Page 16 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Fourteen

“ W hat is that?” Marion tilted her head towards her bedchamber’s door.

The soft tap on it was so faint, she almost dismissed it as a trick of the wind or a creak in the hall.

But then it came again a little more insistently. It could not have been Anselm, as he would have come through the adjoining door.

She rose from her vanity, where she’d been idly braiding her hair, and opened the door a crack.

Verity stood there, flushed and breathless. Her green eyes were alight and her dark hair a mess of curls around her head.

“Marion! You will never guess!” Verity started, practically vibrating as she bounced in place.

“The bookseller, he sent me the address of a publisher! Mr. Hawthorne, bless his heart! I sent them a sample of my manuscript, just a few chapters, and… and they have offered to print it! They want to print it!”

She clapped her hands together as tears of joy streamed down her flushed cheeks.

“Verity, that is wonderful!”

“We must go now! To the printing press! I must deliver the rest of the manuscript before they change their minds. They said they’d have a night foreman there, just for a few hours. There is no time to lose!”

“Now?” Marion’s voice was laced with disbelief.

It was so late and the household had already settled into its nightly slumber.

A quick glance at the grandfather clock confirmed it was well past midnight.

“Verity, that is impossible. It is the middle of the night. It is too risky. Are ye sure this was a real offer? What if someone sees us? Aye, what if Anselm finds out…”

Verity’s jaw set as a familiar stubbornness crept into her eyes.

“I am going, Marion. With or without you. I will not let this opportunity slip away. Not after everything I have been through to get here. Not after… after Lord Fanthorpe.”

“I understand, but?—”

“This is my chance, Marion, my only chance to prove I am more than just… a disappointed bride or some foolish woman. I am just as good as any man out there! If I were a man, you wouldn’t be giving me such trouble!” Her eyes, though still bright with excitement, were dark and desperate.

“We wouldnae be havin’ this conversation if you were a man…It is not yer fault that things are so hard for us women, but we have to be smart.”

A cold knot formed in Marion’s stomach. She knew that look. Verity would go without her. And if she went alone, the risks would be tenfold.

Her heart heavy, Marion sighed.

“Aye… this is an important opportunity. Very well. But we go together. And ye promise me, Verity, no more impulsive dashes into the night. This is it. The first and last one! From now on, ye do business durin’ daylight.”

“I promise! I promise!” Verity practically sang, already pulling Marion towards the back staircase as she reached for her cloak.

With the complicity of a trusted footman, a young man named Thomas who was recently promoted from stable duties despite his constant losing of saddles, they made their way out.

Thomas seemed to view the Duke’s household with a detached amusement and he displayed a fondness for Verity, so they slipped out of the townhouse.

The London night air was cool and crisp, carrying the distant rumble of carriages.

Before long they found themselves in a dimly lit alleyway behind a bustling printing press with the smell of ink and paper hanging in the air.

Marion felt the whole experience was invigorating and so she surrendered to the excitement.

Verity, pulling a thick roll of parchment from beneath her cloak, handed it over to a grizzled night foreman under a false name.

“Eliza Jane Bennett,” Verity whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the clatter of machinery emanating from the large building. “For Mr. Michael Murray!”

The foreman merely grunted. He snatched the manuscript and slipped it into a large, dusty bin.

Marion remained cautious, looking around the dark alley to ensure their safety.

Her senses heightened. Every shadow seemed to hold a lurking threat.

But somehow, as if a guardian angel was looking over them, nothing went awry.

In fact, the transaction was swifter than Marion expected.

As quickly as they had left, they slipped back through the quiet streets. Within thirty minutes’ time, they had returned home without even a blip of an incident.

“Promise me, Marion. Promise you will not tell Anselm. Not a word. He’ll never understand. He’ll lock me away and throw away the key,” Verity whispered as she stood outside of Marion’s bedchamber.

Marion hesitated, the lie already tasted bitter on her tongue. How she loathed lying… Yet the fervent hope in Verity’s eyes swayed her.

She saw not a mischievous girl, but a woman desperate for control over her own destiny.

Just like me.

“I promise ye,” Marion assured her, already hating the words as she spoke them. “But Verity, ye must be more careful than that. This is a dangerous city and we cannae have the poukha takin’ ye.”

