Page 22 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Eighteen

“ C ome on now,” Verity called as they hurried to the next stall. “Each vendor is more exciting than the next! Do you not agree?”

The vibrant chaos of the market was a welcome distraction.

From Anselm. From Gilton. From everything.

She savored the scent of fresh bread mingling with exotic spices and looked at the vibrant hues of flower stalls with eager eyes as her lady’s maid trailed behind them.

“Oh, Marion, look here!” Verity cried, pulling her towards a small, unassuming stall tucked between a fruit stand and a ribbon seller. “This is simply perfect!”

“Oh my,” Marion sighed. “It has been a long time since I set me eyes on that.”

On display was an exquisite art set. Marion ran her fingers over the gleaming wooden box, with an intricately carved floral pattern on the top.

She opened it to see an array of watercolors, brushes, and smooth, heavy papers.

The colors gleamed in the sunlight. Her fingers ached to use the brushes, but she shut the cover and looked away.

Her mind instantly went to Reverand McCrae and the fateful day he had taken her supplies from her. He was frustrated that she was not taking his sermons more seriously and thought it prudent to remove any distractions. She remembered the painful tug in her heart as he hauled her canvases away.

“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Verity murmured, already reaching for it. “You simply must have it. Imagine what you could create with these!”

Marion pulled her hand back and looked at the price, which was scrawled on a small card. It was exorbitant.

“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head from side to side. “It is far too expensive, Verity. Out of the question.”

“But it is gorgeous!” Verity insisted, turning the box over in her hands as she held it out. “And Anselm has more money than he knows what to do with! You know you are the Duchess of Greystead. You can afford it!”

“I cannae do this,” Marion sighed. “I wasnae raised to be frivolous.”

Her gaze became distant, as she fixed on some phantom mark.

“One doesnae simply indulge in frivolities. It is a sinful act that only breeds selfishness. Ye would do well to focus on compliance so that ye might learn to obey yer future husband.”

Her mind then flitted to her uncle, who in some ways was even worse. She thought of his warnings, urging her to be a good wife if she wanted a secure future in the world. When she had asked for a paint set to replace the one she had taken from her, he’d chastised her.

No spending your husband’s hard-earned monies flippantly, child. You must learn your place.

Verity sighed dramatically as she handed the box to the vendor. “Oh, Marion! For goodness’ sake, look at those blues! Like a Scottish loch at dawn!”

Marion shook her head, though her heart ached with longing. A part of her knew that her friend was right, and yet…

“No, Verity. Put it down. We should go.”

With a final, lingering glance at the art set, she steered Verity away from the stall.

Marion guided them through the thronging market, her hand steady on Verity’s arm despite the turmoil in her chest, the maid still obediently following.

As the noise faded behind them, Verity’s voice broke the silence. “So… My friend. I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“Yes, darlin’?” Marion raised an eyebrow.

Verity glanced back at the lady’s maid behind them. “Would you mind giving us some privacy, dear?”

The maid curtsied. “Of course, Lady Verity,” she said and curtsied at Marion too. “Your Grace.”

Once the maid was several paces behind and out of earshot, Verity leaned in closer.

“Are you content?” she asked. “I mean, in your marriage with my brother.”

Marion’s lips pressed into a careful smile. She forced calm into her tone. “I am content, Verity. I have ye, and me future is secure.”

Verity gazed at her with searching and curious eyes. “And Anselm? Does he treat you well?”

Marion’s cheeks warmed beneath the question.

She nodded, keeping her voice steady. “He’s a good husband.”

“But…” Verity pressed, a flicker of apprehension in her gaze, “well, although he’s my brother, you’re my friend, too. Does he… treat you well?” Her voice dropped slightly. Even though Verity was repeating the question it was heavier and more suggestive this time.

Marion’s eyes widened, and she cleared her throat with a faint flush. “Verity, that’s hardly proper to ask.”

Verity blinked incredulously. “Since when do you care about what’s proper? You’re the one who fled your wedding and ended up in my brother’s carriage.”

Marion drew in a sharp breath.. “There’s a comportment I must observe on occasion. No matter how much I might resent it.”

Verity smirked. “I write novels. I know what married—or unmarried—couples get up to. We’re friends, Marion. You can tell me. Well, not with the explicit bits, mind, or I’ll be sick. After all, Anselm’s my brother.”

Marion bit the inside of her cheek, desperate to hide the truth that they had not yet consummated the marriage.

She shifted and allowed her eyes to flick away. “He’s proper, as ye ken.”

Verity rolled her eyes. “Marion. Come on.”

She sighed. “We need time. Time to become familiar with one another.”

Verity’s grin widened. “Well, you seemed pretty familiar in the theatre box.”

Marion’s eyes shot open in surprise.

“What, you thought that Emmanuel only noticed? Do you take me for a complete idiot?” Verity tilted her head to the side.

“No! I didn’t… I just…” Marion stumbled over her words.

Aye, she should’ve expected that her observant friend would have noticed the tension between her and Anselm. She only hoped she hadn’t seen him put his hand…

Blast it !

Her cheeks burned.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I am simply letting you know that I have eyes, Marion,” Verity said softly. “It’s quite all right. I only hope you and my brother keep your… nocturnal activities to the hours when I’m fast asleep.”

“Verity!”

Her friend laughed, unabashed. “There’s no need to be coy with me.” Then she grew serious. “I only want you to be happy. You did this for me, after all.”

Marion shook her head. “Ye should never feel guilty, Verity. I am happy. I am here with you, my dearest friend. As for Anselm… well, he needs a bit more work.”

Verity chuckled knowingly. “Don’t I know it.”

Marion smiled faintly and changed the subject. “What are you working on now?”

