Page 28 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twenty-Three

“ Y ou look as though you could use a drink, Your Grace,” Lord Thistlewaite said to Anselm with a clap on the back as he handed him his flask. “Do not tell my wife, of course.”

“I am quite all right, Lord Thistlewaite, but do appreciate the offer,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “I am indeed on my way to find a drink, if you will excuse me.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug as he shimmied across the dance floor.

After fetching himself a proper drink, Anselm looked around for the sight of Verity and Marion throughout the ballroom.

Prior to his encounter with Lord Thistlewaite, he had just finished a particularly tedious discussion with Emmanuel.

He spotted Verity first. She was by the refreshments, trapped in conversation with Lady Featherstone. He looked about but still could not find Marion, until he looked right in the middle of the dance floor.

There she was, plain as day, looking as intriguing as the most wicked night.

She was resplendent in her ivory gown, which hugged her generous curves as she moved with grace to the playing tune. His chest tightened at the sight of her dance partner as they turned.

Lord Quinn.

He did not care for the way the lord was leaning in as they went about their dance, nor the smarmy smile that was plastered on his pasty face.

A flicker of annoyance, sharp and unexpected, twisted at him as he drained the last of his glass.

“Ah, Anselm,” Emmanuel drawled as he followed his friend’s gaze “Quinn, isn’t it? Rather taken with your wife, by the looks of it. Perhaps you should offer some counsel on the appropriate distance a man ought to maintain with a married woman. Seems the boy has forgotten his place.”

Anselm scowled. The rational part of him knew he could not cut in without making a scene, yet the tightness in his chest persisted.

It was not just the sight of Quinn’s clear flirtation with his wife.

That he could handle. No, it was the way Marion held herself.

Her smile was brittle and fixed. Her shoulders were stiff, and her eyes, even from this distance, seemed to burn with polite indignation. She was not dancing; she was enduring.

“She is uncomfortable,” Anselm whispered to himself. The words were barely audible yet Emmanuel heard them.

“She is a duchess, Anselm. She can handle a little attention, and it comes with the territory. She will need to get used to it if she wants to keep up with the likes of you.”

“Not this kind of attention,” Anselm snapped. His jaw clenched into a tight line. “I will not allow it.”

He watched Quinn lean in, far too close. His lips were moving as Marion’s head drew back. She barely said a word as her eyes grew darker.

Fury, hot and consuming, ignited within Anselm. He did not care about propriety, scandal, or the ton’s incessantly wagging tongues. All he saw was his wife, and she was upset.

He strode across the ballroom. Anselm became a dark, unstoppable force that cut through the glittering dancers as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. His path was direct, unwavering. Lord Quinn, still smirking, was mid-sentence when Anselm reached them.

Without a word, Anselm’s hand landed right on his shoulder, and he squeezed.

“My lord.” Anselm’s voice was low and laced with a chilling authority. “I believe this dance is concluded. Now.” He pulled Quinn away from the dance floor a bit too roughly.

Instinctively, the younger man stumbled at the unexpected intrusion.

Quinn recovered as he dusted off his jacket and straightened his cravat.

“Your Grace! W-What is the meaning of this? I was merely enjoying a dance with Her Grace!”

Anselm ignored him. He kept his gaze fixed on Marion, who was now staring at him with eyes as wide as a doe’s. He extended his hand to her.

“May I have the honor of this dance?”

She took his hand. Her fingers trembled slightly as he pulled her into the waltz that had just begun. He guided her with expert movement around the dance floor and the band’s sweeping symphony created a swirling rhythm around them.

Her voice was a low whisper, filled with mortification, when she finally spoke. “What was that? Now everyone is starin’! Ye practically shoved him off!”

He spun her then drew her closer than was proper for a public dance but he did not care. He needed everyone to know exactly whose wife she was.

His eyes burned into hers. “Let them stare,” he rasped, his voice rough. “You are my wife. And no man, no man , will make you feel an ounce of discomfort as long as there’s air in my lungs.”

“I daenae need ye to rescue me, Anselm,” Marion snapped. “I was perfectly capable of handlin’ him meself.”

“Perhaps you were,” he conceded. “But I prefer to remove the necessity of such handling. You are mine, Marion. And no one touches what is mine.”

His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against him. He dipped his lips to her neck and inhaled her sweet jasmine scent, savoring the feeling of her breath so close to him.

Try as he may to ignore it, she intoxicated him.

Their dance was no longer just steps and turns. It was a silent conversation, where they were able to share all the things they could not articulate. Each movement was an undeniable acknowledgment of the simmering desire between them.

The ball, the ton, the whispers, all of it faded away, leaving only the two of them. He led and she followed perfectly in time.

The music swelled, demanding a crescendo of intimacy, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he might kiss her. He would do it right there, on the dance floor, oblivious to the hundreds of eyes watching their every move.

Just as the music came to a halt, Anselm’s hands lingered on her because his body refused to let go.

Why am I acting like a smitten schoolboy?

