Page 38 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)
Chapter Thirty-One
“ T ell me again why we have to go to these bloody things,” Verity sighed as she sipped on a glass of champagne.
“Verity! You cannae let yer brother hear ye speak like that. “ Marion whispered as she threw a playful elbow into her. “Ye are incorrigible; I swear it.”
“What are you two going on about?” Anselm said when he joined them in a corner. “Is this party a bore or what?”
The three laughed as they clinked their glasses, looking around at the stodgy company.
“At least Emmanuel should be here soon,” Verity sighed. “He always livens things up a bit.”
“If one did not know better, they would assume you were interested in him. Be careful sister, I know better, but most do not.”
“Oh, can you stop!” Verity said as she walked off to greet a friend.
Lady Thistlewaite’s evening soiree was, as expected, a glittering but stifling affair.
The air was thick with the scent of summer lilies and ambition, the drone of polite conversation a constant hum.
Lord Thistlewaite, as ever, was sipping from his flask in the corner and telling jokes inappropriate for, well any situation really.
Marion, now accustomed to the ton’s discerning gaze, navigated the crowded rooms of their grand estate with newfound confidence.
While the whispers of her Scottishness followed, they had grown infrequent.
More than that, she did not care. Anselm’s subtle presence was a compass, one with which she navigated through any storm.
“Let us keep turning about until we find some suitable company,” he joked as he pulled her closer. “And if we cannot, are you able to feign a headache so we can retire early?”
“Oh, what a splendid idea! I left my supplies ready so we can resume my work.”
“Agreed then. Let us stay another hour and no more. That should be enough to distract the vultures from finding any such fault with us. Although I must say, it is taking everything inside of me not to find a vacant room and take you…right now. You are a vision in that sapphire dress.”
“I ken I am supposed to alternate my wardrobe, but I do so love this gown you selected for Master Jordan’s exhibit. Perhaps because I ken ye picked it for me.”
He gave her an imperceptible squeeze on her full backside as they moved through the throngs with effortless grace. While they conversed with varying guests, he was never far from her side.
She looked out and noted that Verity, too, seemed more at ease.
Marion assumed that her recent literary success, albeit anonymously held, provided a glow that outshone any diamond in the room.
And there were many competing baubles in that room, strewn around the necks of the women clamoring to be seen.
The inevitable topic of The Highland Holiday arose and circulated like a forbidden secret and only a select few new the true authoress.
Marion watched as a young Lord Davidson, known for his inherited wealth and unearned arrogance, cornered Verity near a particularly ornate mantelpiece.
She grimaced as she looked up at its carved cherubs, who were also wincing at his presence.
“My lady,” Lord Davidson began as Marion eavesdropped.
“You are a woman of the world. Have you, perchance, indulged in this salacious novel… Highland Holiday everyone is raving about? Utter nonsense, I daresay. A woman writing such passionate prose? Unthinkable. And under a false name, no less! This Eliza Jane Bennett is nowhere to be found, so clearly, it is a pseudonym. One must question the courage, or indeed, the legitimacy, of an author who dares not attach their name to their work. What a coward!”
“Well, I am sure she has a good reason for it and?—”
“Surely, if it were truly worthwhile, they would proudly claim it? It only affirms my suspicions that it is trite rubbish,” he said as he laughed at his own joke. It was a high-pitched sound, grating like fingernails on a slate. “Give me an author with conviction any day. Shakespeare for instance!”
“Well, they say there were many authors who may have used that name!”
“Oh rubbish, dear girl,” he said, acting as though they were not the same age and of equal standing.
Verity’s smile tightened. There was a dangerous glint in her eyes that Marion knew well. Marion saw her hand clenched at her side, a clear sign of her rising indignation. She was afraid Verity might punch him, and she prepared herself to intervene.
“Lord Davidson.” When Verity spoke, her voice was carefully modulated. “Perhaps the author chooses to use a pen name for reasons you cannot possibly comprehend. Perhaps they have more to lose than a mere reputation.”
She cast a quick, meaningful glance at Marion, who nodded imperceptibly, a silent reassurance.
“Oh, do not take it so personally,” he said with a dismissive wave. “It is merely an observation on the nature of authorship. One should not allow oneself to become so invested in mere flights of fancy. It is most unbecoming, especially for one I assume is in search of a husband.”
