Och, it hardly mattered. He was capable of none of it.
And yet, as he watched Miss Brodure tuck a stray wisp of hair behind one ear with fingers that actually trembled, Malcolm’s own palm ached to reach for her hand and soothe away her nerves.
Ridiculous impulses, the lot of them.
He was a lowly Scottish farmer, for heaven’s sake. Socially, he and Miss Brodure inhabited different universes.
Ever the pragmatic sort, he forced himself to envision it. To test the possibility of turning his back on Aileen’s memory and embracing a future with Viola Brodure.
Images drifted through his brain, a sort of foul-tasting physic to set his thinking straight.
Him, dressed in fashionable finery, sipping tea at a London soiree. Or, ever more preposterous, making idle conversation over port with the likes of the Duke of Kendall.
Malcolm could more readily imagine himself moving his farm to the moon than hobnobbing with thehaut tonof society.
But then, the reverse was just as absurd. Miss Brodure stomping through the fields as Aileen had done, skirts ringed in mud, intent on helping him milk a cow or birth a calf.
The images accomplished what Malcolm intended—they plunged his thoughts into the bracing cold of Reality.
Viola Brodure was an enchanting pixie who set the world aglow with her clever brilliance.
Malcolm was an uneducated, grief-broken widower who never intended to remarry.
When he had fallen in love with Aileen, he had pictured himself literally stowing his own heart within her chest. But in the end, her body hadn’t been strong enough to defeat Death. When Aileen had died, she took most of his heart with her.
And now, Malcolm simply wasn’t brave enough to place what remained of his fractured heart in another’s frail body.
Worse, he could imagine the pity dripping from Miss Brodure’s gaze if she ever learned of his misplaced devotion, the kind timbre of her voice as she informed him that such regard on his part was as laughable as it was unwanted.
Yes, his embarrassing infatuation had to end.
Right now. Today. In this pew.
Malcolm tore his eyes away from her and spent the rest of the sermon staring firmly at Dr. Brodure, the stained-glass windows, the ancient carvings on the lectern.
Looking anywhere but at the fine slope of Miss Brodure’s nose and the plump pillow of her lips.
After the service, Viola stood with her back nearly touching the stone fence which encircled the churchyard, her gaze fixed on the church door, praying her father emerged soon.
Around her, parishioners chattered—bonnets bobbing and beaver top hats nodding—the occasional glance or head turning her way.
Swallowing, Viola fought to keep her breathing slow and steady.
Breathe in. Breathe out. One. Two.
Picture your lungs as airy as gossamer.
She clung to the image.
Her hands had trembled throughout her father’s sermon, the scrutiny of literally every eye in the church rendering her chest as tight as hardened pitch.
At least outside in the fresh Scottish air, she could breathe more easily under the collective weight of the townspeople’s regard. Now if only the shaking of her limbs would cease.
“Miss Brodure, I have decided we must invite you for dinner.” Lady Hadley appeared at Viola’s side, her husband not far behind. “The gardens at Muirford House are so lovely in the summer. You must see them.”
The countess was beautiful, the gray threading through her auburn hair only adding to her unaffected loveliness. Lord Hadley stopped beside his wife, regarding her with a fierce happy fondness.
“Och, ye know we are for England and Hadley Park tomorrow,mo chridhe,” Lord Hadley reminded her gently.