“I will, I will! Thank you, Marion. Thank you for everything. You understand me completely and your support means so very much.” Verity squeezed her hand as a dazzling smile lit up her face before she danced into the dark hallway and back to her own room.

Later that night, as Marion unlaced the back of her gown, a soft knock came from the adjoining door.

Anselm’s door.

Her heart leaped into her throat. She froze and a nervous flutter in her stomach unsettled her. He had not knocked on that door since their first night as man and wife.

What could he want at this hour?

The door creaked open, and Anselm stepped silently into the room.

“Duchess,” he greeted as he entered.

Marion’s eyes widened.

He stood shirtless. The faint flicker of candlelight cast shadows across the hard planes of his chest. His skin was bronzed and smooth over muscle and his broad shoulders tapered to a lean, defined waist. Her gaze drifted lower, lingering on the line of his trousers, which were slung low on his hips, revealing the sculpted lines of his abdomen.

Marion’s breath caught as heat coiled low in her belly. She knew she should look away, but the sight of him, bare and unguarded, unsettled her in ways she hadn’t expected. There was nothing soft about him. Only power and restraint, carved into every muscle, every angle.

And all of it belonged to her husband.

Then, her clock began to tick, bringing her back into the present moment. She was mortified at her gawking, and she whirled around, clutching the fabric of her nightgown to her chest to cover herself up.

“Yer G-Grace!” she stammered. Her voice was a humiliated squeak as her cheeks flushed hot. “Ye… ye ought to put somethin’ on! It is… it is improper to just stumble into someone’s room like this!”

“Blushing, Duchess?” he asked as a taunting chuckle rumbled from his chest. “I did not take you for such a modest creature. Especially not after your late-night excursions.”

She risked a glance over her shoulder as her pulse quickened, the heat of guilt prickling at her skin. He was still there, standing silent as a statue near the doorway, arms crossed, his posture deceptively relaxed.

But it was his eyes that set her nerves alight.

They weren’t amused. They weren’t furious either. They were cool, steady, watching her with unsettling precision, as if he were cataloguing every detail: the faint flush on her cheeks, the hurried breath.

Marion swallowed hard.

His gaze roved over her slowly, thoroughly, but not in a manner meant to fluster her—not this time.

No, this was something sharper. She felt stripped bare under the weight of it, as though he were quietly measuring how much of the truth he already possessed…

and how much more he intended to drag from her lips.

The sheer restraint of him unsettled her more than any burst of anger would have.

“What are ye doin’ here really?” she demanded. Her voice regained some of its fire as she ignored his implication. “Ye havenae’ bothered to come by since our weddin’ night. In fact, ye hardly bother with me at all unless it is some required event.”

“I heard movement,” he replied, taking a slow step closer to her. The air in the room seemed to thicken with his presence and the fire in the hearth danced as wildly as her heartbeat. “Thought I would check on my wife.”

His eyes swept over her. A possessive glint in their depths made her skin prickle. She knew that look, craved that look.

“Well, wh-why—” She stammered.

“Why are you dressed? Or rather, why are you just undressing now? Having just returned from some assignation? While I know I said our marriage was in name only, I did not take you for such activities .”

Marion fumbled for an explanation that would make sense. Her mind raced as she desperately searched for a plausible lie.

“I… I was quite thirsty, ye see. I wanted some water and dinnae wish to bother the staff at such a late hour. The kitchen is… quite far… so I put on me clothes and I?—”

Anselm’s smirk widened, a truly infuriating sight as she was trying her best. She knew he would be angrier if he truly expected she was out with another man, yet he was enjoying the tease.

“You went to rather great lengths for a glass of water, didn’t you? Sneaking about in the dead of night, … And through a house full of sleeping servants and guards? Most resourceful, Duchess.”

“I am accustomed to modesty,” she retorted, clutching her nightgown tighter, as if the thin fabric could shield her from his burning gaze. “Havin’ lived with a clergyman, as ye well know! Aye, Reverend McCrae and his wife were most strict.”

His emerald eyes were sharp and knowing.

“You do not strike me as modest at all, Duchess,” he said, his gaze deliberately sweeping over her. “Not with the way your gowns cling so deliciously to your figure. Quite daring, really—especially when it isn’t even the current fashion.”

His voice dropped, losing its teasing edge, and becoming gravely serious as he licked his lips.