“So how did you end up with Beowoof?” Viola asked, raising her head and grasping the swing ropes.
A breeze tangled in the curls framing her face, sticking one to her lips.
Viola tugged it free with a solitary gloved finger.
Malcolm stared as the curl slid away, dragging across her mouth before slipping across her soft-looking cheek.
He slowly blinked beforefinallyremembering she had asked him a question.
“Like yourself,” he replied, “Ethan told the duchess that he had a sensitivity tae dogs—even though he doesnae—thinking that would end the exchange. Not even a week later, Beowoof showed up on our doorstep in the arms of one of His Grace’s grooms.” Viola’s expectant gaze encouraged Malcolm to continue talking. “Apparently, His Grace’s prized Labrador Retriever had escaped his pen and enjoyed a—shall we say romantic?—encounter with Her Grace’s favorite French poodle. Beowoof and his sibling puppies were the result. Surprisingly, the puppies retained some of the best qualities of both dogs—the loyalty and energy of a water retriever mixed with the tighter fur of a poodle, which reduces sensitivity.”
And. . . Malcolm was now talking about canine husbandry with Miss Viola Brodure.
Yes, someone truly did need to haul him into the courtyard behind Thistle Muir and pound some sense into his thick skull.
Or, at the very least, a crash course in polite manners.
Burning heat climbed his cheeks.
Fortunately, Viola appeared not to notice.
Instead, she laughed in delight and reached past the swing rope to pat Beowoof’s head. “How very clever of you, you darling dog.” She looked back up at Malcolm, eyes glowing. “Let me guess how the rest played out. Ethan could not refuse the gift of a puppy at that point, obviously.”
“Obviously.” Malcolm couldn’t quell the answering grin on his face.
“And you were, therefore, happy to claim Beowoof as your own.”
Malcolm nodded.
Silence settled between them, but it was not an uncomfortable thing.
Finally, she spoke, voice quiet, “The truth . . . well . . . I experience a bit more than just nasal irritation with dogs.” She waved a hand over her face. “I suffer from asthma, and animal dander can be a catalyst. It’s why I have always fastidiously avoided dogs. I cannot describe how lovely it is to pet Beowoof.”
Malcolm’s chest tightened at the admission. “Has asthma always plagued ye?”
She sighed, slowly rotating the swing side to side. “Yes. We lived in London until I was about fifteen. Papa was a vicar in Mayfair and determined to curry the favor necessary to be elevated to a bishopric. He was well on his way when I suffered a severe asthma attack after inhaling coal smoke near Bond Street. Our doctor recommended we remove to the countryside immediately for my health. Papa didn’t hesitate. He left his position in London, took a new post with the late Duke of Kendall in Wiltshire, and set aside his ambitions for the sake of my well-being.”
“Dr. Brodure is a good father to ye,” he said.
“The best. He sacrificed his every ambition for me.”
“Any loving father would do so,” Malcolm added and then mentally winced.Och, why had he said that? He had only intended to agree with her, not imply that her father’s devotion was nothing extraordinary.
But Viola continued on, as if she understood the intent of his words.
As if she understood . . .him.
“Yes. He has always been loyal to me. Thankfully, my asthma improved as I aged,” she said. “I only rarely have severe fits now.”
“And is it coal smoke and animal dander that triggers them?”
“Yes.” She hesitated for a moment and then took a deeper breath, as if the next words were a confession. “Nervous worry—the sort brought on by having to interact with strangers—can also provoke an attack. Truth be told, it’s lately been the primary trigger for me.” Her lips twisted in a rueful smile.
Ah.
The admission illuminated an entire facet of her personality.
No wonder she had seemed so distressed during the church service on Sunday. The entire situation must have been a tightrope walk between speaking with people and attempting not to succumb to her asthma.
