Page 48 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

I will sleep here all night if I must . Anselm cursed to himself as he sat back in his leather chair.

That night, Anselm sat alone in his study. The only source of light came from the flickering gas lamp on his desk which accentuated the half-empty decanter of brandy beside it. He poured another glass and the amber liquid glinted. He swallowed it quickly.

So much cursed silence.

The silence of the house was oppressive, a reminder of Marion’s absence, and of his sister’s cold disapproval. He hated it all. He loathed the emptiness and the gnawing sense of wrongness. Yet, he knew what was best.

I must protect them. I must protect myself.

A knock, tentative at first, then firmer when no response came, interrupted his grim solitude.

“Your Grace? May I enter?” a deep voice called as the door swung open.

Emmanuel.

Anselm sighed while running a hand over his face. He did not want company.

“Come in,” he bit out, in spite of himself.

Emmanuel walked quietly to the chair opposite Anselm’s desk and sat, his expression unusually grave. Anselm set down his glass and sat up straighter so that he might do Emmanuel the honor of having his full attention.

“Is something wrong?” he asked. Genuine worry caught in his throat.

“Yes, Anselm,” Emmanuel began, his voice soft. “This… this cannot continue. I know that Her Grace is heartbroken. Your sister is distraught. The very air in this house is thick with misery. I can feel it in my bones.”

Anselm took another swallow of brandy and shook his head, realizing that the source of his friend’s unease was him.

“My domestic affairs are not your concern, Emmanuel. What I could use is a drinking companion. Care for a glass?” He reached for another tumbler.

“Everything that affects you, affects me, my friend,” Emmanuel countered. “And this all, I know that it affects you deeply. I saw you last night. You were a man possessed. There were clouds in front of your haunted green eyes.”

“I do not need you to remark on the finer points of my eyes?—”

“And today, you look as though the weight of the world sits wholly on your shoulders. As it has for far too long.” He leaned forward. “You love her, Anselm. It is as plain as those green eyes. Why? Why are you pushing her away?”

Anselm slammed his glass onto the desk and the sharp clang echoed in the quiet room.

“You know nothing of it! Our marriage was a contract, a necessity to avoid scandal and ruin. It was never meant to be… to be anything more than that. We have gone too far. It is dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Emmanuel scoffed. “What is so dangerous about happiness, Anselm? About love? I wish to make light of this, to bring balance to your dark thoughts… but I find myself unable to come up with anything worthy of a laugh. You worry me, Anselm.”

“Love makes one vulnerable!” Anselm retorted, his voice rising, a raw edge to it. “It makes one weak! It makes one lose control!”

Emmanuel stood and walked around the desk to stand before Anselm. He placed a hand on Anselm’s shoulder, his gaze unwavering.

“Anselm, I need you to listen to me. Truly listen.”

Anselm shook his head before looking into Emmanuel’s eyes. He felt pulled to him in that moment and gave a nod.

“Your father… he was a sick man. His mind was failing him in a way I would not wish on my worst enemy. And your mother’s death… it was an accident. A tragic, senseless accident. None of it was your fault?—”

“But, but I?—”

“It was not your fault.”

“I could have done better. I could have?—”

“You were a boy. You did what you had to do. But you cannot carry the weight of their misfortunes, of all the world’s misfortunes for that matter, as your sole responsibility.

You cannot control every outcome, Anselm.

You cannot prevent every sorrow. And you cannot punish yourself, or Marion, for a past that was not yours to command. ”

Anselm stared at him.

Emmanuel squeezed his shoulder again, shaking him slightly as if trying to ward off a ghost.

“Do not throw away happiness, Anselm. So few have the luxury of knowing it. Do not sacrifice the very thing that could heal you because of a disease that was never yours. You deserve to be content.”

“I deserve?—”

“Fine, if not for you than for her. Marion deserves to be loved. Do not let your fear of losing control destroy the very life you are trying so desperately to protect.”

He paused, then sighed, before dropping his hand to his hip and placing it in his pocket.

“I have said what I came to say. Just promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“Think on it, my friend.”

Emmanuel turned and left. The door closed softly behind him. Anselm was once again alone in the silence but now the weight of Emmanuel’s words hung in the air and swirled around him.

Anselm sat there for a long moment in silence.

. His past pressed on him, as well as the idea of a future.

Then, with a sudden, guttural roar of frustration, he swept his arm across the desk.

Books, papers, quills, and the decanter of brandy crashed to the floor.

He stood and hurled his chair backward onto the floor.

He was breathing heavily and his chest heaved.

A moment later, the study door opened cautiously. A familiar face peeked inside the room.

“Your Grace? Is everything… in order?” Mr. Lewis asked softly as he stood in the doorway.

He looked to the floor and with quiet efficiency, he moved to begin cleaning.

“Leave it!” Anselm barked. “Leave it, Lewis! And leave me be! I will ring for assistance if and when I require it.”

Mr. Lewis, having been with the family for many years, raised an eyebrow but did not fight. While he hesitated for a moment, he bowed.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said as he withdrew. “My apologies.”

Anselm stood amidst the wreckage of his desk.

His anger deflated as he realized that he was as much of a mess as the floor.

He knelt, slowly and picked up the books first. A heavy tome on economics, a treatise on Scottish law, a collection of parliamentary debates.

Then his fingers brushed against something softer, something out of place. He picked it up.

It was Verity’s book, The Highland Holiday . Its cover was slightly bent from the fall. He had started it, weeks ago, in a moment of rare idleness, and then dismissed the work after his wife caught him reading it.

He walked to the nearby sofa, sank onto its plush velvet cushions, and opened the book to the page where he had left off. His eyes scanned the words, then stopped because he was suddenly arrested by a passage that struck him.

“He had built his life with his bare hands, brick by brick. As a result, he was surrounded by walls, all of his own making. He believed that control was the only shield against the chaos of the world, as much as he believed in the Lord above.

But what good is a fortress, if it holds only solitude? And what is power, if it cannot protect the one thing truly worth losing?

Love. True love.”

Anselm’s breath hitched. He set down the book and wrapped his arms around himself. The words resonated with a terrifying accuracy. All he could hear were Emmanuel’s and Verity’s voices.

Perhaps he was not the only man to wrestle with the danger of love, or the fear of losing control.

And the need for control… it was destroying him.