That idea worried her . . . not at all.
If anything, it caused a knot of yearning to tighten in her abdomen.
“Thank you.” She smiled at him in return. “But I think my English soul can manage another hour or two without tea.”
Malcolm was absolutely, utterly sure that his actions of the past half hour had been a monumental mistake.
He should not have scooped Viola into his arms.
He should not have brought her into his home, completely unchaperoned, without asking her permission.
He should not have compounded the lot by then holding her on his lap for far too long.
But she had been so fragile in his embrace, a hummingbird of a woman—wee, yet vibrating with life.
The soft curves of her body remained branded on his hands and chest—a heavenly torture. Viola might be small, but she was perfectly formed.
He had held her for far longer than was wise. How could he not?
In an hour of crisis, she had come running to him for comfort. He didn’t know what had caused her distress, though he presumed the Duke of Kendall was likely involved.
But until she confided in him, Malcolm contented himself with watching her explore his space, moving from fireplace to bow window with unabashed curiosity.
Currently, she was bent down, running a fine-boned finger along the spines of the books on his bookshelf. The position did rather thrilling things to her anatomy that Malcolm was man enough to notice. But being a gentleman, no matter his birth, he kept his eyes firmly on her profile.
She was a dreadful mess—her cheeks tear-stained and splotchy, bonnetless, her hair bedraggled with pale locks sticking to her temples. His Viola would never have a goodgreitwithout it being painfully obvious.
HisViola.
Och,when had he become comfortable with putting a possessive pronoun before her name?
She was nothis. . . anything.
Desperately, he attempted to visualize his well-worn chasm of grief, needing its familiarity and comfort.
Only . . . the image slipped through his fingers, lost in the rushing happiness of Viola Brodure opening his copy ofGulliver’s Travelsand grinning as she read his notes in the margin.
Helplessly, he noted that her pale pink lips turned into wee clouds when pursed.
He was desperate to kiss her, Malcolm realized. But he knew that one kiss would never satisfy.
No. He would want a lifetime of kisses, a lifetime of her with—
Bloody hell.
He ran a hand over his beard, eyes closing as he faced the stark truth:
His comfortable crevasse of grief was no more.
Every look, every thought, every step toward Viola had been like a foothold climbing upward.
And now he stood in the sharp, blinding light of an unfamiliar terrain, facing an unknown future.
But . . . he also knew too well the pain of tumbling down a deep chasm of loss. The knowledge had ceased to be theoretical.
And therein lay the rub—the source of the maelstrom of terror currently roiling his chest.
He didn’t understand how to battle this fear. The worry of giving his heart to Viola and then losing her just as suddenly as he had Aileen.
