Page 37 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

“Yes, I suppose my disposition has changed, Verity,” he said as he set down his paper. “And while most of my reading remains focused on matters of substance, I perhaps have read a certain novel that has been the talk of the ton. It has been quite the education.”

He glanced at Marion. There was a spark of amusement in his eyes because they both knew full well she had caught him, just the other week, poring over the pages of The Highland Holiday .

Verity exchanged a knowing look with Marion. A silent communication ran between them.

“Well, whatever the source of your new countenance,” Verity continued, a soft, genuine smile gracing her face, “it suits you, big brother. In fact, it suits both of you! You seem… so very content.”

The word hung in the air, simple yet profound.

Content.

It was a new feeling for Anselm, and he knew the same was true for Marion. It was something they would learn to embrace together.

“Yes, that is a good way to put it. I am content and…hope you are too,” Anselm said as he looked to his sister, before picking up his paper and reading furiously. “But do not think I have gone soft on you, because I have not!”

“Oh, I would not dare dream of such a reality. I have known you my whole life. Much as men’s hearts can change pigs cannot fly.”

The room erupted in playful laughter, covering them all like a warm blanket.

I cannae waste this light!

One particularly bright morning, the kind that promised a respite from London’s relentless grey, Marion was in her studio and hard at work. She had skipped breakfast and as long as the sun would keep was determined to skip lunch too.

Sunlight streamed through the large window, illuminating the intricate floral arrangement she was sketching with perfect definition. She hummed softly, lost in the delicate curve of a rose petal, when the door creaked open.

Anselm entered, his movements unhurried as he strode about the space. His gaze swept slowly over her canvases, taking in the vibrant landscapes of Strathcairn she often painted, his eyes lingering on the familiar hills and glens she had so lovingly rendered.

“Your work is truly outstanding, Marion,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent. “You capture such… life. These scenes, even something as simple as a blade of grass, is so…I do not know the word for it. Poignant?”

Marion smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her at his praise. She threw her shoulders back with pride, swirling around to meet his gaze.

“Thank you, Anselm. It is my escape.”

“Surely you do not need such an escape from me?”

“Oh ye, me darlin’… ye are me muse. But ye ken that already. Ye have caught me from time to time, sketchin’ ye.”

He approached her, a thoughtful expression on his face that quickly morphed into something else entirely. It was a look that pulled at her hips and pooled in her belly.

“I have a proposition for you, Duchess.”

He paused, then his lips curved into that rare, captivating smirk she had come to adore, a flash of the mischievous boy beneath the Duke. Marion liked that lad.

“I was thinking… since you are so adept at capturing… subjects.” His eyes gleamed with undisguised mischief. “Perhaps you might consider a new commission. Something… private. Just for me.”

Marion felt a blush creep up her neck, a delicious heat spreading through her that thrilled her. She knew exactly where this was going, her heart quickening its rhythm.

Oh yes, she thought. I have been waitin’ for this.

“And what subject did ye have in mind, Yer Grace?” she asked, clearing her throat playfully. “A model perhaps?”

I will make him work for it though…

He walked around her easel. His steps were slow and deliberate until he stopped directly behind her sofa.

His hands gently rested on the back of it, his thumbs stroking the plush fabric as she desperately wished it was the skin of her neck.

He leaned down onto it, the sight of his strong arms, even in his shirt, sent a shiver down her spine.

“I believe you have already captured my essence quite admirably in a certain charcoal sketch I recall discovering. In fact, I seem to recall multiple sketches over the last several weeks,” he said, his voice was a low rumble.

“Perhaps such things exist.”

“But a mere torso, Marion? Surely, my wife, a true artist, could capture the entirety of her muse.”

Marion’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat in her ears.

Much as she wanted this, hearing the words was a different experience entirely.

She felt the heat of his body from across the room, the intoxicating scent of him enveloping her.

She inhaled the scents of pine, musk, and crisp linen, mingling to form something uniquely Anselm.

She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the teasing intimacy, letting the full weight of his suggestion settle over her.

“Are you suggesting, dear husband,” she whispered, “that I paint you as you truly are?”

The implication hung in the air, audacious and thrilling.

He chuckled, a rich, deep sound that vibrated through her, making her lean onto her easel to steady herself.

“Precisely, my tempest. Or perhaps, more accurately, like one of your Highlanders. But in the privacy of our chambers, of course. No clothes required. Will that work for you?”

He strode over to her. His green eyes were dark with the desire she had come to crave. She liked the way she looked in his eyes.

“Would that be agreeable to you, madam painter? Surely, I will pay whatever fee you require.”

Marion’s gaze lingered on his full lips, considering his most tempting invitation. A thrill, potent and undeniable, shot through her, igniting a fire in her veins.

“More than agreeable, Yer Grace,” she breathed, her voice husky with anticipation. “A privilege, in fact. My brush awaits and I will waive the requisite fee as repayment.”

“As you wish,” he said as he planted a kiss on her head, and walked out of the studio, leaving her breathless.