Page 10 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Eight

“ M ust you always make such dramatic entrances?” Anselm drawled, not looking up from his coffee after a loud, unceremonious bang had announced his friend’s arrival.

He knew the sound as well as he knew his own voice.

Emmanuel Brimsey, the Marquess of Wrotham, strode into the breakfast room. He held a triumphant grin on his face and was clearly oblivious to the fact that Verity and Marion had not yet descended that morning.

“Apparently, scandal just runs in your blood, old friend,” Emmanuel quipped, brushing off Anselm’s dry remark with a dismissive wave. “As rigid as you are, your true nature cannot escape you.”

Anselm’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly. His green eyes narrowed as he stared at his friend.

“What are you talking about? I am in no mood for jokes or riddles. Out with it. And quick.”

Emmanuel extended his hand and revealed a crumpled scandal sheet. Anselm walked over to him and snatched it. His gaze swept over the bold headlines.

He cursed under his breath.

“Good mo?—”

Just then, Verity and Marion sauntered into the room. Their morning greetings immediately died on their lips as they heard his words.

Emmanuel instantly brightened at the sight of not one, but two beautiful ladies.

“Verity, my dear! You are a ravishing sight. And you… good morning to you, my lady. I am Emmanuel Brimsey, Marquess of Wrotham. At your service.” He bowed dramatically as he took Marion’s hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Anselm, I must commend your taste. Truly exceptional.”

Marion looked confused, while Verity, sensing the undercurrent of anger radiating from her brother, stepped forward.

“Anselm? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“We were seen. Lady Marion and I,” he said through gritted teeth while tossing the crumpled sheet at Emmanuel.

“Seen?” Verity gasped. Her hands found her cheeks. “Where?”

“Stamford.” Anselm began anxiously playing with his beard and pacing the room.

“Well, I did indeed leave you two alone for a moment. But—” Verity started before Marion cut her off.

“The sound we heard… near the alleyway,” she said quietly.

Emmanuel passed the scandal sheet to the ladies. Verity and Marion leaned in and pressed their heads together as they scanned the words. Anselm watched their expressions shift from curiosity to shock as they read the salacious details in plain black and white.

How he’d been seen in a compromising position with an unknown woman, at first, but then the writer went on to add that they’d heard Anselm refer to her as ‘Lady Marion.’ The writer swiftly managed to gather that the unknown woman was none other than the Earl of Harlowe’s Scottish niece.

“And now, it is everywhere,” Emmanuel added. “I saw more sheets being handed out on my way here. The whole of London knows, old boy. Time to fess up because it seems you are in love. I, for one, think this will do you some good.”

Anselm cursed again and his hand clenched into a fist.

“I must leave. Now.” Lady Marion’s voice was resolute. She looked at Verity and her eyes filled with guilt. “I cannae risk ruining ye or yer family any further. I will just drag ye down with me.”

Suddenly, the breakfast room doors burst open once more and all heads turned to the sound.

“Lady Verity!” the Marquess of Fanthorpe roared as he stormed into the room.

Verity’s intended groom was a tall man. His broad shoulders were tense beneath a plain dark coat. His stern face was flushed with anger and confusion. Though not a figure of great note, his presence commanded uneasy silence.

“I demand you tell me to my face the reason for cancelling our wedding!” His voice trembled with indignation.

Lady Marion stepped in front of Verity.

“Me lord, I… I apologize, but…but…it is me fault ye see. I needed Lady Verity most urgently—” Lady Marion began to say, but Anselm knew better.

His gaze flicked to Fanthorpe, whose anger simmered dangerously. The tension in the room thickened; the scandal sheets, the canceled wedding, the unanswered questions…

It was all about to erupt.

Anselm’s mind raced as he weighed the fragile threads that held his family’s reputation together. Lady Marion’s hesitant attempt to soothe the situation only reminded him of the urgency. If Fanthorpe’s fury went unchecked, the fallout would be devastating.

There was only one way out of this. Only one decisive course to regain control and stop the gossip from spreading further.