“Marion! Are you quite all right?” Verity appeared suddenly at their sides, her brow furrowed with concern. “Lord Quinn looked quite put-out by my brother’s display.”

Anselm flinched slightly, yanked back to reality now, and he released Marion swiftly.

His wife also blinked and stepped back with a nod, then turned to his sister.

“Yes, Verity. I am perfectly fine,” she said with shaky breath. “I am just exerted from all the dancin’ and fine champagne.”

Anselm turned to his sister as a tight smile formed on his lips.

“Indeed,” he told Verity. “I took care of the matter and merely ensured Her Grace was not subject to any undue attention.”

“I am glad! Let us grab another round of champagne then. I’m sure it’ll alleviate all the unpleasantness from that encounter,” Verity announced, and she led them away from the dance floor.

“Lord Standale,” Anselm began as he shook the lord’s hand. “It has been some time. I hope your family is well.”

Half an hour later, which passed on without any further incident, Anselm navigated the crowded room. Verity stood patiently by his side, while Marion was accosted by some dowager showering her with advice about embroidery.

Then, Anselm spotted Lord Standale, a respectable man of inherited wealth and impeccable lineage. He did not know much about his lordship personally, but the fact that others did not have any ill to speak of him was good enough.

“They are, Your Grace. A pleasure to see you as well,” he said as he offered a smile. His eyes were immediately drawn to Verity.

“May I present my sister, Lady Verity. Verity, this is Lord Standale, an avid patron of the literary arts, as it seems.”

Lord Standale bowed and gifted her with an amiable smile. “My lady, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And you, my lord. Do you enjoy reading?”

“I confess, as much as I enjoy the latest fiction coming out of London, my true passions lie in taxidermy.”

“Come again, my lord? Did you say?—”

“Taxidermy. My family dearly loves to hunt, and I find it a fulfilling hobby. It is the only way to immortalize the lives given for the sake of the hunt and to commemorate the time we spend at our country estate.”

Anselm winced. This was not going as he had hoped.

Verity’s polite smile faltered. Her gaze drifted over Lord Standale’s shoulder. She was clearly searching for an escape route.

“Indeed, Lord Standale. I had not considered how…fulfilling such a hobby would be. How utterly fascinating,” Verity said.

Lord Standale, oblivious to Verity’s waning interest, brightened at her response. “Oh, indeed, Lady Verity! You would be surprised how intricate the process is. I daresay it requires a steady hand, much like painting. The precision, the patience…it is quite an art form in itself.”

“How riveting,” Verity replied. Her voice was pleasant but distant and her polite smile grew more brittle by the second.

“Why, just last season I had a magnificent stoat preserved. The craftsman did a fine job of capturing its ferocity mid-pounce. You must come see it sometime, my lady. It holds a place of great honor in my study.”

Verity’s eyes flicked briefly toward Anselm. She silently pleaded for rescue. But before he could intervene, a familiar voice cut through the droning conversation like a blade through silk.

“Good heavens, Standale, you’ve trapped them with your taxidermy tales already?” Emmanuel’s voice carried easily. It was warm with amusement as he strolled nearer. Wrotham held a glass of wine in one hand and had a wicked grin playing upon his lips.

“Wrotham.” Anselm nodded at him.

“Lord Wrotham.” Verity greeted with him with a curtsy, barely disguising her relief.

Lord Standale looked vaguely affronted. “I was merely sharing a passion, Lord Wrotham.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Emmanuel said smoothly, giving a lazy bow. “Though you must forgive me for stealing Lady Verity away before you tempt her to mount her first fox. She promised me the next dance. Or at least a lively discussion that does not involve stuffed vermin.”

Anselm glared at his friend but halted as he noticed the evident relief in his sister’s features. He wanted her to secure a respectable match, yes, but it seemed that Verity was pleading for a rescue.

His sister gave a quick, graceful curtsy. “I’m afraid duty calls, Lord Standale.”

Before another word could be uttered, Emmanuel offered his arm to Verity with a wink, and she took it gladly.

Anselm offered a swift excuse to Standale and walked off, but he kept his eyes fixed on his friend and sister.

Then, his gaze swept across the ballroom, searching.

There she was.

Marion stood by a dowager countess. Her posture was composed and her smile was perfectly measured. She feigned interest in the woman’s endless chatter, but when their eyes met, something raw flickered in Anselm’s chest.

A fierce protectiveness surged first, as sharp and immediate as a blade.

She was his. No one could forget that.

Then, almost against his will, he drank in the sight of her. He appreciated the curve of her neck, the way the candlelight caught the glint in her eyes, and the soft swell of her lips.

Heat bloomed low and urgent in him. It was distracting and unwelcome.

He pushed the feeling down, reminding himself of decorum, and of his need to maintain control. He was a duke, not a boy overtaken by his animalistic urges.

But as their eyes held for a heartbeat longer, he knew one thing with undeniable certainty: no matter the rules, she stirred something in him that was not so easily contained.

The music swelled around them while voices and laughter filled the space.

Anselm’s breath steadied, and he turned away. The weight of desire and duty pressed heavily on his chest.