Page 41 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Marion’s heart twisted as Verity’s gaze softened just slightly.

“I only wanted a taste of freedom, Marion. Just for a moment.”

Marion rose, her hands outstretched in an offering of peace.

“Oh, Verity, no! It is nae like that at all. Yer brother, he was concerned. After… after what happened with Lord Fanthorpe and everythin’…

he only wanted to protect ye. He loves ye, even if he cannae say it.

I ken it as well as I ken me own name. I promise ye. ”

“Protect me? Or control me? Of course you would not know. He controls you as much as he does me!”

“You will watch yourself, sister,” Anselm warned as he crossed his arms across his chest.

“Is this what my newfound freedom entails? That I am to be constantly watched by some guard dog? Or better yet, constantly judged and protected from myself? From being who I truly am?!”

“You are overreacting,” Anselm barked.

“And you, Marion! My friend and confidante… You kept this secret from me? How long has this arrangement existed between you?”

“Verity!” Marion called as she walked toward her.

“You allowed him to treat me like a prisoner?” Her voice cracked as a single tear went down her delicate cheek. “How could you do that to me?”

“Verity, please! I need ye listen to me!” Marion pleaded, stepping towards her once more. “It was out of care, not control. He was worried, truly. All we want is to see ye safe…”

“I cannot believe this! I cannot believe either of you!” Verity yelled as she turned on her heel and stormed out of the drawing room.

“Verity! Wait! Let me explain!” Marion called as she followed her up the grand staircase, yet Verity did not slow nor turn to face her.

Marion reached Verity’s bedchamber just as the door slammed shut with a thud in her face and was followed by the distinct click of the lock.

The metallic sound reverberated through the quiet hallway as Marion’s blood raced through her body.

She stood there frozen with her hand hovering over the polished wood of the door.

“She has to eat,” Marion said to Mrs. Clarke as she finished the last of her morning tea. “I ken she is stubborn, but we must have somethin’ brought to her.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Clarke said. “I will have one of the servants leave a tray?—”

“Please, I must do it.”

“Very well, Your Grace. As you wish it. I will have an assortment put together from the breakfast buffet at once.”

Breakfast had been a strained affair, with Anselm picking at his toast and Marion staring into her teacup. The usual morning banter was missing, only amplified by Verity’s absence. In fact, Marion had barely eaten anything at all, and she was grateful that Anselm did not press.

Marion excused herself in a rush once the tray was presented and she hurried to Verity’s bedchamber.

“Verity,” Marion called as she set leaned forehead against the heavy door. “Ye daenae have to answer, but I am leavin’ you a tray of food. If ye cannae leave, ye must eat.”

Marion waited a moment or two, but there was no response.

She left the tray in front of the door and set off to her studio.

She had hoped that she would be able to lose herself in art and distract herself from all that was swirling in her mind and find some solace.

Yet, each time she set charcoal on paper to begin a sketch she could only see him.

As if on cue, a roar of thunder sounded from the cracked window, making her startle.

The hooded figure, the cloak that hid his snarlin’ face. Yet, somethin’ about him was familiar and uncanny… I cannae shake the feelin’.

Resolute in not letting the hooded figure occupy her mind any longer, she allowed herself to sketch him. She drew the curves of the cloak and the glint of a knife in his hand. She brought life to the alley behind him, accentuating the detritus and meager light that surrounded them.

I willnae let ye bother me anymore, ye bastard.

She rose then and took the sketch, setting it on top of a candle on her desk. She let the flames rise until they danced in front of her eyes before tossing it in the nearby fireplace.

Later that afternoon, Marion found Anselm in his study. Instead of being absorbed in some correspondence, he was staring out the window at the freshly rain-swept gardens. His hands were clasped behind his back, accentuating his broad shoulders. The ledgers on his desk lay untouched.

“She willnae speak to me,” Marion said softly, her voice heavy with weariness. “She also dinnae touch the tray I had left in front of her bedchamber door. I checked as I walked over here from me studio…”

Anselm did not turn. Instead, he set his hands on the windowsill and Marion watched as his knuckles whitened.

“Nor to me. I suppose I deserve it.” His voice was flat and devoid of its usual confidence.

“You daenae deserve her anger, Anselm,” Marion countered, moving closer to him and placing her delicate hands on his shoulders. “Perhaps frustration but not anger. You acted out of concern for her wellbein’, as ye have for a very long time, me love.”

He turned, his gaze meeting hers. Marion could see the weariness coating his emerald eyes.

“Concern that she perceives as control. And she is not entirely wrong, Marion. I have always sought to control her circumstances, to shield her from the world’s harsher realities, particularly after…

after our father’s decline. It became a habit, a reflex.

” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“I believed it was my duty. But I never considered how it stifled her. I could have been more honest, more?—”

“She feels betrayed by me, too,” Marion said, her voice breaking slightly. “That I kept your… vigilance a secret.”

“That was my request and not of your making. I did not wish to alarm her unnecessarily, or to have her feel… watched. I asked you to keep it quiet and as my wife, you kept that promise.”

“Yes, but?—”

“I am sorry, Marion. I placed you in an impossible position. It was not fair of me to ask of you, regardless of my intentions.”

Marion shook her head. “No. I understood yer reasons! And I still do. But she feels… violated.” She paused, then looked at him earnestly.

“Ye must find a way to speak to her, Anselm. Not as the Duke, but as her brother. And ye must apologize, truly apologize, for not trusting her with yer concerns… for not allowing her the autonomy she deserves.”

Anselm looked away, his gaze returning to the rain. “It will not be easy. She is stubborn.”

“Aye, it seems to be a family trait as you are too,” Marion jested. “Yet, ye are also capable of great understanding, Anselm and I have seen it.” She touched his arm, a silent plea. “The walls ye built to survive all those long years… ye are slowly dismantling them.”

He remained silent for a long moment. The only sound was the drumming of rain against the lawn outside the window. Finally, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

“Perhaps… perhaps you are right.” He turned back to her, a flicker of his old resolve returning. “I will speak with her. But only when she is ready. I will not pound at her door day and night; she is a grown woman… as you like to remind me.”

“She will be. She loves ye, Anselm.”