Before Verity could retort, a shadow fell over them and Marion saw him standing there. Anselm.
He had approached silently, drawn by the rising inflection of Davidson’s voice, like a predator sensing weakness. Marion knew he had heard everything but had no idea how he would react.
“Lord Davidson,” Anselm’s voice was low and laced with a chilling authority that cut through the din like a sharpened blade.
“It seems you hold rather peculiar, or dare I say pedestrian notions, on literature. If one judges a novel’s worth solely by whether a name is attached to it, rather than by the skill of its prose or the power of its narrative, then one clearly does not understand literature at all.
Perhaps you should stick to your account books. ”
“Oh, Your Grace! It was only a bit of passing conversation, not some pronounced statement. In fact, I merely meant to imply. Well, it is to say that… ummm…” He stammered and suddenly became unable to form a coherent sentence under Anselm’s unwavering, icy gaze.
“What was it you were saying?” Anselm pressed as others began to circle around them like vultures. “I am most curious now. I think we all are.”
“I… I must excuse myself, Your Grace. I just remembered a most urgent engagement and I must use the restroom,” he said as he bowed hastily, almost tripping over his own feet as he bolted from the conversation.
Verity stared after him, then turned her wide eyes to Anselm. She raised an eyebrow and shrugged. A mixture of surprise, gratitude, and a hint of bewildered admiration crossed her face.
“Anselm,” she began, “you know… you know that you did not have to do that.”
Anselm merely offered a curt nod and adjusted his cufflinks. His expression had already returned to his customary composure, as if chastising lords was a daily chore.
“He was being foolish, Verity. No one speaks to my sister that way.”
He met Marion’s gaze across Verity’s shoulder, and Marion offered him a warm, appreciative smile.
Well done , she mouthed to him from the small distance away. Let us go home and I will show you just how proud I am of you.
“I think we should get out of here, Verity. There is no sign of Wrotham, and I think this party is a bit boring for our exciting taste. Would you agree?”
“I like this version of you, Anselm. Let us be off!” She said as they linked arms and worked through the crowd to Marion.
Later that night, after they had returned to their own residence and Verity had retired to her chambers, Marion found Anselm in the library with a half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. The room was softly lit by a single lamp.
“That was rather... unlike ye, Anselm,” Marion ventured, approaching him. “I also thought you were goin’ to meet me upstairs for another art session.”
“To defend one’s family? I should hope it is not so unlike me,” he said as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
“No,” she clarified, a small smile playing on her lips. “To be so... public in yer disdain for that foolish young lord. Usually, ye simply freeze them out with a stare. But that, that was attacking.”
He took a slow sip and set the empty glass down on a nearby table.
“Perhaps I grow weary of such talk going unchecked. And his words were most offensive to Verity. And to... the authoress I mean.”
He looked at her then and a flicker of something she could not quite decipher flitted in his dark green eyes.
“The author,” Marion echoed softly, sensing a deeper confession. “Much as we have hinted around it… Ye ken it is her? I havenae said it so plain, but it is her.”
“I had my suspicions from the start, Marion when I heard of it. Then when I read it, the descriptions of Strathcairn, the nuanced understanding of certain emotional complexities…” He paused, then finally met her gaze.
“Verity spoke of a love for the name Donald as a young girl. In fact it was her pretend friend’s name.
That was the final tell. But there were also some intimate details, of confinement in carriages and other such things that felt… most personal.”
Marion felt a blush creep up her cheeks. “I tried to be discreet.”
He let out a soft chuckle. “You were. But I have always been rather observant, even if I do not always speak about what I observe. I knew you helped her with some of the finer points, and she did well capturing some of that.”
“I see,” she said softly, trying to wrap her head around that point.
“Does it displease you, that I know you helped her conceive some of this?”
Marion shook her head and moved closer to him. “No. It... it feels rather freeing, in fact.” She reached out, her fingers tracing the lapel of his coat. “It means you truly see her, not just as your sister, but as the remarkable woman she is. And you also see us.”
“Indeed,” Anselm murmured, his hand coming up to gently cup her cheek. “I see you, Marion. More clearly than anyone else.” His thumb stroked her skin. There was a quiet promise in the gesture.