Verity’s eyes gleamed as she spoke. “It’s about a lady promised to a cold earl but in love with a scandalous poet. She risks everything. There’s secret letters, stolen meetings, and our heroine must follow her heart instead of duty.”

Marion nodded, though her thoughts began to wander. Beneath the surface of Verity’s fiction, she sensed whispers of their own tangled lives woven quietly into the pages.

Her mind drifted involuntarily to Anselm, the man who held her future but also guarded his own heart fiercely.

She swallowed the ache that followed, pushing down the restless longing that stirred whenever she thought of him.

A few days later, Marion returned to her bedchamber after a particularly grueling morning of household tasks.

On her dressing table, where only moments before a vase of fresh roses stood, now sat a familiar, gleaming wooden box.

The art set…

Her heart gave a startled leap as she walked over to it. Attached to it, with a simple piece of ribbon was a folded note.

She picked it up and her fingers trembled slightly. She hated notes, especially after all she endured with Gilton.

The handwriting was distinctively Anselm’s, as bold and decisive as the man himself.

Duchess,

An impractical expense, perhaps, but a necessary one. I believe you mentioned a need for a particular shade of blue.

Anselm

A flush spread to Marion’s cheeks. He had listened when she had mentioned the color during dinner a few days ago after she and Verity had returned from their excursion to the market. He had noticed she wanted a hobby, something else to occupy her days than the duties of being his Duchess.

He had remembered and Verity had sweetly intervened.

It was a small gesture yet filled with kindness. She turned on her heel in search of him and found him in his study, immersed in a stack of ledgers.

“Yer Grace,” Marion began as she entered with a soft knock. “I… I wanted to thank ye for the art set. It was very thoughtful of ye. Ye really shouldnae have…”

Anselm merely glanced up. His expression was neutral as he set down the ledgers.

“Nonsense. I heard you admired it. And one requires tools for one’s pursuits.” He waved a dismissive hand, already looking back at his papers. “Verity hasn’t gotten up to much trouble, and for that, I thank you.”

“Still,” Marion pressed. “It means a great deal. Thank ye, Anselm.”

He offered a slight nod, and Marion watched the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth, hinting at a curbed smile.

“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to.”

Marion smiled and left him to his work without another word.

He may feign indifference, but I ken better.

Armed with her new art set, Marion wasted no time getting to work. She enlisted her maid, Beth, to help her to transform one of the townhouse’s smaller, sun-drenched drawing rooms on the second floor into a private studio.

Easels appeared as if by magic, canvases were stretched, and the rich scent of paint began to mingle with the usual fragrance of beeswax polish and potpourri that represented the Greystead townhouse.

It was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the pressures of being a duchess and slip away from her husband.

Much as she sought refuge in her room, it was difficult to relax knowing he was just on the other side of the door, and yet so far away.

She was able to really lose herself in the swirling colors of her imagination in her studio all while recapturing a part of herself she thought long lost.

She thought of her parents and the blissful memories of her childhood while painting the landscapes surrounding Strathcairn Hall.

She smiled when she saw that the azure blue in the kit had captured the nearby loch’s hue so well.

Aye, I will get used to this…

One drizzly afternoon, seeking quiet after a particularly trying social call, Marion walked into the drawing room to lose herself in a novel, only to see there was someone in the corner chair.

Thinking it might be Verity, she stepped in and walked to the windows to throw open the curtains to cast better light.

And then she froze.

Anselm.

He was seated in her favorite armchair and utterly absorbed by something. A single candle was on the side table and in his hands, held at an angle that hid the title, was a book. He was so engrossed, he had not heard her, nor noticed her drawing the curtains.

Marion’s eyes narrowed as she inched closer. She recognized the subtle, slightly worn edges of the binding and the distinct font. It was certainly The Highland Holiday .

I cannae believe me eyes. He is readin’ Verity’s novel! This is too good to be true.

A small, mischievous smile played on Marion’s lips. She cleared her throat and created a soft, deliberate sound as she walked toward him. She enjoyed startling him, not often having the chance with all of his calculations.

Anselm stiffened instantly. His shoulders tensed as he looked up at her. With a startled huff, he snapped the book shut and shoved it beneath the cushion of the armchair with all the casualness of a bull.

“Duchess!” he exclaimed, his voice gruff and eyes wide as he looked at her. “What are you… what are you doing in here?”

Marion leaned against the wall by the ornate fireplace, crossing her arms, while her smile widened.

“Well, Yer Grace. I was just comin’ here to do some readin’ meself.

Though it appears I have interrupted a rather private moment.

” She raised a brow and her gaze pointedly dropped to where the book had been stuffed.

“Engrossed in some ledgers, I presume? I ken you usually only have time for work matters.”

Anselm cleared his throat while looking at the floor. “Indeed. It is a weighty tome on agricultural reform, which I plan to use to…um, well, yes. It is tremendously stimulating. But quite boring for you, I am sure.” He coughed again as he shifted in his seat.

“Of course,” Marion drawled, stepping closer to him and savoring the subtle shift in power. “Perhaps you should try somethin’ new, like a darin’ tale on the complexities of love? Something with… hm, perhaps a Scottish settin’ is more to your likin’?”

Anselm spluttered while rising to his feet and tucking the book underneath his arm.

Oh, I like seein’ him squirm.

“Do not be ridiculous, Marion.”

Marion grinned as he walked out of the room, not pressing the matter further.

But Marion noticed that he’d taken Verity’s book with him.

She sat down on the warm chair and the residual heat of his body spread through her own. Her eyes twinkled at the thought of him reading his sister’s work, let alone something with such insight into the human heart, and the ways of love.

Perhaps there will be some hope for us yet…