No. What he felt for Viola Brodure was more akin to a tidal wave, scouring everything in its wake, dredging up the flotsam of his soul and forcing him to feel so very alive.
Because as he closed the distance between them, with so muchlovehopeadorationroiling in his chest . . . he struggled to care about words likedutyorloyaltyorconsequences.
She laughed and all but raced into his arms, face tilting upward, hands reaching for his head.
And Malcolm forgot everything but the pleasure of kissing Viola Brodure.
For Viola, theweek passed in a whirl of dizzy happiness.
She felt as she had as a child, tilting her head toward the sun and spinning in circles until she collapsed on the grass, joy a riot of champagne bubbles in her veins.
Such were the hours spent with Malcolm Penn-Leith.
She met him every day at their swing. But now, in addition to intellectual discussions—for example, Mr. Disraeli’s new novel,Coningsby,and its scathing rebuke of the Whig Reform Bill—they spent much of their time in one another’s arms, kissing and, well, kissing some more.
So much lay unresolved—Kendall’s threats and her father’s career, Ethan’s absence and the difficult conversation she would need to have with him, the potential loss of Kendall’s patronage and her own professional desires.
Her burgeoning relationship with Malcolm Penn-Leith simply added one more knot to the tangle.
And yet, despite the misery that awaited, Viola permitted herself this small space in time where she could race down a tree-shrouded lane, launch herself into the arms of a Scottish bear of a man, and greedily nip at his lips.
Like a child with toffee bonbons, she would devour the sweet joy of his company.
Insatiablewas the only word that adequately captured her feelings.
No amount of time with him was enough. Not their stolen hours. Not a day or a week. How many years would be sufficient? She hardly knew.
She had never been in love before, but the emotion she currently felt did rather mimic all the excellent (and sometimes dreadful) poetry on the topic she had read over the years.
The day before Ethan’s return, Viola called upon Thistle Muir.
Malcolm was all smiles when he came to the door after the maid answered.
“Miss Brodure,” he said, darting a side-eye to the maid still standing behind him, “tae what do we owe the pleasure?”
Viola knew Malcolm would be balancing accounts, and so, she had seized the opportunity to return a book Ethan had lent her—The Sonnets of William Shakespeare—many of which Viola had taken great delight in rereading while pondering Ethan’s older brother.
Truly, she was the fickle sort of woman that the Bard had also immortalized.
Regardless, she handed the book over to Malcolm. “Merely returning this. Please tell Mr. Penn-Leith I greatly enjoyed it. Shakespeare is always a favorite.”
They stared at one another for a long moment.
Viola turned to leave.
“Wait,” he said. “Allow me tae accompany ye to the end of the drive, at least.”
Viola nodded, hoping her answering smile didn’t seem too eager to the hovering maid.
Malcolm returned not even a minute later, hat on his head.
He offered her his arm.
Viola took it, wrapping her fingers firmly around the corded muscles of his forearm, wishing she could also claim a kiss, but aware that the servant’s eyes would still be upon them.
“You must know how much I dislike this dissembling. I want us to be open in our affection for one another,” she said once they were a few steps away from the house.
“What about Kendall and his demands?”