He took a steadying breath and cut in firmly, commanding attention.

“ Lord Fanthorpe, my sister and I had to travel to Scotland to fetch my bride.”

Marion’s eyes widened.

“Bride?” Lord Fanthorpe repeated. His voice was laced with disbelief. “This is the first I have heard of this! You have previously made it abundantly clear that you are not searching for a wife.”

“Indeed,” Anselm continued. “I know the scandal sheets have taken liberties with my fiancée’s reputation as of late, but I assure you, great imagination was used in conjuring their story. I merely wanted her to be present for my sister’s wedding.”

Fanthorpe’s face contorted in a mix of shock and disbelief as his gaze flicked between Anselm and Lady Marion.

“This is your bride? This… this… Scot is your bride?” he demanded. His voice trembled with a mixture of incredulity and contempt.

Anselm’s reply came low and fierce. “Yes.”

Fanthorpe’s lips curled with bitter scorn. “So, this is why my wedding was delayed? Why I suffered such humiliation? Because of some savage Highland mistress?”

Anselm moved instinctively. All his muscles tightened as a predatory gleam rushed through his whole body.

“You would do well to watch your tongue, Fanthorpe,” he growled as he now stood in front of him. “And to remember your place in my house.”

“I suggest you heed the Duke’s warning, my lord,” Emmanuel added plainly.

“I do not give a whit about your bride! No, no, this is beyond insulting. I’ve had enough! I am breaking the engagement to Lady Verity this instant!” Fanthorpe shrieked, though he looked visibly pale and flailing when pitted against the Duke.

“Leave my home, Fanthorpe. Now. Or you will not have a tongue to throw insults with,” Anselm said as he took another step forward and positioned himself so he was towering over the panicking Fanthorpe.

Despite his evident disadvantage, both physically and in about every other way, he managed to puff out his chest.

Anselm tried his best not to laugh at the gesture.

“The audacity!” Fanthorpe hissed.

Anselm took another step towards him which caused Fanthorpe to turn sharply before storming out of the room.

The doors slammed behind him, leaving silence which was broken only by the steady breathing of those who had witnessed the confrontation.

Anselm’s eyes lingered on the closed doors a moment longer before he turned back to those still in the room.

“I will be leaving now to obtain the marriage license,” he stated, as if he were leaving for any routine errand. “This is the only way to draw the ton’s attention away from both the scandal sheet and Verity’s broken engagement.”

His gaze swept the room once more. He caught the flicker of doubt in Verity’s eyes, the steadiness in Marion’s, and even the faint smirk playing on Emmanuel’s lips.

Verity reached for Lady Marion’s hand. When she spoke, her voice was soft and uncertain. “You don’t have to do this for me, Marion. You’ve already escaped one marriage you never wanted. I won’t be the reason you lose your choice.”

Verity’s words hung in the air. Lady Marion met her gaze for a long moment, and something unspoken passed between them.

Anselm’s brows furrowed. How did this woman communicate so easily with his sister? How had she forged such a deep bond with Verity?

Lady Marion’s eyes flicked toward Anselm and he could feel the way she searched his face.

Anselm held her look steadily, aware of the subtle tremor in her hands and the flicker of doubt shadowing her expression.

Lady Marion’s gaze shifted back to Verity, where a flicker of hope and gratitude softened the tension. A surge of conflicting emotions played across Lady Marion’s face: uncertainty, fear, and determination battled beneath the surface.

Finally, with a slow, decisive bob of her head, Lady Marion met Anselm’s eyes once more.

“I accept,” she said clearly. Her voice sounded steady despite the storm she seemed to hold inside.

“How’s that for a dashing proposal? Whatever happened to the diamond ring or getting down on one knee?” Emmanuel joked.

Anselm glared at him, and his friend ran a hand absently through his golden locks while looking around the room.

“Bad moment, right. Pardon me,” Emmanuel muttered.

Anselm’s eyes wandered back to Lady Marion, who kept her gaze fixed on him.

He pursed his lips. Then he turned to his friend.

“Emmanuel, we are leaving. Now.”