Page 14 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twelve

“ P olite society, my arse,” Marion grumbled under her breath.

She had quickly discovered that she abhorred the gilded cage of polite society.

While she was no stranger to the ton , being a duchess was new territory and with it came unwanted scrutiny. She felt as though she was an ant under a magnifying glass because of the awful way the single young ladies treated her with a restrained disdain.

“I wonder how a wild creature like her managed to capture the heart of the Duke?” One girl whispered when Marion was passing down a London street on her way to the market one morning.

“It must be that she is so exotic,” her companion retorted as they laughed, walking by her without greeting.

At Lady Danvers’ seasonal dinner later that week, Marion was resplendent in an emerald gown with her hair drawn up in an elegant bun. Anselm had insisted that the family diamonds be brought out of the safe. She selected a delicate necklace with a teardrop which fell just between her full breasts.

Perhaps this will grab his attention, she thought as she prepared herself for the night’s festivities.

“Your Grace,” purred Lady Thistlewaite, fanning herself as she approached Marion over aperitifs. “Such a distinctive shade of green. Is it, perhaps, a tribute to your Highland heritage? Perhaps next time you should try tartan?”

“Indeed, Lady Thistlewaite. I find it rather suits my figure and complexion,” Marion said, setting her shoulders back.

“Indeed,” she responded in kind, looking up at Marion from behind her fan.

Aye, she is unsufferable as a wet tartan on a cool night! Why must I attend these frivolous performances?

Before Marion could deliver a satisfying retort, a man came to her side. It was a man she did not recognize, but she quickly realized his gaze was lingering on her hair, then her lips.

“Your Grace, what a beautiful necklace,” the man said. His eyes drew immediately to her generous bosom. “You are a breath of fresh air in this rather stodgy company. I am Lord Drewble,” he said as he planted a chaste kiss on her hand.

Aye, I ken that name. I can remember Verity tellin’ me the stories of Lord Donald Drewble. I believe she said he was a man of questionable taste and unseemly morals.

“Thank you very much, Lord Drewble,” she said politely, as she slowly took her hand out of his grasp. “It is the family’s.”

“You are a beautiful contrast to your husband. Much as I respect the Duke, I always found him rather dull,” he whispered in her ear, liquor heavy on his breath. “You are positively wild and full of life.”

“Speakin’ of the Duke, I really should be findin’ His Grace.”

“That accent drives me wild,” he slurred.

He stepped so close that his breath, heavy with stale malt and cigar smoke, fouled the air around her.

His words dripped with lechery as he leaned in.

“Is it true what they say about Scottish women? That you’re untamed, fiery…

ripe for a man’s taking? I’ve been wanting to see if the stories are true. ”

Marion straightened. A cool smile played on her lips as she willed herself to remain composed despite his audaciousness. She could hardly believe her ears.

“Lord Drewble, I assure ye, I am quite tame. I find that a strong will is often mistaken for wildness in circles such as these. If bein’ me own person makes me wild, then I suppose I am. And I daenae take kindly to yer advances.”

“Oh, please, Your Grace! You are mistaking my English. I was merely trying to pay you a compliment,” he purred. His eyes were wild as he looked at her. “It must be a difference in the meaning of our vernacular, you see.”

“I mistake nothin’ and I can understand yer English just fine,” she said as she lifted her chin. Her eyes dared him to respond.

She would not cower to the likes of Lord Drewble or the passersby on the streets. She would not cower to anyone. She was her parents’ daughter, and no one would dampen her spirit. Not anymore.

So much had happened since they passed when she was fifteen. Reverend McCrae’s household, the engagement to Gilton, the coolness of her aunt and uncle… and now this life with the Duke of Greystead.

Suddenly, a presence came over them and they both froze in place. She could feel he was behind her before she even turned around.

“Drewble,” the Duke greeted cooly as his voice was devoid of warmth. “I believe my wife was just about to join me.” His hand settled on Marion’s lower back as he drew her closer to him.

The pressure of his fingers, surprisingly firm, sent a jolt through Marion. How she had longed to feel his touch only compounded by his intervention in what was becoming an uncomfortable situation.

“Ah, yes, of course, Your Grace. My apologies. I was merely admiring your wife’s…charming spirit,” he said as his eyes trailed one last time to her chest, earning a murderous look from her husband.

He bowed awkwardly and retreated then, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.

