Page 25 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twenty

“ M arion, dear,” Verity began while perching on the edge of Marion’s bed. Her eyes were bright as if she had not been up half the night making mysterious drop offs.

“I ken we are friends, but do ye knock?” Marion joked as she rubbed her eyes, surprised by the hour on her bedside clock.

“I am on a new chapter, you see,” Verity said, ignoring her protest.

“Ye just finished the last one, and already ye are startin’ up again?”

“That is how all the great authors work! But what I need… well…it is about… well, it is about the intimacy between a newly married couple.”

“I beg ye pardon, Verity. But I havenae even had tea and ye are askin’ about?—”

“Since you are now, quite officially, a newly married Duchess, I thought you might offer some… particular insights that would aid in my research. I’ve written such scenes before, but I have you now to improve on them—a person with direct experience!”

“Direct experience? Verity, what on earth are ye talkin’ about?” Marion said as the lingering heat of Anselm’s touch from just hours before crept up her neck. “Can ye wait until I have had me mornin’ tea?”

“You know what I mean!” Verity leaned in closer then and dropped her head on Marion’s pillow. “The marital bed. The passion! The… ahem, consummation .”

“Oh, bloody hell!”

“Is it truly as all-consuming as the poets describe? Does one feel a fire burning throughout their body, or is it more like a gentle warmth? Is there a particular sort of sound or sigh that accompanies it? For my heroine, you see, it needs to be utterly authentic.”

“Verity! Really! Such questions are… are highly improper and I am nae an expert,” Marion stammered as her face took on a fiery red hue. “While ye are a close friend… this is a deeply personal matter!”

She clutched her sheets to her chest and Verity pouted. She grabbed a pillow and threw it at Marion playfully.

“This is for the sake of art, Marion! Surely, a few details wouldn’t hurt. Just the general feeling of it,” she pressed while batting her eyelashes at Marion. “Is it like a gentle summer breeze, or a roaring Highland storm?”

“If ye must press… well, it is unique to each couple,” Marion managed, desperate to appease her so she could change the subject. “Both expressions have their merits… But such matters are not for polite discussion… even amongst the closest of friends!”

“I would tell you!” Verity said as she sighed dramatically.

“But fine. Keep your secrets, dear sister. But do not blame me if my hero’s passionate embrace falls flat because I lack the appropriate physical details.

” She stood up, already plotting. “I shall simply have to rely on my imagination. Or better yet, the highly descriptive passages in the Marquis de Sade’s Justine . ”

Marion groaned feeling utterly mortified as she rose to her feet and grabbed her dressing gown.

“Ye are incorrigible, Verity! Ye must ken that.”

Thank the gods, Marion thought as the scent of hot tea and toasted bread lured her to the breakfast room one hour later than customary.

Verity was already there, buttering a scone and feverishly jotting notes in her trusty pad. Marion was still reeling from Verity’s earlier interrogation.

“I have a story to tell ye,” Marion started as she took a sip of earl grey. “It came to me in a dream, after I finally fell asleep.”

“You have my full attention,” Verity said as she put down her quill and faced her friend with an expectant glance.

“It isnae that sort of story, but I think ye will like it all the same.”

“Go on,” Verity pressed as she set her chin on her fist.

“When I was a lassie, back at Strathcairn, me faither insisted I be well versed in Gaelic. It became a way for us to communicate when others were around who dinnae speak it. It was handy, especially when travelin’.

So, one day, we were at a party with mostly English folk and the most insufferable woman I had ever seen.

She wouldnae stop goin’ on and on about bonnets and the appropriate fabrics for summer curtains. ”

“Sounds like Lady Featherstone,” Verity joked.

“Just the type! Well, when I was walkin’ ahead with him, I said amaideach bò and she turned at me. Her face was as twisted as a corkscrew.”

“What in the devil does that mean?”

“Foolish cow,” Marion said as she began laughing at the memory. “I dinnae think she would ken what I meant, but she surely did. Me maither was too entertained to be mad, and luckily, she dinnae call on us again.”

“I cannot imagine you calling someone a foolish cow, and let alone getting caught!” Verity erupted into joyous laughter. “Oh, that is good.”

The more Verity laughed, the more Marion found herself laughing along. Their giggles kept building upon each other, like only close friends can. Every time they tried to stop, they only roared louder.

From the doorway, Anselm paused and placed his hand on the frame.

He watched them. He watched Verity. She had her head thrown back and her bright laugh echoed through the hallowed halls of the Greystead townhouse.

She looked like a picture of the young girl he used to know—in the throes of pure, unadulterated happiness.

And then he looked at Marion. Her ocean-like eyes sparkled as a genuine smile lit up her entire face. Her cheekbones were impossibly delicate and high, a ravishing sight if he had ever seen one.

A tender warmth spread through him, a feeling he rarely allowed himself to experience. He could not help but be influenced by the moment the girls were sharing, filled with a quiet contentment he had not known in so long.

He thought back and he realized that he had never, not once, seen Verity so utterly carefree as a young adult. So openly joyful. And Marion’s laugh was bubbly, infectious, rich, and captivating.

They looked at the door then, and the laughter ceased abruptly. Both ladies stiffened at the sight of him. Their giggles turned into polite coughs as they caught their breath.

He frowned as he realized how quickly his presence had quelled their laughter.

“Good morning, ladies,” Anselm said as he stepped into the room. “You seem to be enjoying yourselves. Pray tell, what is the cause of such laughter?”

Marion and Verity exchanged quick, conspiratorial glances.

“Oh, nothing,” Verity chirped, picking up her teacup. “Just a rather amusing anecdote Marion was sharing. Nothing that we would waste your valuable time with, dear brother.”

“Indeed,” Marion added. “A very silly story, Yer Grace. Nae worthy of yer attention… it really wasnae even that funny. I daenae ken what came over us.”

Anselm raised a brow and there was an amused glint in his eyes. “Silly, you say? It sounded rather animated from where I stood. I can take a joke as well as the next?—”

He was about to press further when the door opened and in came Mr. Lewis.

“Your Grace,” he announced as his gaze swept the room. “Lord Gilton is here to see you.”

The air in the breakfast room instantly froze. Verity dropped her teacup onto its saucer and Marion’s smile left her lips in an instant. Her gaze shot to Anselm, whose jaw had tightened.

“Show him in,” Anselm said.

Moments later, Lord Gilton appeared in the doorway with a charming, serpentine smile plastered on his face.

“Good morning, Your Grace!” Gilton’s voice was smooth and cultured.

“And ladies! What a delightful coincidence to find you all gathered here together. I trust I am not interrupting a moment of domestic bliss?” He bowed gracefully to each of them.

“Your Grace.” He turned to Marion and allowed his eyes to linger on her.

“You look exceptionally well this morning. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”

“Lord Gilton.” Marion managed to make a stiff nod and Gilton’s smile widened as did a knowing glint in his eye.

“Now, Your Grace,” he said, turning back to Anselm, his voice dropping slightly. “If you would grant me a few moments of your valuable time, I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with you. Privately, if you please.”

“Very well, Gilton. This way.” Anselm turned on his heel and motioned towards the hall that led to his private study.