My faithless inner-blethering: “Entering very wary here. After my enthrallment with book 1, of course I’m reading on. And I could never say ‘nay’ to a stoic Scot. But, brothers quasi-love-triangle? Love-match widower? My jealous romance reader sensibilities tend to get irked. Plus, uh, is this a Victorian celebrity romance? Characters with literary vocations tend to take me out of it. They’re both painfully quiet? How are we getting the blazing tens-
*reads when their gazes lock amidst a fog-laced scene*
Me: NEVERMIND. We’ll be juuust fine.
Ok, not fine. More like overwhelmingly swooning to the high heavens. More like devastatingly mind-blown. I’m sorry, wha-how-huh? Ms. Van is like “You here for the tropes, the brogues and a stamp on your reader travels passport? Yes, but also and resoundingly, have some fathomless, heart-searing insights into human nature, healing and courage, characterization as solid as a truth boulder and a couple with such bone-deep connection and scorching, elemental attraction you won’t know what hit you.” Yes, that was most certainly her.
Let’s talk this magnificient third person DUAL POV. The embodiment of “The pen is mightier”, socially anxious, outwardly meek authoress Viola’s mind’s eye was a literary device wonderland. She grasps and collects parallel symbols all around, making for such a profound, vivid experience. This premise of her writer influence being puppeteered by a political power-hungry duke and her arc of letting her inner social justice champion/goddess manifest was great to behold.
And who was there to fan that fire? Turns out all an asthmatic wallflower needs is the humid Highland air and a brawny, sorry-maxed-out-my-word-count, competent, man’s man Scot to chase her anxiety dragons away. When a hero just has PRESENCE, amiright? That he dishes out soul-enlightening ponderings like it’s nothing, does not hurt at all. My gratitude for getting his POV knows no bounds. Can’t help compare but, while Fox gave me all the delicious frustrating angst, Malcolm is just the ultimate heart-trampled mature hero. His simultaneous battling of an intense insta-crush with awareness of his cavernous grieving journey, his flailing resistance as all his love-risk alarms are going off, but then his protective, yearning heart could not care less. The progression of his ascendance into the light firmly yanked by the collar by a spritely English lass was perfection for me, and I renounce my doubting ways.
I can’t but applaud how this is a master class in instant connection of an unexpectedly complementary class-difference couple that bring on both the depth and the passion. The way these two philosophical sweeties were at one moment dwelving into such complexities and the next just playfully bantering made me so happy. While not without its mostly external conflict bumps, the romance here was effortlessly kismet, self-aware and prime to let social pressures and expectations take a brisk walk off the Rocks of Solitude. One of those where you know it’s an absolutely secure HEA. That resolution scene was beyond good, and then a time jump epilogue? I repeat, wha-how-huh? Too much!
On to our darling poetic peacock’s comeuppance, of course.
Content notes: kissing only, but good ventilation required ‘cause wowee. Predominant theme of grieving spouse/stillborn death. Heroine suffers from social anxiety that exarcebates physical symptoms. Teensy bit of language (a*s, da*n)