“Was that truly necessary, Yer Grace?” she asked, turning to face him. “I believe I was quite capable of handling Lord Drewble.”

The Duke’s grip on her back tightened as he pulled her closer to him.

“Indeed, Duchess… but I promised to ensure your safety. And I mean to make good on that vow.”

After dinner was finished, which was pleasant enough and without issue, they retired to the drawing room for digestifs. The meal itself was elegant and well-planned, although Anselm did not care much for such over-the-top dishes as escargot and foie gras.

Lady Featherstone, a notorious gossip, cornered Anselm and Marion with her plump body before they could make their exit.

She wore an ostentatious purple gown that ironically had feathers sewn throughout it amidst glittering beads.

When the candlelight hit her just so, it could be blinding to the naked eye.

“My dear Duke, one must ask about your sister’s most unfortunate situation.

I felt so bad for her when I learned of the news.

Such a pity about the Marquess of Fanthorpe.

He was quite a catch I say. One heard such whispers, oh dreadful whispers, really.

Was it true he ran off with an underage ballet dancer from the theater?

Or perhaps it was a widowed countess in a remote part of Ireland—the one with the scar on her face? ”

Anselm offered a calm smile. He would be ruffled by no one, let alone Lady Featherstone. He was prepared for such questions, although Lady Featherstone’s flare for drama was unmatched.

“My lady, you do flatter me, attributing such scandalous melodrama to my most simple sister. It was, I assure you, a mutual understanding to go their separate ways. Sometimes, even the most promising unions simply aren’t meant to be.

We cannot all marry for love, like I have,” he said, holding Marion close against his side to sell the story.

He did not miss how Marion leaned into it and the heat of her body warmed his own.

“Oh indeed,” Lady Featherstone cooed.

“Lord Fanthorpe is a most agreeable fellow. But he realized his heart lay elsewhere and Verity, of course, respected that. She is a sensible girl. They parted as the fondest of friends.”

He paused then. His gaze subtly swept the room, ensuring he had everyone’s attention as he raised his voice.

“He is currently on a long overdue holiday, enjoying the sun in the Italy I believe. A well-deserved respite, after the rigorous demands of the Season. He even sent Verity a most delightful seashell just this morning. Such a thoughtful gesture, wouldn’t you agree?”

His tone was so reasonable, so utterly convincing, that even Lady Featherstone, despite her insatiable appetite for scandal, seemed to accept it. In fact, she seemed to be hanging on his every word as he found himself adding details to the story.

Anselm looked at Marion then, who gave him the tiniest wink. His chest brimmed with pride as he stood straighter.

“Well, that does sound sensible and quite nice given the circumstances,” Lady Featherstone said as she angled her body away from the couple, allowing a small space for them to sneak away from her clutches.

“Well, I do believe my Duchess needs a bit of fresh air,” Anselm offered as he ushered Marion away.

“Yes, I do. Lovely seein’ ye, Lady Featherstone. Yer dress is beautiful,” she said as they walked away.

“My, my, your accent is as unique as the folks have been saying! Perhaps I should have been talking with you. You are such an…enchanting creature.”

“Perhaps another time, Lady Featherstone,” Anselm replied as he led Marion away from the crowd.

It seemed the ton had shifted its fascination from Verity’s broken engagement to Marion, also known as the wild Scottish bride, in a matter of minutes.

As Anselm and Marion continued to circulate and guests enjoyed after dinner drinks while making polite conversation and introductions they found themselves surrounded by cruel whispers and lingering glances.

“Did you see her standing with her husband earlier as they talked with Lady Featherstone?” Lady Scrimshaw tutted to her husband.

“Positively glued to him as if she were at a Highland fling! One would think she’d forgotten she was a duchess, not some lass at a barn raising. What has gotten into the man?”

“And her gown,” Lady Nichols chimed in, her voice dripping with disdain as she sipped her champagne.

“Such a vibrant shade of emerald! It practically screams attention. So, unlike His Grace’s sister, the dear Lady Verity.

She always dresses with such refined subtlety and her dresses are cut tastefully. ”

“Can we leave now?” Marion asked. Her blue eyes looked up at Anselm and made her plea. She knew he could overhear the conversations around them as well as she could.

“Very well, I too have had enough for one night,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her and escorted her to their carriage.

She sat back against the velvet and looked out into the dark night up at the stars. Finally, there was some sense of peace.

They can talk all they like. I am the Duchess of Greystead now, much as they daenae like it.