Page 18 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Fifteen

T he following morning, as Marion heard the household just beginning to stir below downstairs, a soft knock came from the adjoining door.

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she pulled her covers to her chin.

This cannae be happenin’? What in God’s name is he doin’ knockin’ on me door this time?

She was still in her nightgown and her chocolate locks were as wild as a tumbleweed.

Another knock came, more insistent, and she jumped to her feet. She fumbled for her robe, putting it on and tying it clumsily around her waist as the door opened.

Anselm stepped in, and Marion instantly noticed how impeccably dressed and coiffed he was.

His cravat was tied perfectly around his neck where it sat below his freshly trimmed beard.

Second, his expression was devoid of any lingering heat from the night before.

He looked as if nothing had transpired between them.

He was ever the Duke, calm and businesslike, which only rattled her nerves more.

“Good morning, Duchess. I trust that you slept well?”

Marion’s flush deepened as she fumbled awkwardly for words.

Aye, sleep? That is a funny thought.

“Good mornin’, Yer Grace. I slept perfectly well. Thank ye,” she answered, a small cough escaping her dry throat as they were her first words of the day. “Is there somethin’ ye require of me this mornin’?”

He moved further into the room with his hands clasped behind his back. He paced toward the oversized window that looked down upon the London streets. He kept his back to her as he set his hands on the windowsill.

“Only a moment of your time. About last night’s…”

“Yes?” Marion answered with a small gulp. Anticipation tingled all over her body.

Perhaps he wants to apologize for the sudden coldness from last night. To start over. More steadily this time.

“The excursion, with my sister.” He turned and his green eyes met hers. She was surprised to see that his expression was sharp and unwavering.

“Oh. Yes… that.” Marion frowned, trailing off as she wrung her hands together.

Ye’re an idiot, Marion.

“You will not tell Verity that I know about her visit to the printing press. I would like that detail to remain between us,” he went on.

Marion blinked. “Ye… ye want me to lie to her? How could I do that to one of me dearest friends?”

“It is not a lie, surely. Think of it as a small omission,” he corrected coolly. “Like the one you tried with me last night. But yes, I want you to keep this information to yourself.”

Marion felt a shiver go down her spine at the mention of last night, even if the Duke had skirted over their… intimate moment. She had a feeling that whenever she’d recall that night from now on, her cheeks would turn positively red.

“Why?” Still, Marion pressed. “Why would ye keep such a thing from her? I daenae understand why ye wouldnae just tell her.”

“It is not your concern, Duchess. I only need you to give me your word?—”

“This is somethin’ that gives her joy, some purpose beyond the constraints of this life ye have imposed on her. Do ye nae wish to let her share this with ye? Admittedly, she may not react positively to the spying part, but at least ye’ll?—”

“I do not wish to alarm her,” he explained, his expression tight. “Nor do I wish to stifle her ambitions. Much as I question them, they… As you said, they seem to give her something to strive for. And Verity needs that.”

He paused, and the silence that followed was not empty but thick and expectant. A hush seemed to press upon Marion’s chest. She could feel the unsaid words circling and waiting to be spoken.

“She has been through enough,” the Duke finally added. “I want her to feel safe. Not like a prisoner in her own home.”

“That is fair,” she said softly.

Then he pursed his lips. “But I also need to ensure she doesn’t act rashly again. The Fanthorpe business was smoothed over well enough, but not without effort. We cannot go through that again.”

“I’m gathering that there’s more to ye words, husband.”

He tilted his head and the tiniest curve appeared near the corner of his lip.

She arched an eyebrow to motion for him to continue.

He hesitated at first. “Verity trusts you. Far more than she trusts anyone else in this house. Certainly, more than she trusts me.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

Marion could sense he resented that. She’d known Verity for far less time than him. And yet, Verity seemed to turn to her, and not her brother. She could understand how that would cost her husband, but a big part of her understood Verity too, as he offered his sister such little freedom.

“That puts you in a unique position. The position to be useful,” he clarified.

“Daenae tell me ye want me to spy on her.” Marion’s jaw tightened as she considered just what he was asking of her.

“I want you to keep an eye on her, that is all. To ensure her safety and to guide her when needed. Not to spy. She is young, naive, and fiercely independent to a fault. It is a volatile combination, and London is not a forgiving city for young women with such tendencies, especially those of her station.”

“Oh, so now I am not a bad influence on her?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

His face fell and he bit his lip while eyeing her carefully.

“This is an opportunity for you to prove me wrong, then,” he retorted.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Heavens, the nerve of this man.

“I daenae have to prove anything to anyone, Yer Grace. Nae even you,” she said, mustering all her courage to lift her chin.

He was attractive, yes, and he’d turned her legs into honey the night before, but she would not give him the satisfaction of backing down.

Anselm studied her for another moment. The morning light danced in his eyes which were now illuminated by… amusement?

This scoundrel. He finds me amusing, does he?

A moment later, he took a step closer and his voice dropped to a whisper.

“Fine. Then take this as a request, Marion. If Verity were to be compromised… or worse, if this publishing scheme were to lead her into some unsavory circle of characters, the consequences would be catastrophic. For her, for this family, for everything I have worked to protect. Even you.”

The sound of her name on his tongue caressed the back of her head, sending warm tingles down her spine.

She couldn’t comprehend this man. One moment, he was infuriating, and the next he made her feel this way.

“And ye truly think I am yer solution to all that?” Marion challenged. “Tis a tall order, Yer Grace.”

