Page 27 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twenty-Two

T he whispers started the very moment the Greystead carriage pulled up to the glittering facade of Marlstone Manor.

As Anselm, Marion, and Verity stepped inside Lady Lowdham’s grand ballroom, the low hum of conversation swelled, then died down before it was replaced by a hundred eyes tracking their every move.

While Marion and Anselm had frequented many social events together, this was the first major ball they attended since the hurried wedding. As always, the ton was ravenous for any fresh morsel of gossip.

Marion felt confident in a gown of shimmering ivory that caught every flicker of candelabras.

She had her hair pulled up around her head in braids and the strands were adorned with delicate diamonds.

Yet, much as she felt every bit the Duchess, the weight of public scrutiny pulled on her as they were formally announced.

“Another Scottish Duchess… so unexpected ,” one onlooker whispered.

“And the Duke’s sister, poor thing, after that scandal…” Another hissed, again pulling on Marion’s heart as she had not considered how hard these events must also be for her friend, much as she put on a brave face.

Marion looked at Verity then, who was as beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside. She wore a delicate lace gown in hues of pink and lavender that accentuated the same green eyes her brother had. She looked like spring herself.

Marion scanned the room further and her stomach tightened into a knot as she saw that Lord Gilton was indeed present.

He was ever a dark shadow in her life, this time in the flesh and near a pillar across the ballroom.

She watched as his gaze occasionally swept over their party, but thankfully he kept his distance. Marion had enough on her mind.

“Ah, there you are!” Emmanuel’s cheerful voice cut through the tension she felt, and she smiled at the familiar face.

“Lord Wrotham, ye are a sight for sore eyes,” she said as she gave him a bright smile.

He approached with a genial smile on his face and he momentarily drew some attention away from the trio. “Your Grace, Lady Verity. You both look radiant this evening. And you don’t look so bad yourself, old boy.”

“I occasionally clean up for such occasions,” Anselm said dryly as he sipped on a glass of champagne. “Emmanuel. A word, if you please.” He gave Marion’s arm a brief, almost imperceptible squeeze. “I shall return shortly; we have some business to discuss.”

With that, Marion watched the two men retreat to a secluded corner, their heads bent in earnest conversation.

Left with Verity, Marion found herself approached by a man she vaguely recognized from the garden party. It was Lord Quinn, a young nobleman known for his flamboyant cravats and bad breath. He executed a sweeping bow and his eyes lingered a fraction too long on Marion’s face.

“Your Grace,” he purred. His voice was a smooth, low drawl as Marion tried not to breathe. “You are truly a vision tonight. I must confess, the tales of your unique charm have not done you justice. I recall seeing you at the garden party but did not have a chance to speak with you.”

“Thank ye for the compliment. Ye are too kind, Lord Quinn,” she said as she stared in Anselm’s direction, silently beckoning for him to come save her.

Lord Quinn took a step closer and his smile widened. Marion looked around to see Verity was engaged in a conversation with someone else and unable to save her at that moment.

Aye, why me?

“Such spirit, such untamed beauty. A welcome contrast to the rather boring ladies of old’ London. I have always liked Highland lasses,” he said not unkindly. It was more like he was appreciating an exotic pet. “Might I have the honor of the first dance?”

Marion’s polite smile tightened.

Untamed beauty.

He saw her as little more than a curiosity, a novelty. Catriona had warned her of how cruel these events could be, and Marion had been unable to fully understand her meaning until that moment. She glanced at Verity, who had begun to listen in.

“You do not have to accept, Marion,” Verity whispered as her brow furrowed. “You are your own person and do not have to give into the whims of every man in the ton . We can say you have fallen ill!”

Marion, however, knew the rules and did not want to stick out more than she already did. To refuse the first dance, especially from a lord of his standing, would be a blatant snub.

“It would be me pleasure, Lord Quinn,” she replied, offering her hand and cursing the forced politeness in her voice.

As they took their places on the dance floor, the orchestra swelled into a lively dance. Lord Quinn was, at first, perfectly charming. He did not step on her feet, and he kept the conversation light.

“So, Your Grace. I trust London society is treating you well? A far cry from the rustic simplicity of the Highlands, I imagine.”

“Indeed,” Marion replied, forcing herself to maintain a pleasant expression. “There are certainly differences.”

“Oh, I am sure of that,” he chuckled as he spun her in a graceful turn. “One hears such curious things about your country. Where are you from exactly?”

“Strathcairn.”

“Oh my, can you pronounce that again for me? I love the sound of your accent,” he said as she caught a faint whiff of his alcohol infused breath.

“Strathcairn, me lord.”

“Ah yes, I understand now. Well, I think I have always been most struck by the fierce independence, the rather unrefined manners. When I ventured up to Edinburgh I was appalled by the people I met, so rash. And the weather! Positively dreadful, wouldn’t you say? Perpetual mist and rain. Quite bleak.”

Marion’s jaw tightened as he went on and on.

“The mists hold a beauty all their own, Lord Quinn. And our people arenae unrefined, merely… direct. Honest,” she responded.

“Ah, directness! A charming euphemism for bluntness, I daresay. And honesty, of course, is a rare commodity, especially out here in town. But then, one wouldn’t expect the subtleties of polite society to truly penetrate the wilder corners of the world, hm?”

His smile was patronizing, and Marion could not stand it. She tried to tune him out and focus on the movement and music, but he only continued.

“One can only admire your fortitude, Your Grace. It must be quite the adjustment, putting away those rather scratchy tartans for proper silks. Although I must say, you wear silk so very well.”

Marion felt a slow burn of indignation rise within her as she watched him look down at her breasts then. She wanted to slap the smug look off his face. To insult her culture and attempt to flirt with her, a married woman!

The lively music seemed to mock her as it trapped her in this dance with a man who saw her as nothing more than a backward Highlander, an amusing oddity to poke fun at for entertainment.

She met his gaze and no longer bothered to hide her disdain. She knew her response had to be sharp, but subtle.

She was, after all, a duchess now. She would not give him, or anyone else, the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.