Page 7 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

“We haven’t a maid.” He strove to make his apprehension clear as he continued to point out issues. “It would not look proper.”

“Then we’ll say she is my maid. And that is if anyone even asks,” Verity said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “You worry too much, brother. What trouble could we get into?”

Anselm groaned. It was a sound of pure exasperation. He was tired as hell, too tired to fight. He scowled at his sister, then at Marion, who tried to look innocent. He hated losing control of his meticulously planned schedule, but Verity’s stubbornness was a force to be reckoned with.

“Fine,” he bit out, realizing it was best to pick his battles now that Verity was with him. “But we do not linger. When I say it is time to go, we go.”

After leaving the carriage at the inn to give the horses a rest, Anselm accompanied the two women into the bustling streets of Stamford.

Predictably, Verity’s gaze lit up the moment she spotted a quaint little bookshop tucked between a milliner’s and a tearoom.

Inside, Anselm drew in a deep breath, savoring the rich, musty scent of old paper and leather bindings. He’d always loved to read—though time for it had grown scarce under the weight of his responsibilities. Still, there was comfort in the presence of books.

Quiet. Order. A world where everything made sense.

He watched Verity as she became instantly engrossed by discussing the finer points of a locally printed collection of poetry with the eager shopkeeper. Anselm was sure that he rarely had such a captive audience as his sister.

“Please, please do tell me that you have it,” she pleaded. Her voice was bubbly in anticipation.

“Sadly, we do not carry it, my lady,” the shopkeeper sighed. “But the print shop down the lane occasionally binds short-run artistic volumes. They might have a copy.”

“I will have to see about that,” Verity said with satisfaction. “I am sure there are many other lovely books in this shop I can find before I go that way. Could you point me in the direction of the latest novels?”

Verity dragged Marion through the shop as they combed through tomes in search of books to entertain and enlighten the mind.

Despite his usual aloofness, Anselm watched them with interest. He bought Verity a new, beautifully bound volume of poetry in hopes she would be satiated.

“Oh Anselm, we must get something for Marion to read! The carriage rides have become such a bore. We have nothing left to speak of! Can we get her something?”

“Very well, select something quickly so we can be on with it,” he said, the gesture a rare, almost imperceptible softening of his hard facade.

“Marion, you must read this one,” Verity said, placing a novel in her hands. “It follows a handsome earl and a commoner with lots of intrigue, travel, crime, and drama.”

“Oh, I cannae let ye do this for me, Yer Grace,” Marion said as she her cheeks flushed as she looked up at Anselm and tried to set the book back on the shelf.

“I insist, Lady Marion,” he pushed as he took the book from her hands and placed it on the counter in front of the shopkeeper.

“Thank ye, Yer Grace,” she said. Her small smile stretched across her face.

As they left the shop, Verity bounced on the balls of her feet. “I am just going to pop over to the print shop. I will only be five minutes!”

“We’ll go together,” Anselm barked, already turning towards the lane.

He was not ready to let his sister wander off alone, no matter how innocent she seemed.

Verity shook her head. She was already halfway to the door.

“No, really, I will be quick. It is broad daylight, and it is only a few minutes away. I will keep my head down and I promise not to run off! Besides,” she added, her eyes again glinting mischievously as she looked between them.

“You and Marion look like you could use a moment to talk.”

Marion gasped and a hot blush bloomed across her neck. “Verity!” she hissed, scandalized—but her friend was already gone, slipping through the crowd and into the little shop like a wisp of smoke.

Anselm muttered something unintelligible under his breath. He shook his head as he stared after Verity.

They lingered in the narrow alleyway beside the print shop, half-shadowed from view. Marion folded her arms, more for balance than irritation, and peeked up at him with a lopsided smile.

“Even when ye’re annoyed, ye cannae seem to tell her no,” she teased. “That must be infuriatin’.”

“She’s lucky I don’t wring her neck,” he said dryly, though the edge in his voice had softened.

“I think ye’d like her less if she weren’t a bit of trouble.”

Anselm gave a low grunt. His eyes fixed ahead, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Stubborn women seem to be a particular affliction I can’t shake. I do what I can to survive.”

“Aye,” Marion said. She kept her voice light but her chest tightened. “And yet somehow, we keep survivin’ ye too.”

His gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unreadable.

The air changed—thickened—like a storm gathering low in the clouds. The alley suddenly felt far too quiet, close, and private. Marion could feel the wall at her back and the solid presence of him in front of her. Heat radiated from him like a furnace.

“Do you always talk back like this?” he asked, his tone low, almost amused.

Marion tilted her head and lifted her brows with mock innocence. “Only when I think someone can handle it.”

He gave a quiet huff through his nose, not quite a laugh, but close. “And you’ve decided I can?”

“Well,” she said, glancing away toward the shop door, “ye’ve survived Verity this long. That counts for somethin’.”

His gaze lingered on her. It was sharper now, like he was seeing something he hadn’t before. “You’re not nearly as mild as you pretend to be, Lady Marion.”

“Aye, well, neither are you,” she returned as her eyes flicked back to him.

The space between them stretched taut as their unspoken words thickened the air. The sounds of the town seemed to fade behind them. She was suddenly far too aware of the way the light filtered into the alley and caused his shadow to fall just beside hers.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not trying,” he said in a quiet, more serious voice.

Marion blinked. She was caught off guard by the sincerity buried in the words. “Tryin’ what?”

But he didn’t answer.

He simply looked at her—really looked—and something shifted. The teasing slipped away and was replaced by a silence that was anything but empty.

The heat of him, the strength in the way he held still… it was overwhelming. She could feel her heart rate pick up. It thudded deep in her chest causing a low ache to build somewhere she didn’t dare name.

They didn’t move or speak. Their eyes locked.

And then, slowly—inevitably—he leaned in.

She looked deep into his green eyes, which were dark and compelling in the measly light of the dank alley. Marion’s breath hitched in her throat and her heart thundered an unrelenting rhythm against her ribs as she felt weak in her knees. She was powerless against him.

She leaned in too, unable to fathom her daring, as her lips parted slightly. She had longed to feel his full lips on hers since she first set eyes on him. She wanted the hairs of his beard to scratch her chin.

Their breaths mingled and just as their lips were about to touch, a loud noise rippled down the alleyway.

The moment was shattered at the sounds of a scuffle.

“What was that?” she whispered, and they both pulled back. Her eyes scanned the empty alley looking for the source.

Nothing was there. No one was to be found. Just the distant sounds of the town remained, as if the sound were a specter.

Marion watched Anselm’s jaw clench tight as he marched back to the main street. She struggled to keep pace with the wide strides of his long legs.

They waited outside the door for a moment before Verity emerged from the print shop with a triumphant grin on her face. She clutched the rare poetry collection against her chest in a hug. She took one look at their flushed faces and tense shoulders.

“Everything all right?” she asked as her gaze darted between them. “What did I miss?”