Page 44 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)
Chapter Thirty-Five
T hat night, the house was even quieter than it had been in the days that followed Verity’s quarrel with them.
Marion felt as if a heavy blanket of silence had settled over it, like an impossible layer of thick snow.
She sat by herself in the drawing room, a book unread in her lap, as she stared at the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls.
Aye, the flames dance like me uneasy thoughts.
She jumped slightly when Anselm entered causing the book to fall on the rug with a thud.
She could instantly feel that he was distant because of something in the slowness of his gait.
For all that had changed between them, a rigid, almost brittle stiffness surrounded him as he strode toward the fireplace.
He did not look at her but instead stared into the flames.
“We have gone too far, Marion,” he said, his voice low, flat, and devoid of emotion.
He may as well be talkin’ to a business associate, Marion thought as her heart constricted.
“What are ye talkin’ about, Anselm? Gilton is gone now, thanks to ye. He is ruined. We have nothin’ to fear from him now.”
She rose to her feet then, taking a tentative step towards him and meeting him in front of the fireplace.
“He confessed to everythin’, Anselm,” she pleaded with him. “He told me about the notes, me uncle and aunt, and his vile plans. It is all over. We are safe. Ye have made us safe…”
He shook his head from side to side as he stepped away from her and crossed to the far window.
“Not from him. From… whatever this is,” he said as he finally turned to face her, his eyes meeting hers.
“Our marriage, Marion. It was a convenience, which is something we had established from the start. It was a unique solution to a problem that needed to be solved. It was never supposed to be… all this.”
He gestured vaguely between them. His words failed to describe just what had grown between them.
“It was a duty, nothing more,” he pressed. “A temporary arrangement to secure Verity’s future and protect my family’s name.”
Marion felt a sharp, piercing pain in her chest, as if his words may as well have been Gilton’s blade. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Anselm… what are ye sayin’? After everythin’… after what we’ve shared?” Her voice was barely a whisper and her heart shattered with each word as it came out of her mouth. “You cannae mean it! I daenae believe ye! Not after… after I saw ye in the park. After ye held me.”
“I am saying…” He paused and walked to the beverage cart to pour himself a brandy.
He took a long sip before speaking again.
“I am saying that we have allowed ourselves to become… entangled in a manner that is not befitting the bounds of our original agreement. It was a mistake. A profound error in judgment on my part.”
“Error in judgment? I am a human bein’, Anslem. Ye willnae talk to me as if I am some business matter.”
He looked away again, as if the sight of her pain was unbearable, or perhaps, as if he feared his own resolve would break.
“This… this closeness, it jeopardizes everything. It makes us vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable?” Marion cried. “Or human? Is that what ye fear, Anselm? To feel? To allow yerself to be loved by someone?” She stepped closer, reaching out a hand. He flinched, a movement that stung her more than any harsh word.
“Once Verity is settled,” he continued, ignoring her plea, “once she is married and secure, there will be no further need for this arrangement. You may return to Scotland and live your life as you wish. As you always intended, I am sure.”
Marion stared at him. Tears stung her eyes, blurring his rigid form. She blinked, hoping that this was all a cruel nightmare, and that she would awake in his bed and in his arms. And yet…
The coldness in his voice, the stark finality of his words, was a wall more impenetrable than any he had built around his emotions before. Much as things had changed between them, she knew Anselm and what he was capable of. The detachment. The unrelenting sense of duty.
Duty. How about your marriage? But what duty is owed to a farce?
Her throat tightened A painful knot formed there preventing any further debate as she realized there was some truth behind his words. She would not beg. Not for his affection, not for a love he now so cruelly denied her. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken grief.
She nodded, once, giving a single, sharp dip of her head.
“As ye wish, Yer Grace,” she said. Her voice was thin and brittle.
She turned her back to him, and walked slowly, deliberately, towards the door.
Each step was agony as it represented a silent farewell to a future she had only begun to imagine.
She waited for seconds that felt like minutes, yet she heard nothing from him.
There was no word or sound, as she left the drawing room.
The moment her bedchamber door closed behind her, she leaned against it and slid slowly to the floor.
She buried her face in her hands as wrenching sobs tore through her like a knife.
The tears came, hot against her cool cheeks.
She cried to mourn the love she had found, the intimacy they had shared, and for the crushing reality of its sudden, brutal end just when things seemed to fall into place.
Marion stood up and walked to her desk, where she retrieved her journal.
She sat herself up in bed and as emotionally spent as she was, began to write.
She wrote until she could no longer hold the quill in her hand.
A feverish stream of consciousness flowed from her as she sought to unburden herself.
I daenae ken how I could have fooled myself into thinkin’ I would be a duchess or that all this could truly be mine. The call of Scotland appeals and yet, sours in my mouth as I consider how much this place feels like… home. Yet, is it this place, or is it the man who occupies it?