Page 39 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

“I daenae have the energy to paint, me husband. But I would very much like to kiss ye in our bed.”

He stood on his feet then and scooped her up into his arms.

“Ye ken I can walk, right?” she joked as she kissed his cheek.

“I very much like watching you walk, but I also like this.”

The next morning, Marion decided it was time for a more direct approach to mending the chasm between Anselm and Verity, much as they had made progress on their own.

After a simple breakfast, as Anselm retreated to his study with the air of a man facing a mountain of paperwork, and Verity headed towards the library with a stack of new, eagerly anticipated books, Marion intercepted her.

“Verity,” Marion said, her voice bright. “I was just about to explore the Duke’s more… academic collection in the library. Perhaps ye could offer some guidance? Ye are so much more knowledgeable about literature than I.”

Verity, clearly flattered by the sincere compliment, readily agreed, her eyes lighting up at the prospect.

“Oh, I would be delighted! I know those tomes like the back of my hand!”

They entered the vast library; its towering shelves filled with leather-bound volumes that seemed to hold centuries of thought within their spines. Marion then set about subtly, almost imperceptibly, ensuring Anselm and Verity would be left alone. She had a plan.

While Verity sat at a desk to review an old favorite book she had rediscovered, Marion found a large book on Ancient Roman law and placed it strategically on Anselm’s desk. She attached a note suggesting its relevance to a recent parliamentary debate he had mentioned at breakfast a few days before.

Meet me in the library to discuss this further. Love, Marion

Anselm entered his study a few minutes later, frowning at the unexpected book on his desk. He looked up, his gaze sweeping the quiet room when he picked up the note. After reading it, he picked up the book and ran hurriedly to the library.

As he entered, he saw Verity browsing the shelves.

She was utterly engrossed in each title and emitted a faint hum of contentment as she scanned them.

He sighed, prepared to retreat, and vanish back into the haven of his ledgers…

but then he remembered Marion’s gentle encouragement and the quiet promise he’d made to her… as well as the cursed note.

This is her doing, he thought to himself. Best to go along with my wife’s wishes.

“Verity,” he began, his voice a little gruff, catching her attention.

Verity turned, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, as if bracing for a lecture. “Anselm. Were you… looking for a book? Is there something I can help you with?”

He cleared his throat, feeling awkward in his own library. He set down the book and put his hands in his pockets. He walked toward her then stopped a few feet away.

“No. I… I saw you here,” he said hesitatingly, then gestured vaguely at her pile of books. “Are you finding anything… suitable?”

Verity’s apprehension eased and was replaced by a tentative smile.

“Oh, yes! Mr. Hawthorne procured a first edition of Sense and Sensibility . I was finding a good home for it here and felt inspired looking around at all the books we have here.”

“That sounds wonderful, Verity.”

“Yes, it really is! And I have been considering a new direction for my next work. Perhaps something with a more… intellectual heroine.”

Anselm found himself nodding. He was genuinely interested in hearing her talk about her next project..

Perhaps there is some sense in this girl after all, he thought as he sat down at the nearby desk.

“Indeed. Intellect can be a formidable quality, ,” he said before springing up to walk towards the shelves and running a hand over the ancient spines of his own collection in the corner. “You seem to… understand these works. More than I do, perhaps.”

Verity’s eyes widened slightly at his unexpected admission. This was a rare crack in his formidable facade.

“Well, I enjoy them. They offer… different worlds.” She picked up a slim volume and turned it in her hands. “Do you ever read for pleasure and diversion, Anselm? Or only for business?”

He turned to her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips.

“Occasionally, Verity. Occasionally. Though my definition of reading for pleasure may differ from yours.” He paused, then gestured to the volumes of poetry.

“Have you ever considered the classics as inspiration? There is much wisdom to be found in their words.”

Verity tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face, considering his words with a surprising openness. “Perhaps. If they are presented in a manner that does not make one’s eyes glaze over with boredom.”

“It is all in the reader,” Anselm teased. “If you find this boring, you only have yourself to blame.”

