Page 4 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

I do not care for the way he handles her, Anselm thought as he walked a few paces behind and stored the moment for later.

The familiar man released Lady Marion and turned his gaze to Anselm. His entire demeanor shifted instantly, flipping like a coin.

“Ah, the Duke of Greystead,” he said smoothly while extending a hand. “We met at Lady Forshaw’s ball some years past, Your Grace. Lord Harlowe, at your disposal.”

Recognition clicked into place. Anselm recalled the cold courtesy and subtle barbs masked by practiced charm.

“Lord Harlowe,” Anselm simply repeated the title.

“Your Grace!” The earl’s voice sharpened with forced warmth. “What an unexpected pleasure to find you at my niece’s nuptials! Pray, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

A woman appeared beside him with the careful grace of a woman well versed in the unspoken rules of ton society.

She was just over forty. Her dark hair was streaked with early silver and her expression was a practiced blend of deference and calculation, much like the man beside her.

She stepped forward timidly and executed a perfect curtsy.

“My dear husband, I believed we would be aware if a man of His Grace’s status was invited to our Marion’s wedding. We are most surprised, Your Grace,” she said softly to Anselm, “to see you so far from Greystead Hall and London this time of year. Are you on holiday in fair Scotland?”

Anselm felt a wave of disgust at their hollow pleasantries. There was a careless indifference beneath their words toward the young woman between them. Something was clearly amiss—and neither seemed to care.

“Your niece appeared to be in need of assistance,” he stated plainly, offering no further remarks.

A man stepped forward, thin-lipped and sneering.

He looked about thirty and was plain enough, though his clothes were impeccably tailored—as if that alone could make up for a lack of any real presence.

His dark eyes were cold and calculating, but there was nothing about him that stirred respect or fear.

Anselm recognized him then. Lord Gilton. He didn’t know the man well, but from the tension around Lady Marion, it was clear she dreaded this match.

“Marion, my dear, you’ve kept us waiting quite a while,” he said with a singsong tsk-tsk.

“While I hear lateness can be fashionable, a bride ought not to be so tardy on her own wedding day. Fear not, Lord Harlowe, I shall have to teach her better manners.” He laughed lightly.

“Rest assured, I’ll see she knows her place. ”

Gilton reached out then so his fingers could brush Lady Marion’s arm. The sight of this movement sent a spike of anger through Anselm and was only amplified as he watched her recoil at the contact.

She is genuinely afraid of him.

This man was a danger and of what variety, Anselm did not know. He had heard rumors of his peculiar tastes and proclivities, which he’d paid no mind to in the private clubs of London. Yet, looking at him now, he was unsure they were just rumors; Gilton oozed treachery.

Lady Marion inched away from the Viscount and pulled a note from her sleeve to present to the group. Anselm watched her hand tremble as she held it out to Gilton.

“I received this,” she whispered. “Just as I was finishin’ up dressin’ for our wedding day with Jean.”

Anselm’s eyes narrowed as he snatched the paper from her hand. He unfolded it quickly. Anselm leaned forward so he could read the words before Gilton.

Gilton has already promised himself to me. Cross that line and I will make sure you are buried in that wedding gown.

He reread the words several times, letting them register, then looked up at Lady Marion.

“Why did you not show me this before?”

Before she could answer, Harlowe laughed loud and dismissively.

“This is all nonsense, Your Grace! A ruse! What you are seeing is a flighty girl’s defiance against a respectable match.

You know what fickle creatures these females can be.

It is in their nature. They cannot help it!

With her parents gone, I have taken great pains to see her through several seasons and ensure that she has an excellent husband to care for her.

She needs a firm hand, that is all. I know she will do well. ”

Lady Harlowe’s posture straightened at his comment indicating she silently agreed with him on the matter.

Gilton’s smile widened. A thin, predatory curve tugged at his lips as he puffed out his chest.

The three of them, Gilton and Lord and Lady Harlowe, seemed to form a silent tribunal as they all towered over Lady Marion while she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

“My dear Marion, you will be very happy in our marriage. I assure you.” He placed a hand on her elbow. His touch lingered as Anselm watched the subtle digging of his fingers into her skin. “It is time.”

The threat was real. Anselm could not and would not leave her here.

“Get back in the carriage,” Anselm ordered in a low voice.

Lady Marion blinked. Her blue eyes went wide as saucers, as if she had not heard him correctly. Instead of moving, she stood there, again like a doe in front of a hunter.

“Get back in the carriage, Lady Marion. Now,” he repeated, a bit louder this time. His voice was just as firm as the others looked at him curiously.

She did not hesitate a second time. With a rustle of lace and silk, she was off. She turned and ran down the steps, scrambling towards Anselm’s waiting coach without a backward glance.

“With all due respect, what in the blazes is this, Your Grace? My niece is set to marry Lord Gilton,” Harlowe huffed.

“No, Lord Harlowe. Your niece is coming with me.”

“Are you kidnapping her?” Harlowe blustered. It was clear he was dumbfounded and confused. “I have spent good money for this wedding and a wedding will be taking place now!”

Gilton took a step forward then, clearly intending to follow Marion. Anselm moved quickly and blocked the path with his burly body.

“You will have to go through me to get to her, Gilton.”

“This is an outrage!” Lady Harlowe shrieked as she clasped onto her husband’s elbow. “You cannot simply take our niece, Your Grace! My lord husband forbids it!”

“I can,” Anselm countered. His gaze grew hot as he fixed it on Lord Gilton.

“And I will. Given the circumstances, I can see that she needs me. She is in danger, but I will not allow the threat to continue. She is coming with me and will remain in my care until a more suitable arrangement is made. Who lets a woman go through with a marriage when there are threats against her very life?”

With those final words, Gilton and Lord and Lady Harlowe froze in shock. There was nothing left for them to say. It would be up to them to conjure up a tale for the guests and figure out what to do with the food and arrangements that had been made for the occasion.

Anselm did not care. His mind was already spinning to the next steps in the plan he was forming as he went along.

“Your Grace—” Gilton started.

“As for you, Gilton—” Anselm cut him off with a growl. “You’d better think before coming near her again.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away from the scene so that he might hastily join Marion in the carriage. He slammed the door shut and barked an order at his driver with a rough tap on the partition.

“Let us be done with this cursed place! And quickly!”

The carriage lurched forward. It rattled away from the church and left the sputtering, enraged figures of Lady Marion’s family and her intended husband in the dust.