Page 19 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Sixteen

“ A nselm, why does it feel like I’ve stepped into a geriatric convention?” Verity complained, trailing behind him and Marion as they ascended the grand stairs to the Whipple Theatre.

“Do try to behave, sister,” Anselm said. There was a sharp edge in his voice. “The ton expects you to be seen and to look the part, especially after all you’ve been through. Can you manage that feat?”

“We shall see,” Verity replied with a sly wink. “Thankfully, Marion’s here to keep me from making a spectacle of myself. Aren’t you, Marion?”

Marion caught Anselm’s eye. “Only if ye promise nae to drag me into yer mischief,” she quipped. “How much trouble can one possibly find at the theatre?”

“Plenty, if my sister’s involved,” Anselm said dryly. “But let’s leave the dramatics to the professionals on stage, shall we?”

The lobby air hummed with the requisite hushed gossip and flirtation of London society. Anselm took Marion’s arm, playing the role of the dutiful husband, as Verity glided gracefully beside them and flitted amongst various conversations before the play was to begin.

He felt a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere as eyes landed on the three of them. He loathed such attention, yet this particular feeling was not an unwelcome one.

The usual flock of unmarried women, their eyes alight with opportunity at the sight of an eligible Duke, no longer followed him. He had first noticed it when they dined at Lord Guildbeck’s home just the other week and this evening’s engagement confirmed it.

Similarly, the speculative glances from older ladies were less sharp and replaced by something akin to approval.

“They are a handsome couple,” Lady Featherstone whispered to a guest Anselm did not recognize as they passed by, just loud enough for him to hear. “They do seem to be getting along quite well.”

Perhaps there are more uses for my Duchess than I first realized , he thought as he looked at her then.

Her rich chocolate hair was swept into an elegant twist, leaving her slender neck exposed except for the soft tendrils that framed her face. The deep burgundy gown fit her perfectly. The fabric was a bold contrast to the clear blue of her eyes which were framed by dark lashes.

Others in the room watched her for her beauty, which was unmistakable, but he saw something else.

There was a spark in her gaze and a liveliness that no fine gown or jewels could ever create.

It shimmered in her eyes and in the faint, knowing curve of her smile.

She possessed a rare, untamed spirit that drew him in far more than her polished elegance.

She was radiant . And worse—he couldn’t look away.

Indeed, Marion was a shield and more effective than any curt dismissal he had often given to unwanted attention in public.

As they continued to circulate, he did not miss the appreciative nods of several influential gentlemen as well.

They were the type of men who valued propriety above all else, and now he was one of them, a married man.

The three of them soon found Emmanuel, who had just arrived alone to join them in their box seats.

His friend bowed deeply to Marion as his eyes twinkled. “Your Grace, I must say it is an absolute pleasure to see you at such an event. Anselm speaks… most fondly of you.”

Marion offered a bright smile at his words, and Anselm did not miss the way her cerulean eyes gleamed in the room’s ambient candlelight.

“You surprise me, Lord Wrotham,” she said as she cast a glance at Anselm, who merely raised a brow.

“Do I?” Emmanuel chuckled. “Well, pardon me, Your Grace, but any man who has a wife like you would sing your praises. I am compelled to, as well. May I say you look radiant in that color?”

“Watch yourself, friend,” Anselm grunted. His chest itched angrily at the blatant flirting.

Marion merely smiled. “Thank ye, Lord Wrotham. Please ignore me husband. He seems to have an occasional aversion to pleasantness.”

Anselm blinked in surprise. Marion only smirked at him.

The little minx.

Emmanuel chuckled. “My pleasure, Your Grace. And don’t worry, I am fully aware of His Grace’s several aversions.

” Then, he turned his attention to Verity.

His eyes roved over her purple dress. “And Lady Verity, you look absolutely stunning this evening, yourself. Please tell me, what scandalous novel are you devouring as of late?”

Verity let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, please, Lord Wrotham. My reading habits are hardly scandalous. Unless you count novels that actually involve emotion. I daresay they offer more insight into the human heart than all your dreary political treatises combined. You men do love to drone on about policy and power, yet somehow never grasp what truly matters.” She arched a brow and her smile grew wicked.

“No wonder your debates last all night. None of you know how to end things properly.”

“Ah, I’ll admit I’ve been known to read a treatise now and then.

