were?”
“Hah! I like that, lass.” He shot her his signature grin, continuing to pick at the thorns. “I should write a poem about that. Title it ‘The Evangelist’ and describe bonnie Scotland. They would love that one in Edinburgh salons.”
“Looking to gain even more devotees, are you?”
“Hardly. I feel I have sufficient for my current sanity.”
“I read a critic’s article about you yesterday in a journal that Lady Isolde lent me.”
Allie didn’t add that Isolde had loaned her the journal strictlyforthe article about Ethan.
“Pardon? And ye only be telling me this now?”
“Of course. I didn’t want it to go to your head. It’s already swollen enough.”
“Lady Allegra, ye could never say too many flattering things about myself.” He twirled the rose in his fingers.
“Yes, well, the author of this article went on at great length trying to decide if you were truly a poet or merely a performer.”
Ethan used the flower stem to mime a knife stabbing his heart. “What sort of question is that?”
