“I . . . I suppose I could see if Mr. Penn-Leith were about,” Allie offered. “I am sure he would be willing to keep me company.”
“Excellent idea, child,” her ladyship nodded her head. “Just ensure you leave the door open, as propriety demands.”
“Of course.”
“And do not mention this to Kendall.” Lady Whipple peered up at her. “You know how your brother can be.”
Allie nodded. “I shall be quiet as the grave, Aunt.”
“See that you are.” Aunt Whipple took a bite of her scone, dabbing at her mouth with a fine linen napkin. “Enjoy your time with Mr. Penn-Leith. And then please return and tell me about it.”
Ten minutes later, Allie paused in the doorway to the private sitting room Kendall had arranged. She was still trying to come to terms with her aunt’s easy dismissal of her chaperonage.
If Allie had known that a charming poet was all it took for Aunt Whipple to forsake her duties . . . well, she might have dredged one up long before now.
Though she did not mind her current freedom, given the view before her.
The private sitting room featured a bank of cheery paned windows overlooking the street, several stuffed armchairs, a writing desk, a table for cards, and a large fireplace. Most importantly, it was up a flight of stairs and on the opposite side of the inn from the noise of the public dining room.
But all of this she noticed merely in passing.
Ethan Penn-Leith held her riveted.
He sat at the desk before the windows, profile to the door, writing quickly in a notebook, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. Dressed only in a waistcoat, shirtsleeves, and neckcloth with his chestnut hair falling in loose waves across his forehead, he seemed . . .
Well . . . he seemed like Ethan. The hard-working, humble man behind the famous Highland Poet.
Allie couldn’t look away. Witnessing him like this . . . so unguarded and authentic . . .
Once, her mother had taken a lover who was a benefactor of La Fenice, the popular opera house in Venice. Before the opening night of a performance of Mozart’sThe Magic Flute, the gentleman had led Allie and her mother on a tour of the stage and backdrops, showing themhowan opera was made.
It had been a revelation.
Seeing Ethan like this was much the same.
A glimpse into another world—the intimate moment where his brilliant works were created.
Also . . . could she circle back to the spectacles?
Allie had never considered how attractive a pair of silver-rimmed glasses could be.
As it had the night before, her traitorous heart thudded in her ribcage at the sight of him. And just as she had then, she took in a steady breath and reminded herself that she was a realist—despite her restless night’s sleep, despite Elation, Hope, and Optimism. If she weren’t careful, Ethan’s charm would lead her straight to disappointment and regret.
Unlike the night before, she left the door ajar as she entered the room.
Ethan looked up at the sound, rising to his feet, that dazzling smile of his making an appearance.
“Good morning,” he bowed, removing the spectacles from his face. “I trust you slept well?” A warm earnestness laced his words.
“I did,” she lied, feeling breathless and oddly . . . shy. “You will have to excuse Lady Whipple. Our ordeal yesterday and the dreary weather this morning have left her rather unwell.”
“Ah, I am sorry to hear it,” he replied, though his grin and cheerful tone said otherwise.
“As am I.” Still smiling, she looked about the room, arms swinging against her skirts. “So . . . what shall we do today?”
“I have beenpondering what you said last night.” Allie reached for another strawberry. “About wishing us to be true friends. The sort who are welcomed into the other’s inner life.”
“Aye?” Ethan lifted a piece of cheese from a wooden platter.