Dutifully, as any respectable man must,” Emmanuel said while flashing her a knowing grin.

“But between us, I’m more of a Shakespeare man.

Plenty of scandal and romance there, wouldn’t you agree?

Perhaps we’re not quite so different after all. ”

Verity arched a brow and her lips curled into a sly smile. “Shakespeare? How very predictable. Every man fancies himself a philosopher once he’s quoted Romeo and Juliet. You’d do better with Mary Wollstonecraft or Radcliffe. Someone with a bit of spine.”

Emmanuel let out a low laugh that indicated he was clearly delighted. “Ah, novels and manifestos… that is dangerous territory. Perhaps you might lend me one of your scandalous books? For educational purposes, of course.”

Anselm’s jaw tightened, though his face remained composed. He had seen enough of Emmanuel’s antics over the years to recognize the direction this was headed.

There was a glint in his friend’s eye and a teasing edge to his tone. It was harmless, perhaps, but not with his sister. Not with Verity. He had no intention of letting such flirtation take root. Absolutely not.

So, before Verity could reply, Anselm cut in, keeping his tone formal and clipped. “I would advise you to mind your tongue around my unmarried sister, Lord Wrotham. Some sentiments are best kept to oneself.”

Emmanuel gave an elegant bow, though the faint amusement in his smile lingered. “My apologies, Your Grace. Merely broadening my horizons, as any man of the world should.”

Anselm’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Some might say you’ve already seen far too much of the world, Emmanuel.”

At that, his friend only laughed. “You know me too well, old boy.”

“I think they are goin’ to begin,” Marion offered with a smile.

“Agreed,” Anselm replied, as they settled in to watch the evening’s performance of The Innkeeper of Abbeville .

At first, Marion’s attention was wholly on the stage. The actors were lively, the set grand, and she found herself genuinely caught up in the story.

But then she felt it. Heat prickled at her skin. She didn’t need to glance sideways to know.

Anselm was watching her.

Carefully, as the scene unfolded before them, she shifted just enough to catch him in the act. His gaze was fixed, direct, heavy, and wholly on her.

He looked away the moment her eyes met his, turning toward the stage with an expression of perfect indifference.

Marion couldn’t help herself. Her words were just a feathered tease against his ear as she leaned in and whispered, “I saw ye staring, Yer Grace.”

“Did you?” he replied under his breath. His tone was infuriatingly smooth and he managed it without even glancing her way. “I was merely watching the performance.”

“Ye were watching me,” she countered softly as her smile curved with mischief.

His only reply was to shift subtly so that his hand settled on her thigh beneath the cover of her gown and the box’s low rail. The weight of it stole the breath from her lungs. Firm and unapologetic, his thumb traced the edge of her garter with scandalous confidence.

“Behave, Duchess,” he murmured, voice like smoke against her skin.

Her heart pounded as heat rushed through her. Every nerve was set alight with the forbidden touch. She knew she ought to pull away, but instead, she sat frozen in the heady tension, unable to think of anything beyond the pressure of his hand and the nearness of his breath.

“Or what?” she managed to retort as she stared straight into his eyes.

Anselm’s pupils dilated. The darkness took over the deep lush forests of his irises as he squeezed her leg. Then, slowly, deliberately, he slid his hand up her thigh so that his fingers traced a line between them over her gown.

Her breath hitched.

A startled warmth bloomed low in her belly, where his fingers pressed gently yet insistently. She hadn’t known such a sensation could exist—so sudden, so sharp, yet intoxicating in its mystery.

Her fingers clenched lightly in her lap as a flush crept up her neck and cheeks, quickening her pulse.

“Testing me again, little temptress?” he drawled into her ear. “Careful. I might test you in return. See how long you last before you’re begging for release.”

Marion bit her lip. She wasn’t sure what to think. Every nerve felt alive and electric. It was as if he had ignited something deep inside her she never knew was waiting. A tremble rose unbidden and her body ached in a way she didn’t understand but found impossible to resist.

Then—

“A thousand pardons,” Emmanuel’s voice broke in, pitched just low enough to remain between the four of them.

He didn’t even look their way as he spoke because he was lounging back lazily.

“Hate to interrupt whatever riveting conversation is happening in this corner, but you might like to know that half the pit is watching our box.”

Marion flushed scarlet as her breath caught.

Anselm, unruffled, withdrew his hand. He fixed Emmanuel with a slow, warning glare.