Not that Violawishedto be his.
How would a fine lady like Viola fit into your sorry life anyway?
He glanced around the parlor.
The red velvet of the sofa was faded and rubbed to the warp in places. Soot from the fire darkened the marble mantelpiece. The leg of the sideboard had been broken and repaired in at least two places. The entire room desperately needed new drapery and a fresh coat of paint.
This was what he had to offer her. A shabby house in rural Scotland. His hard-working, calloused hands. A herd of cows.
In short, nothing of real value to a refined lady.
And yet, he couldn’t ignore the fact that she appeared comfortable in his space. As if being here, with him, were as natural as breathing. Nor could he deny that he felt the same, in return.
Setting downGulliver’s Travels, Viola moved on to study a daguerreotype portrait of Leah and Fox with Madeline and wee Jack. Malcolm’s nephew had tried valiantly to sit still, but his right foot was a blur of movement.
“Do ye wish to discuss what so upset ye?” Malcolm asked after a few minutes of watching her poke through his things. “My fists stand ready to knock sense into someone’s thick skull. Or, at the very least, to teach ye how to throw a solid punch yourself.”
That at least had Viola turning back to him, blue eyes lit with a soft smile. She shook out her skirts, smoothing the worst of the wrinkles, before heaving a sigh.
“’Tis only what we have already discussed.” She clasped her hands before her. “I am afraid that physical punishment will do no good, unless you wish to organize a militia to combat the Duke of Kendall.”
Malcolm snorted. “I would actually take great pleasure in doing that, lass.”
Her smile grew, true mirth touching her expression.
The rain that had been threatening all day finally announced its arrival, pattering the front bow window with a bracingratatat. Though the parlor sported four large windows, the dark clouds left the interior dim.
Malcolm stirred the banked fire to life as Viola recounted the conversation with her father and Kendall. The duke’s threats to withdraw his support from the Brodures. Viola’s worries about her own future and her father’s employment.
“And so, I am at a loss.” She stopped her perusal of the room, standing before him. “I cannot write the drivel that Kendall demands. It feels so . . . dispiriting.” She waved a hand toward his copy ofThe Rabble Rouser. “Particularly when all I want to do is write more stories likeA Hard Truth.”
Hands on his hips, Malcolm looked at Viola, wishing there was someone he could pummel, anything to wipe the bleak look off her face.
Well, he supposed he could bloody Kendall, as she had joked. But it would do no good. The man would still be a powerful duke, no matter how battered and bruised.
“I hate that ye are not even allowed the luxury of silence,” Malcolm said. “The simplicity of inaction.”
“Yes.” She pressed shaking fingertips to her forehead. “I cannot see any solution other than giving in to Kendall’s demands. Of figuratively donning gloves once more.”
Unbidden, both their eyes dipped to her bare hands. Rain lashed the windows, filling the room with the sound of rushing water.
Malcolm longed to open his arms once more, to pull her against him and soothe away her hurt.
Something of his desire must have shone in his gaze, as Viola took a half-step toward him.
“A piece of me feels like I have betrayed your trust,” she continued.
“Me?” He laughed in bafflement.
“Yes. You. Malcolm Penn-Leith.”
He stilled, liking his full name on her lips, the sound of it in her proper English accent.
She wasn’t done. “You have listened and encouraged me these past few weeks. You have been so patient and wise. And now I will return all that care by doing absolutely nothing with all my fine words. It grieves me.” Viola bit her lower lip. “When Kendall snaps his fingers and I betray myself by racing to his call like a dog, will I still be able to call you my friend?”
“Always.”
Just like that moment when they had sat, side-by-side, on the swing, her eyes focused on his mouth.
