Page 32 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“ T he light Master Jordan captured in this paintin’ is quite remarkable,” Marion said as she cooled herself with her feathered fan.

The weather was unseasonably warm that day, but it could not stifle her excitement as she moved to the next painting.

“Oh, and this one! I daenae ken how he gets such strikin’ colors.”

“No color is quite as striking as your gown,” Anselm said as she blushed. “That shade of blue really suits you so well.”

“Ye only have yerself to thank for that,” she said with a smile, as she pointed back to the painting. “But truly, Anslem. I daenae ken how he got that shade of red to be so…cherry.”

“Indeed, I am beginning to see what you are referring to with those colors and deft strokes. There are so many variations on color.”

“The possibilities are endless. Aye, I am so inspired here.”

“These are surely remarkable works, although I am more partial to yours. I did not realize I had so much to learn about art.” Anselm offered her his arm and she accepted him. “I am grateful for your tutelage.”

Marion’s body heated at the contact causing her cheeks to warm so she fanned herself more. Suddenly, a booming laugh came from behind them, announcing Emmanuel’s arrival before he appeared.

“Your sister has a vivid imagination, Your Grace,” he said as Verity trailed behind him. “Her interpretations of these works are absolutely fantastical; the backstories she creates are more colorful than the paintings themselves.”

“And what, pray tell, is art without a healthy dose of fantasy, my lord?” Verity asked as she joined them. “It would be positively medieval!”

“Good day to ye, Lord Wrotham,” Marion said as she offered a polite curtsy. A smile played on her lips as she turned to greet him. “I am glad ye found Verity. She started wanderin’ off when I took too long lookin’ at these paintin’s.”

“Yes, you are flitting around the room a bit much, Verity,” Anselm chastised as he gave her a sideways look. “Thank you, my friend,” he said as he turned his gaze back to Emmanuel.

“Oh, you go too slowly, Marion! I am shocked at my brother’s patience.” Verity teased.

“Well, what do you make of this piece?” Marion asked, desperate to avert attention to art and away from their relationship.

“It is a man and wife on a large ship, facing a tempest on a raging sea. Yes, they are fleeing some dastardly man with a mustache, who is intent on destroying all they hold dear. Just look at those clouds!” Verity explained animatedly. “So ominous!”

Emmanuel waved a dismissive hand. “Storm clouds are for poets, not painters. I do not know how you came up with such a tale, but this abstraction is not to my taste. How did you know they were clouds?”

“Anyone can see that!” Verity argued. “It is as plain as day!”

“Give me a portrait that captures the soul, or a still life that makes one’s stomach rumble with hunger at the sight of fruit. That is talent.”

“Oh, is that so?” An older gentleman asked as he joined them.

“Oh, my goodness gracious,” Marion said as she removed herself from Anselm’s arm to face the gentleman. “It is a great honor to meet you, Master Jordan. I am a great admirer of your work!”

“I am most honored, Your Grace,” he said with a small bow. “Thank you for coming to see my paintings.”

“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Emmanuel offered with a wide smile.

“Oh, it is the critics that keep me going. Do not worry, my lord. I can take it as well as I can dole it out,” Master Jordan said with a laugh. “Please, enjoy yourselves.”

He left them then and joined another group who were busy making pleasant conversation. Marion watched as he engaged with people who were discussing his work. She admired his bravery at being so open to feedback. She longed for the day when she might be able to do such a thing.

“What are you thinking about?” Anselm asked.

Marion looked around and realized that Verity and Emmanuel had already gone on to greet some acquaintances who had just arrived at the exhibit.

“Oh, nothin’,” she said, shaking her head. “Just lost in me thoughts.”

“Tell me,” he pressed, again wrapping an arm around hers. “I want to know your thoughts.”

“I was just thinkin’ how brave Master Jordan is to put his work out there in such a vulnerable way,” she explained. “I daenae ken if I could be so brave…”

“Perhaps we just need to get you warmed up to the idea, because I believe that the world deserves to see your art one day. When you are ready, that is.”

The quiet companionship that had begun to blossom between Marion and Anselm found a new, unspoken outlet in her art in the days that followed the exhibition.

She found that the more time she spent with him, the more he intrigued her artist’s eye.

