Page 30 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twenty-Five

S unrise cast a soft glow across Anselm’s bedchamber, coating it in hues of gold and rose. He blinked his eyes, awaking slowly. He rubbed a hand over his eyes and glanced at the nearby clock.

Seven in the morning.

Instead of feeling guilty for sleeping past his usual early rise, a deep, unfamiliar calm stretched through his limbs, enveloping him like the soft duvet that covered him.

For the first time in years, perhaps decades, he felt truly rested. He lifted himself up onto an elbow. Then, he saw her.

Marion.

She was sleeping still, curled up onto her side and facing him. Her breathing was soft, sweet, and even. A long curl fanned across to his pillow. Her face was serene and immaculate.

Innocent.

He felt a sharp, swift pang in his gut. Guilt pierced through his brief tranquility as he remembered the events of last night.

The nightmare, her intervention, and then…

How could I have allowed myself to let things go so far…

He cursed himself for letting his desperate need for comfort overwhelm him. The chilling memory of his nightmare, and his raw vulnerability, shamed him. He prided himself on control and somehow, he managed to bare his deepest fear.

As he was about to rise, and come to his senses, a soft, sleepy moan escaped from Marion’s lips. She burrowed deeper into the duvet and drew his attention back to her.

His breath was taken away at the sight of her. She looked so peaceful, there, in his bed. It was surprising and captivating. He could not look away, nor let himself be drawn away by his usual melancholy.

He reached out a hand, but his fingers hesitated just above her rosy cheek.

He pulled back for a moment before bringing his hand down again and gently stroking the soft skin of her face.

She stirred faintly at his touch but remained peacefully asleep.

A small smile formed on her face, which spread to Anselm’s.

He let his hand linger for a moment and trace down the delicate curve of her jaw, before reluctantly pulling away.

How could I ever be worthy of her?

“Good morning, Verity,” Anselm said absently as he sipped his morning coffee while reading a newspaper. “Duchess.”

The clattering of silverware and swift movements of servants filled the breakfast room as Marion entered behind Verity. She looked at Anselm. He was impeccably dressed, and his expression was as composed and unreadable as ever.

Aye, he looks as if nothin’ happened between us, and that I dinnae wake alone in his bed.

As Marion took her seat, she could feel the residual, lingering heat of him on her skin.

She crossed her legs under the table as she thought of what he had done, and all he had shown her.

They had been so close and connected, intimate and open.

His formality confused her, and she took a sip of earl grey to steady herself.

Is it regret he feels? Or embarrassment?

She grabbed a scone and began to butter it as her mind continued to reel, ignoring all else around her. If she was going to figure out the puzzle of her husband, she needed sustenance. She finished it quickly, then grabbed a small serving of cut stone fruits.

Is this coolness simply his default? Aye, a sort of wall to protect himself from the inconvenience of actual emotions?

She set down her napkin and glanced up at him across the table. He had finished reading his paper, buttered his toast with meticulous precision, and was now discussing the day’s agenda with Verity.

But he did not look at her. Marion’s confusion quickly twisted into frustration.

Aye, I ought to demand an explanation for this sudden coldness, she thought, the words lodging stubbornly in her throat.

Verity smiled politely as Anselm spoke in a low, measured tone about upcoming social engagements and the latest political gossip.

“I hear Lord Waltham’s estate is hosting a gala next month. They expect most of the ton ,” Anselm remarked. “It would do well for us to attend, for appearances if nothing else.”

“Yes,” Verity agreed softly. “It will be quite the event. So many eyes upon us all, especially with the new Duke and Duchess.”

Anselm shifted slightly in his seat, his gaze finally flickering toward Marion.

“And what of you, Duchess?” he asked smoothly, as a servant approached to replenish her teacup. “Have you any thoughts on how to occupy yourself in the weeks ahead? Any pursuits or plans?”

Marion hesitated because she was caught off guard by the question. “I suppose I shall keep to me paintin’ and, well… try to stay out of trouble.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. She detected the faintest curl of amusement around his lips. “Good. Keeping to one’s passions is a wise choice, especially for a lady newly settled.”