“I will have her watched either way, Marion,” he stated plainly, using her name once again as though he’d done so for years. “Surely, it is better if her friend, the woman she confides in, is the one to keep her safe. I think it is a fair trade, for what has been done to help you.”

Marion found herself sighing. No matter how much she wished to challenge him back, she was indebted to him.

Indebted to Verity. And the rational part of her knew he was right.

She cared for Verity very much, but she could get carried away with excitement.

Yes, last night they’d been lucky, but if this publishing business went on, their luck would eventually run out.

“We both want what’s best for Verity, do we not? To see her happy, fulfilled, and safe,” Anselm offered after a long silence.

Marion stared at him and nodded in agreement. “Aye. Very well,” she conceded. “I will see that no harm comes to Verity.”

He gave a curt nod. He turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

“Anselm,” Emmanuel called as he looked up from his paper and waved.

Anselm walked over. His tall body was rigid as he sat straight as an arrow in the leather armchair beside Emmanuel.

Cigar smoke and hushed conversations filled the room of the private club where they most often met.

The place was lit by green lamps and meager sunlight that escaped from the drawn curtains.

“You look as if you have run around London twice, and it is not even lunch,” Emmanuel said as he eyed him. “What has you so unsettled, my friend? Haven’t things been smoothed over with your sister?”

Anselm stroked his beard and sighed in relief as a waiter brought him a steaming hot cup of coffee, which he slurped.

“It is still Verity, of course. She found herself a publisher through a connection she made with that local bookseller she frequents so much. Slipped out in the middle of the damn night like some banshee… and with the Duchess’s assistance.”

Emmanuel eye’s darkened with concern. “In the middle of the night? Why would they ever do that? Much as propriety is not my cup of tea, that is outright dangerous.”

“To deliver a manuscript, apparently.”

Emmanuel whistled as he set down his newspaper on the side table and gave Anselm his full attention.

“A publisher? Well, I will be damned. That is quite impressive for a lady. She has ambition, that sister of yours. And if her conversation is any indication of her written word, she has talent as well. Is this publisher willing to print her work?”

“It seems so,” Anselm grumbled.

“Is she using a pseudonym?”

“Naturally.”

“But you still seem perturbed. This isn’t a bad thing, surely? As long as she’s not using her real name, this is a safe outlet for her energies. A way for her to remain occupied and happy as things blow over after the Fanthorpe fiasco. So, what is the matter?”

Anselm raked a hand through his hair. “It is not the publishing; it is the slipping out part that worries me. This complete disregard for her safety and any sense of propriety, our family, and her name. She could have been seen. Compromised…”

“Yes, I can see how that would be?—”

“What if someone followed her? What if someone already knows she was out cavorting at that hour and twists the facts?” He looked around paranoidly, ensuring no one was listening to them. “I cannot stomach the thought of her name in the scandal sheets ever again.”

He’d recalled how he’d found the note she’d left behind on her bed the day she’d gone missing.

Anselm had to run to Fanthorpe first. They concocted a believable reason to stall the wedding, then he’d run around London searching for her, only to have the scandal sheets note her ‘curious disappearance.’ He’d had to go to each and every scandal sheet owner and bribe them in exchange for their silence.

Even then, people read the initial sheets. They’d speculated, whispered, and come up with ridiculous rumors about his little sister. Heavens, he’d worked so hard to keep her safe from the harshness of the world, and she’d gone running away on her own.

And even after he’d promptly brought her back and covered the damage of her vanishing, she’d gone ahead and snuck out in the dead of night.

How was he going to protect her when she seemed to thwart all his efforts?

“Anselm, the whole world is not out to get you nor watching you at all hours of the day and night,” Emmanuel said gently, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

“Most people do not care about Verity’s movements.

You worry too much. You need to relax and spend time with that pretty wife of yours?—”

“I do not worry enough ,” Anselm snapped.

“Yes, you do, my friend,” Emmanuel argued. “I know the burden of Verity’s care fell squarely on your shoulders after your parents’ death, Anselm. You were barely a man yourself. But that doesn’t mean that?—”

“I will not fail Verity. Not again,” he ground out. “This city seeks out innocence with a voracious thirst. It has a way of twisting everything good into something ugly.”

Somehow, his grim words conjured the image of Marion in his mind. All she had endured. The threats against her, the appalling betrothal to Gilton.

Gilton.

“What is it, old boy? Is something else troubling you? I can see it in your eyes,” Emmanuel urged.

“I have not ascertained the source of the threats the Duchess received in Scotland,” he said while shaking his head.

“Has she received more?”

“No, but I resent not knowing the source and having things accounted for.”

“Well, knowing you this many years, I suppose I can understand that. What is your plan then? I know you have one,” Emmanuel said as he crossed his leg and leaned in toward his friend.

Anselm glanced around them, ensuring no eyes or ears were on them, and he replied in whisper, “I have someone discreetly investigating the matter, but it is a slower process than I care for.”

“Well, patience has never been part of your virtues.”

Anselm glared at him. “Look who speaks of virtue.”

Emmanuel chuckled. “Oh, I am highly aware I possess no virtues, my friend. I mostly rely on yours to get by.”

“There’ll come a moment when you’ll have to unearth your own virtues from wherever you’ve buried them, my friend,” Anselm said, taking a long swig from his now-cooled coffee.

“Ever the wise one, Your Grace. Here’s to that remote and distant hour on the horizon. Assuming I remember where I hid my virtues by then,” Emmanuel replied with a smirk as he raised his glass to meet Anselm’s with a soft clink.