“All right, fine. Go on, brother. Tell me what I should be reading then.”

Anselm found himself chuckling. He produced a genuine, soft sound that filled the grand library.

“I shall endeavor to select a volume that avoids such a dire fate as being a bore. Perhaps something by Lord Byron? He, at least, understood passion.”

Verity’s eyes lit up with a true spark of excitement. “Lord Byron! You read Byron, Anselm? I never would have guessed! I thought you were all Socrates, Sophocles, and Hippocrates.”

“I think there is much you do not know about me…and that is my fault. Come, let us look at this one together,” he said, motioning to the desk.

They continued to talk as they read poetry. The conversation flowed more easily than it had in years.

Anselm looked up to see Marion listening from the hallway outside the library. She wore a small, knowing smile on her face.

“The roses are quite magnificent this year, aren’t they, Verity?” Anselm remarked, his voice softer than Marion was accustomed to hearing when he spoke to his sister as they sat in the drawing room one afternoon, some days later.

Verity looked up. Her brow was furrowed in concentration on her writing. “Indeed. Though I can never quite capture the exact shade of crimson when I try to write of it.”

“Try bein’ a painter,” Marion joked as she worked on a cross stitch.

Anselm turned from the window to face Verity.

“Mother used to say the same thing about the honeysuckle. She would try to paint it, but always claimed the delicate yellow was impossible to translate to canvas. I bet it is a similar feeling, is it not?”

Verity’s hand stilled as she set down her quill. Marion watched, holding her breath. The mention of their mother, usually a topic skirted around, hung in the air.

“She… she was quite talented, was she not?” Verity’s voice was barely a whisper. “I do not remember much…”

“She was,” he said as he walked over to a small, ornate table in the corner and picked up a framed miniature portrait. It was a depiction of a young woman with kind, green eyes and a gentle smile.

Their mother.

He had not touched the frame in years, or at least, not when others had been present.

“Yes, she was,” he confirmed, his voice thick with tenderness. “She had a particular fondness for the small, wildflowers that grew along the banks of a small lake she used to take us to some miles from here. I have not been able to go back, but I can see it if I close my eyes.”

Verity looked up at him. Her eyes were wide with a fragile emotion.

“Oh, Anselm! I remember… she used to make us daisy chains! And tell us stories about the fairies that lived amongst the heather.” A faint, almost wistful smile touched her lips.

“I had thought… I had imagined those things, trying to create a memory that may not be real. I cannot tell you how it warms me to hear that.”

“And talk of fairies,” Marion chimed in. “Perhaps there is a bit of highlander in yer family after all. She sounds like a grand woman.”

“Perhaps Marion… and you did not forget, Verity. We simply… stopped speaking of them because it was too hard.” He lowered the miniature but held it gently in his grip.

“There were so many things we stopped speaking of, mainly because I did not know how to face myself. But, I am changing that now. Will you forgive me for the walls I put up to survive?”

Verity rose slowly and moved closer to him. “Why, Anselm? Why did we cease to be… a family? Why did you erect those walls in the first place?”

Her voice was raw with the question that had plagued her for years.

Anselm sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Because I believed I had to be strong. To protect you. To protect what little remained. I built walls, Verity, and I believed they were necessary. But I never truly considered… what they kept out.” He looked from the miniature to her face.

There was a profound regret etched in his features.

“I deeply regret the years we lost, sister. There is much darkness that I hope you never know.”

Verity’s eyes welled with tears. They were not tears of sorrow, but of release. “As do I, brother.” She reached out and placed a hand gently on his arm. “Perhaps… perhaps we might begin to remember those things again. Together.”

“Perhaps,” Anselm said as he looked to Marion. Silent gratitude passed from his heart to hers.

“I think I need to take a turn about the grounds to clear my head,” Verity said as she rose to her feet. “If you both would excuse me, I will be back before it is time to dine.”

“Of course,” Marion said as she stood. “Would ye like me to join ye?”

“I am happy to join you as well,” Anselm said as he walked to them.

“I think I would like that,” she said. So the three family members went out into the sunshine and warmth of early June.