Verity reached over and offered Marion another scone, which she accepted gratefully.

Anselm rose slightly from his seat and called to a nearby servant. “Fetch some more of that cherry jam Her Grace favors from ’the cellar.”

Both Verity and Marion’s eyes turned sharply to him.

The servant bowed and hurried away.

Later that afternoon, Marion returned from a long walk in Hyde Park. She had gone with Verity to get some fresh air and enjoy the seasonable warmth of late spring.

It was a welcome diversion, but one that had tired her.

All she wished to do was sit and write in her journal, which she had been neglecting.

She was ready to curl up in her favorite corner of the drawing room and get lost in her thoughts.

As she crossed through the doorway, she found Anselm alone and idle.

He was gazing out the window at the small garden that was below it.

This is me chance. Be brave, Marion.

“Anselm,” she began. She kept her voice soft as she approached him cautiously. “About last night…well, ye should ken that I…well, ye see…”

“I wanted to talk to you as well,” he said as he turned to face her. “I am glad you are here.”

“Ye are? I mean, ye did?”

“Yes.”

Just then, Beth, Marion’s maid, suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion and she looked as though she had run up the stairs in a rush.

“Your Graces! Oh, please pardon the interruption, as well as my appearance, but the cook has a question about this evening’s dinner that requires your immediate attention. Mrs. Clarke sent me to fetch you at once. Something about the number of servings, or dietary preferences. I cannot recall…”

Marion sighed as Anselm looked deep into her sapphire eyes. A silent exchange passed between them.

“Of course, Beth. I will see to these questions and leave His Grace to the rest of his afternoon,” Marion said she approached her. “It is no problem at all.”

“I will see you at dinner,” he said with a nod.

“Yes, at dinner,” Marion said in reply.

She walked to the doorway and turned around, lingering in the threshold for a moment and looking at her husband longingly.

He was impossibly handsome, tall and strong, which was all made only more evident in the warm light of afternoon behind him.

Everything about him drew her in. His scent, his appearance, and his dry humor.

How she longed to leap into his embrace and stay there forever.

“We’ll talk later, Yer Grace?” she said, a question more than a statement, to which he only nodded.

“Anselm,” Marion whispered from their adjoining door later that evening, after the rest of the household had retired.

“Anselm,” she called again after receiving no response. She kept her voice low as she opened and closed the door behind herself.

He turned from his fireplace to face her. He had a book in his hand and held the novel as if to throw it at the intruder. His expression softened at the sight of her which melted her nervous heart.

“How could ye expect anyone else from our shared door?”

“That is a good question. Much as I enjoyed dinner, the excitement of my sister and Emmanuel’s spirited argument was a lot. I will not let her imbibe quite so much wine in the future.”

“Aye, she was a bit in her cups. But it was an excellent vintage,” Marion said as she looked at the man in front of her. “I cannae blame her.”

He was shirtless. His broad chest was on full display and the shadows of his cut muscles glowed in the ambient firelight.

His pants hung low on his hips, a sight she was unable to grow accustomed to.

She wished she had her sketchbook handy and a charcoal pencil so she might capture his shape in that light. He was a perfect specimen.

“We need to talk,” he said, shaking her from her thoughts. “I assume that is why you are here?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly, a faint cry drifted down the hall and pulled their attention. The sound of hurried feet came next, then a loud knock at Marion’s door.

“Marion? I cannot sleep!” Verity’s hushed voice came through. “I have had a most dreadful thought about my heroine’s next dilemma and how untrustworthy a thief would be. I think I should go back to my previous outlines about the unexpected romance with her long-lost brother’s friend and?—”

Her voice was low, likely because she thought that Marion’s adjoining door was closed.

Anselm nodded. “Go ahead. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

And he closed the adjoining door.

Marion sighed and went to the door of her bedchamber. She opened it wide to see Verity standing there with a thick pile of smudged papers in her hands.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” she told Marion. “Could I bother you for just a few minutes? I really need a second set of ears, and you have become my most trusted advisor.”

“Very well, lass,” she said as she led Verity in, before shooting a yearning look at the door that separated her from her husband.