Page 23 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Nineteen

“ R eady for this one?” Verity whispered as she poked her head into Marion’s bedroom door and waved a manuscript in the air.

“I have finished my next novella! This one is a tale of forbidden love. I cannot wait another minute. We must get this to the printing press immediately. There is no time to waste!”

Marion sighed. Apprehension and amusement at her friend’s intrusion mingled within her.

It was another moonless night. She planned to spend it curled up in bed, waiting to see if there would be a soft tap at the adjoining door to Anselm’s quarters.

Instead, Verity stepped in, breaking her from her thoughts, and donning a dark cloak pulled tightly around her shoulders.

Much as Marion worried about their late-night outings, she was happy for her friend and all she had achieved as an authoress. The whole manner of it was most exciting and provided a welcome distraction from her own love life. Or lack thereof.

“Forbidden love? I’m eager to read it! Very well, we shall go. Aye, but we must be swift!”

They navigated the quiet streets of London with relative ease. The city’s usual commotion was dimmed by the late hour. The printing press was only a few blocks away from their townhouse and its windows glowed faintly as they neared.

Verity skipped over to the sleepy night foreman, whom Marion recognized from the last time, and handed over the rolled manuscript.

Marion’s ears perked up when she caught a faint shuffling from the alleyway behind them. Her head snapped at the sound, putting her senses on high alert as her hair stood on end.

“Did ye hear that noise?” she whispered. She walked right up to Verity and wrapped a hand instinctively and protectively around her arm. “It was too loud to be a rat or some other animal. Do ye think some poukha is followin’ us?”

Verity waved a dismissive hand as she continued to work with the foreman.

“I am serious, Verity,” Marion pressed, continuing to pull gently on her arm. “Come now, lass!”

“It was probably just the wind, Marion! Don’t be so superstitious! Besides, I am almost done.” She beamed at the foreman, who merely grunted back as they waited for his supervisor to sign off on the delivery.

“All set, miss,” the foreman announced.

“Until next time,” Verity said as they walked away and headed down the empty streets back toward their carriage.

Next time … aye, what am I goin’ to do with this lass?

As they walked on in silence, Marion couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that twisted in her gut.

“Verity, this cannae go on. Sneakin’ out and riskin’ exposure after all ye have been through. Aye, it is settled. Ye must tell Anselm. What if somethin’ happened and he dinnae ken where we are?”

“Anselm? Are you serious, Marion?” Verity asked, pausing in the street and turning to face her. “We have already talked about this. You know I simply cannot do that.”

“Perhaps he’ll understand yer passion for writin’ and need for this independence. That way there will be no secrets or shadows between the two of ye.”

“Understand what I am doing?” She shook her head. “No, Marion. You do not know him as well as I do. He sees the world as it is, without imagination. All he knows is duty. He’s a true straight arrow. He could never understand the art nor the heart of what I put on paper. It is everything I am!”

“But Verity?—”

“ No . He would only see the risks, the potential scandal, and the impropriety of it all. That is all he cares about,” she said. Her green eyes cast down on the cobblestones.

“He cares for yer safety. He just wants to protect ye,” Marion pressed. “I ken it is important to him.”

“Protect, yes,” Verity agreed. “Do you know a good synonym for protect ? It’s control . It is all the same with Anselm. He’d lock me away in the countryside if he thought it would keep me safe, but he knows I would just find a way to escape again.”

“Oh, Verity!”

“Do not feel bad for poor little me. Things have been so much better since I returned from Scotland and since you came into our lives,” she said, grabbing Marion’s hands in hers. “I am sorry, but I cannot tell him. Not now, not ever.”

She pulled her hands away and wrapped the cloak tighter around her shoulders .Verity walked a few paces ahead, where Marion could see their carriage waiting.

The stillness of the townhouse felt suffocating to Marion as she laid awake in her plush bed.

She stared up at the ceiling. The shadows danced around in swirls as she imagined they were different shapes.

Sleep is out of the question , she thought as her mind buzzed. Between that startlin’ noise in the alley and Verity’s reaction to me request she confide in her brother…

She pushed the covers down and sat up, reaching for her robe at the nearby table. She put it on, got up, and walked down the hall with a single candle in her hand. She was not sure where she was wandering to when she suddenly found herself drawn to the studio.

She lit several more candles once she was inside her sanctuary. Their flickering flames cast dancing silhouettes on the canvases she had been working on that week.

