Ostensibly, Lady Allegra Gilbert was trouble. He knew this. She was a chameleon, practiced at assuming whatever role would best serve her needs and protect her interests. Behaviors Ethan understood only too well.
The spare confidences they had shared spoke to their similarity of thought, to parallels in their lives despite their different circumstances.
I would prefer to interact with Ethan the Scot rather than the famous Highland Poet.
His heart panged to remember her words.
Lady Allegra Gilbert had seen past his own adopted roles and wished to know Ethan. Not the Highland Poet. Not Ethan Penn-Leith with The Swooner on his face.
Simply Ethan.
A Scotsman who missed his homeland at times with a feral ache and yet also reveled in exploring far-off lands. A man who relished fishing on a bonnie July day. Who enjoyed sitting beside a cozy fire on a winter’s evening, swapping philosophical ideas with his brother. And yet, a man who also loved attending the theater or shopping along Bond Street.
A man of contradictions and paradoxes.
A man who Lady Allegra noticed.
Ye must let her go, he pleaded with his heart.As Kendall clearly stated: she is not for yourself.
She would have to face Fabrizio’s harassment and Kendall’s imprisonment alone.
The very thought hurt, and yet, there was no other option for him.
A quick glance down the street to his uncle’s townhouse showed that the number of reporters had only grown in the hours since Ethan’s departure.
Blast.
With a sigh, he walked down an obliging alleyway and made his way to the servants’ entrance.
“Is that you, Ethan?” Uncle Leith called from his study as Ethan climbed the stairs to his room.
Closing his eyes in a bid for inner strength, Ethan took a deep breath and tucked his philosophizing-traveler-angler self away.
“Aye, Uncle,” he replied, voice convincingly chipper and at ease.
By the time Ethan stepped into his uncle’s study, The Swooner was firmly in place.
His uncle sat behind a large desk, the room’s solitary large window at his back. Sunlight illuminated the desktop and rimmed his silver head.
He appeared . . . haggard.
But then, his uncle had seemed perpetually haggard since Ethan’s return from Italy last summer. Ethan could only suppose that the death of Aunt Leith nearly two years past had precipitated the change.
As Uncle Leith saw things, it had been bad enough for Ethan to leave Britain for parts unknown. But then to remain abroad for three years in the face of his uncle’s loss and subsequent grief . . .
Ethan had expected to be disinherited.
(He was constantly expecting to be disinherited.)
However at the time, his heart had been too sore and his ego too bruised to care.
Ethan had fancied himself in love with Miss Viola Brodure, a popular authoress. The whole country had known of their courtship and urged them to marry. Uncle Leith had been ecstatic at the prospect. But then Ethan discovered that his older brother, Malcolm, had been courting Miss Brodure in secret. Miss Brodure returned Malcolm’s affections and chose to marry him instead of Ethan.
In the months following Miss Brodure’s rejection, Ethan had been desperate to escape. To bury the pain of Malcolm’s betrayal. To leave behind Britain and his hordes of acolytes demanding to knowwhyhe had let Miss Brodure slip through his fingers. To flee his uncle’s recriminations and disappointment. And to forget Miss Brodure’s radiant smile whenever she looked upon his brother.
Ethan’s entire soul had felt bruised purple—pain pulsed with each breath.
Of course, time and distance had helped Ethan to realize that he had never truly loved Miss Brodure. He had been caught up in the public nature of their relationship, enamored with her writing, and charmed by the idea of marrying a successful novelist. In hindsight, he understood that he had never lovedherspecifically. Certainly not as Malcolm loved her.
