Page 33 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A ye, this home is more tastefully decorated than I had imagined , Marion thought as she looked around the grand dining room, taking in the elegant paintings, lush drapery, and ornate candelabras.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the polished mahogany of Lady Featherstone’s London home. The hum of polite conversation mingled with the clinking of glasses as everyone took their seats at the long, rectangular table.

Marion had selected an elegant gown of deep emerald, which had drawn her in like Anselm’s verdant eyes and the hills of Scotland she so missed.

It was cut in a way that emphasized her curves without flaunting them.

Her hair was swept up in an elegant arrangement with small rhinestones that glittered in the light.

She found herself seated near the head of the table and to Anselm’s left. The familiar current of awareness sparked between them as he took his place next to her.

She had difficulty getting comfortable in her chair, a product of sitting so close to him.

Despite the formal setting, and the propriety it required, she felt hot and flushed.

She looked at him then, realizing he was wearing a newly cut suit that perfectly fit his every line.

Her eyes were drawn to the lapel, which had a small green fabric adornment.

It matches me gown perfectly. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight, and he looked at her with a small smile.

Aye, this man affects me so. I will have to trouble Lady Featherstone for a fan!

As if on cue, she made her way to the head of the table and gave a small nod for the party to begin the first course.

The conversation around them drifted from political gossip to the latest scandalous novel, which produced knowing smiles from both Anselm and Marion. They remained mostly silent as they moved from the first course to the second, their own unspoken conversation pulsing between them.

Marion observed how he maintained his dignified composure, offering concise, often dry, remarks when appropriate to the other guests at the table. She took a steadying sip of Portuguese wine, letting it sweep over her like a breeze.

As she savored a bit more of her glass, she found herself in a more whimsical mood.

The day leading up to it had been pleasing enough.

She had spent the afternoon in her studio testing paint colors to begin bringing her sketches to life.

It was a far cry from her time with Reverand McCrae as she thought for a moment of the day he took her supplies from her. She shivered at the thought.

With Anselm next to her, she felt lighter. She was more connected to him and herself than ever. She was truly happy.

What would I have done…if the marriage to the Viscount had happened? While there is so much unsaid between me and Anselm… I cannae deny there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be than by his side.

As a particularly pompous lord, whom Marion literally could not name to save her life, launched into a lengthy monologue about the superiority of his many hounds, she drained the last of her wine glass. She leaned slightly towards Anselm while a playful fire rolled in her belly.

“Do ye ken…” she whispered, her blue eyes twinkling bright. “Do ye ken why dogs make the best arborists?”

Anselm, who had been half listening to Lord Bowman with detached politeness, stiffened at the sound of Marion’s voice in his ear. A faint muscle twitched in his jaw. He was unsure if he heard her correctly.

“Can you kindly repeat your question?” he whispered back with a tight smile.

“Do ye ken why dogs make the best arborists?”

“Yes, that is what I thought you said… And I have no idea what you are getting at but?—”

“Because…they are experts in bark .”

A soft, foreign, and unexpected sound escaped from deep within Anselm. It took a moment for him to realize it, but yes. It was a low chuckle, which he quickly stifled with a forced cough.. He turned his gaze back to Lord Bowman, who was still going on about his dogs.

His shoulders gave him away though. They shook, almost imperceptibly, as he tried desperately to stifle his laugh, which percolated under the surface.

The more he tried to suppress his amusement, the more his shoulders began to shake.

His lips curved into a genuine, unforced smile as his eyes met Marion’s.

She smiled back at him, and he returned to the pheasant on his plate.

He took a bite and looked up around the table. He noticed that the guests were not looking at Lord Bowman, but they were intently watching him and Marion.

Lady Featherstone, who had been dissecting her meat with surgical precision, looked right at him. She raised her eyebrow as her fork hovered in mid-air.

“I must be clued in on whatever has made His Grace so amused,” she said with a whistle as she turned her gaze to Marion.

“Oh, I assure, you, my lady, that there was just something caught in my throat,” Anselm said as he took a sip of his wine. “I am perfectly fine now. Thank you for your concern, but it is not needed.”

“Surely, not our dinner! Everyone is enjoying our main course, yes? I had Chef Paquet come in from France just for the season!”

Heads turned to Lady Featherstone, and they nodded frantically in approval.

Guests began to obligatorily stuff themselves.

Yet even before her intervention, Anselm registered the collective realization that the formidable Duke had just laughed.

And in public. And it was clearly at something his Scottish Duchess had said.

“I do apologize, Yer Grace,” Marion murmured once polite conversation had resumed around them. “I seem to have rattled yer perfect composure.”

He merely inclined his head as a hint of a lingering smile still played about his lips, even as he tried to hide it.

“On the contrary, Duchess,” he replied. “You merely proved that even the most insufferable of bores must break eventually.”

Lady Featherstone narrowed her eyes, clearly overhearing his statement. Yet, contrary to her flamboyant nature, she did not push. A smile crossed her plump face and reached her dark brown eyes.

“Come, let us eat dessert,” Lady Featherstone announced as the servants brought out slices of pound cake with Chantilly cream and strawberry compote to the guests.

“This is most delicious, Lady Featherstone,” Marion said as she devoured each bite. “Truly a feat!”

“Well, I am glad we are able to satisfy her Scottish appetite,” Lord Bowman said with a chuckle as he drained his glass of port wine.

Anselm stiffened at the insinuation that his duchess was anything less than a perfect lady. It took everything inside of him not to stand up and show the old codger some manners. He set down his napkin when Marion shot him a knowing look.

“It is fine,” Marion said as she took his hand in hers. “Let them say what they want. They will be tired of me Scottishness one day. Just nae this day.”

“I do not like it,” Anselm said as he took a small bite of the dessert. “But you are right. This really is excellent cake.”