The familiar scent of paint was a balm to her restless spirit. She picked up a brush and began working.

She was lost in the rhythmic sweep of her brush as it moved up and down on the fresh canvas like a dance. She felt like she was a young girl again, safe in her parents’ home and able to just focus on her art.

Just as she was about to select her next color, a soft creak in the floorboards startled her.

She took a deep, steadying breath as she heard someone enter. She inhaled the masculine scent of pine and fine soap.

Anselm .

She turned around and her heart began pounding.

He stood, framed in the doorway, wearing a loose cotton shirt and breeches. His dark hair was tousled, as if he too could not sleep.

“Marion?” he asked, a hint of the usual steel beneath his sleepy voice. “What are you doing in here at this hour?” His gaze swept over her, then around the candlelit room.

“What does it look like I am doin’, Yer Grace? I am makin’ use of the beautiful paint set ye saw fit to give me?—”

“And what were you and Verity doing out?”

Marion stiffened. Her hand froze. . She offered a sheepish smile as she set her tools down.

Of course he’d ken.

“Since ye ken we were out, ye also ken what we were doin’, Yer Grace,” she told him.

He smirked. “I do ken , indeed. I wanted to see whether you’d tell me the truth.”

Marion lips drew into a tight line. “Ye have no faith in me, then, Yer Grace?”

He stilled. “Anselm.”

“What?”

“Call me Anselm. It’s only the two of us here,” he said softly.

She exhaled. “Very well, Anselm . Will ye answer me question now?”

Anselm crossed his arms, showcasing his broad shoulders. He looked impossibly tall as he casually paced around the small studio.

Then, his gaze shifted to the paintings, and she watched him look at the canvases stacked against the walls.

He paused before a landscape. Its vibrant greens and deep blues created a stark contrast to the muted tones of London. The painting represented a land of nymphs and fairies, of magic and adventure.

“These are… quite remarkable,” he said. “You were modest when speaking of your work.”

Marion felt a blush creep up her neck, heating the dimples of her cheeks as she rubbed them absentmindedly.

“Well, I… Ye dinnae answer me question.”

His smirk dropped a little. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, wife. Apprehension is in my nature.”

Marion’s face softened. It wasn’t an admission of trust, not fully. But it was a step.

She could only nod at him. In return, he glanced back at her landscape painting.

“You are very talented,” he said softly.

“Oh, it is… merely a pastime, Yer Grace. Nothin’ as grand as what hangs in this townhouse.”

She felt shy, humble, and exposed. Surely, a duke was accustomed to far grander works of art than this and she had seen them hung about the grand townhouse. Yet, something about the look in his emerald eyes as he took in her work filled her with a sense of pride.

Aye, he really likes them.

She watched him closely as he turned to another canvas, a misty mountain scene that filled Marion’s most tender dreams of home.

“These are in Strathcairn, aren’t they? I did not get much of a chance to take it all in, but I recognize these.”

“Aye,” Marion admitted, her voice soft. “I… I have been a little homesick, I suppose. Paintin’ helps to transport me back there, to immortalize me memories on canvas. A bit of the Highlands in the middle of London.”

His face fell slightly, and she swore she saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but it was gone by the time he looked back at her.

“What was it like? In Strathcairn.”

A wistful smile formed on her lips, and Marion glanced away as her mind filled with fond memories.

“Aye, it was a wonderful place to grow up,” she began.

“Me faither encouraged me to be curious. He allowed me to study geography and history but also to ride to me heart’s content on me prized mare, Morrigan, and hunt like any young lad.

Me maither encouraged me paintin’. I cannae help but think of her every time I hold the brush. ”

“It sounds beautiful,” he said quietly. “You’ve captured it well in this painting.”

“Thank ye,” she whispered back.

Anselm nodded and his gaze stayed fixed on the painting. He then moved to a stack of papers on a nearby table and idly flipped through them.

Suddenly, he paused, and a subtle but clear tension rose up his shoulders. He pulled out a single sheet, which was beneath a pile of unfinished studies. They were mostly for reference, nothing of consequence…

Then, it hit her like a ton of bricks.

How in the bloody hell did I forget that was in there?

Marion’s eyes widened in horror as she took a step back. It was a charcoal sketch, raw and unfinished, of a male torso—suspiciously, and unmistakably, like his.