She was more careful in observing him, whether in his study as she passed by or walking with him in the gardens.

She was drawn to the rigid lines of his posture, the sharp angles of his bearded jaw, which were both offset by the allure of his sparkling green eyes.

The thought of trying to capture the raw power that lay beneath his polished exterior exhilarated her.

Aye, he is a most compelling subject, she thought to herself as she began sketching his face one day during afternoon tea.

She moved the charcoal, trying to capture just the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought and arguing some point with Verity.

The next day at tea, she tried to complete a charcoal study of his hand. In the movements of her lines, she aimed to capture how strong and capable it was as he turned the pages of a book. She was so very inspired by him.

She started carrying a small sketchbook with her in her pocket, so that she might become a silent observer who captured fleeting moments as she went about her days.

While he likely had noticed her attention, he never commented or questioned her outwardly.

Although sometimes, she would catch his gaze upon her.

She felt a heat in her belly at the flicker of curiosity in his green eyes.

Ever the gentleman, he would quickly turn away and pretend not to notice.

Then came the morning she found him in the enclosed yard on the estate, practicing his fencing. She awoke earlier than usual, due to some unseemly noise from passersby who had clearly had an exciting night in the city.

She wandered the halls until she made her way to the balcony, drawn by the metallic clang of steel that echoed through the crisp morning air.

She watched him spar with a dummy as he moved around it with a fluid, lethal grace.

His strikes and thrusts held such an intensity that the sight took her breath away.

The reaction could have also been drawn from her, perhaps, because he was shirtless.

His powerful shoulders and muscled back gleamed with sweat and his trousers clung low to his lean hips.

It was the body she had sketched in secret and carefully placed in the back of her sketchbook.

As she flipped to those pages, she looked up at the image before her—brought to vibrant, living reality.

Aye, me memory couldnae do justice to this sight, she thought. I cannae waste the opportunity.

Marion hesitated for only a moment. She ran to her studio and retrieved her larger sketchbook and charcoals.

She placed a portable easel discreetly beneath the shade of a large oak tree that bordered the training yard.

The servants and household staff would be busy preparing for breakfast and none of them would expect her to be up at such an hour.

This is it.

Anselm felt her presence on the balcony immediately that morning. He could smell the sweet notes of jasmine and lavender in the air, mingled with whatever hint that was uniquely her. He breathed deep as he practiced his fencing and channeled his energy.

He heard her shuffle away after a few moments and continued his workout, which had become a necessary means to keep himself focused. His own draw to Marion was nearly more than he could take, and physical exertion the only way to restrain it.

A few minutes later, he was alerted by the subtle rustle of her skirts nearby. He paused mid-lunge and turned his head around to locate where she was. Then, he saw her.

A faint flush rose on his cheeks. She had an easel and charcoal in hand. Her gaze was fixed on him with an artist’s intense focus.

For a beat, he simply stared back. His chest heaved from exertion, but also the sight of her. He simply nodded once, then turned back to his practice.

Let her , he thought as he continued, going harder and stronger in his movements. I never would have thought me to be a muse, yet here I am.

And so, Marion sketched an outline of him to later paint in her studio.

She sketched the powerful sweep of his muscled arm as he lunged and the taut lines of his back as he twisted back from the strike.

She tried her best to capture the concentrated intensity in his profile and the downward point of his nose.

He moved with such brutal elegance. Every inch of him was so defined, every movement purposeful. She worked quickly. Her charcoal flew across the page, as she attempted to capture the raw energy and disciplined strength.

She feared that the silence between them would be awkward, but it was not. It was hot. It was charged. They existed in that moment, a shared space of observation and creation between subject and artist.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Lewis called from the entrance to the yard. “Some important mailings have arrived that require your attention prior to breakfast. I only wanted to alert you as you have gone roughly a half hour over your usual practice time.”

“Thank you, Lewis,” he said as he picked up a nearby cloth and dabbed the sweat on his brow. “I will be just a moment.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I am sure Her Grace and Lady Verity will be down any moment to join you to break their fasts.”

Marion began packing up her supplies furiously then. She skirted off through a hidden trail to a little used entrance.

She did not want to explain to anyone why she had been up and in the yard at such an hour, nor have anyone ask what she had drawn.