Page 9 of The Duke’s Scottish Bride (Scottish Duchesses #3)

Chapter Seven

“ N ow, little sister,” Anselm began as he settled into his leather chair with deliberate calm and swirled the brandy in his glass.

“What precisely did you think you were doing? Running off like some vagrant? Have you the faintest notion of the scandal you’ve stirred? The stain you’ve placed on our name?”

Verity stood before him with her chin lowered not in meekness, but in quiet acknowledgment of the storm she’d caused. For all her usual boldness, she wasn’t foolish enough to pretend innocence now.

Her fingers worked nervously at the fabric of her gown, though her gaze didn’t lift to him. Instead, she stared into the fire crackling behind his chair.

“I couldn’t, Anselm,” she said in a low but clear tone. “I couldn’t marry him. Not Lord—” She gave a faint, dismissive wave. “— Fanthorpe . He was dull, yes, but it was more than that.”

She drew in a breath and her hands finally stilled.

“I want more than that,” she continued. “I want to write. To create something that matters. I won’t spend my life as a footnote in someone else’s story. I won’t be bartered off like a trinket.”

Anselm’s fingers tightened around his glass, so he set it down with deliberate care. He rose from the chair in one smooth motion, letting the firelight throw his shadow long across the room.

“And your grand solution,” he said, voice clipped and cold, “was to run.”

He paced slowly. With each step measured, the anger coiled tightly beneath his skin. It was controlled, but sharp enough to cut.

“You thought vanishing would solve everything?” he continued, “Did you think of what it would cost, not only to this family, but to you? The whispers. The ruin. The doors that would close forever.”

He stopped and turned toward her. His gaze grew cold and direct.

“Do you imagine this has been a pleasant affair for me, Verity?” His voice dropped lower.

“I spent six days chasing after you across the countryside, fending off gossip, lying to innkeepers, and enduring every curious glance that followed me. All because you refused to face the life you were born to.”

Verity held his gaze now. Though her expression was tight, she kept her lips pressed together against any sharp reply. She wasn’t cowed, but she wasn’t na?ve enough to deny the damage she’d done either.

“That is it, Verity,” he said. His words cut clean and without hesitation. “You only consider yourself.”

She flinched. Just barely, but it was there. There was a faint wince around her eyes and a tightening of her mouth. She looked away then. Verity dropped her gaze to the floor as her shoulders curled inward as though she were bracing against the weight of his accusation.

For a brief moment, he felt something tighten in his chest, but he held firm, unmoving, and unwilling to soften now that the truth had finally struck home.

When she spoke again, her voice was soft and quiet. “Marion told me once that… that, well sometimes, you just have to choose your own path,” she said. Her eyes glimmered. “That living a life shaped by obligation isn’t truly living at all.”

Anselm stopped dead in his tracks and narrowed his eyes at his sister.

“Lady Marion?” he scoffed. “So, it seems our distant cousin has been filling your head with dangerous notions.” He gave a slow, deliberate shake of his head, but his gaze remained sharp and steady on Verity.

“She’s been a poor influence on you. Had I known she was the source of these… delusions, I?—”

“She is not,” Verity said. Her voice was tight even as her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Marion is all I have. And so is Elspeth.”

She stopped there, as though the words themselves cost her something.

Anselm’s jaw tensed. He straightened as the weight of her careless declaration settled heavily on his chest.

“You have me ,” he said.

At first, she pursed her lips. And then, as if some tether snapped inside her, she met his gaze, and her voice took on the sharp quality of flint striking steel.

“Do I?” she asked. Her words were cool and too steady for comfort. “I had you when you sold me off to the highest bidder?”

Anselm said nothing at first. He only watched her. Every instinct urged him to lash back. But he wouldn’t lose his temper here. He refused.

She thought it was that simple. A cold transaction. A careless hand pushing her toward duty.

He studied her. The anger in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the way she stood so straight now, all pooled together as if she were daring him to deny it.

It would be so easy to remind her of everything he’d carried, everything he’d kept hidden. All of it, for her.

But she was innocent. And all their family’s darkness was his to carry alone.

And so, when he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Distant.

“I made the only choice left to me,” he said keeping each word deliberately even. “You may not approve of it, Verity. But you’ll see, in time, it was the right one.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “You always do think you know best,” she murmured.

Her gaze dropped to the floor while her hands curled at her sides.

“Marion and Elspeth are the only people who truly understand me. They are the only ones who listen—who see me for who I am and not what I’m meant to be. ”

Anselm said nothing.

He simply watched her, and, just for a moment, felt far older than his thirty-three years.

At last, he straightened. His voice was cool and final as he turned from her.

“We will discuss this again,” he said while adjusting his cuffs with a slow, deliberate precision, “when you have had time to consider your actions properly.” He let the words hang there for a beat before adding in a quieter but no less firm tone. “I want you to think more on what you have done.”

He turned away, dismissing her. Even with his eyes averted, he could feel Verity staring at his rigid back. He could hear the unmistakable sound of her chest heaving with frustration.

Without another word, she spun on her heel and stormed out.

Anselm stood for a moment leaning his arm against the mantle and watching the twisted flames. He listened to the pitter patter of her retreating footsteps.

Then, he moved to the bell pull and yanked it sharply.

Best to deal with all this trouble at once , he thought as he walked over and drained the last of his brandy. Let us be done with this messy business.

Mr. Lewis appeared almost instantly.

“Fetch Lady Marion,” Anselm told him. “Now.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied and turned to do so. “At once.”

A few minutes later, Lady Marion stood hesitantly in the doorway. She clutched her hands before her. Her blue eyes looked uncertain as they darted around the room.

“Close the door behind you,” Anselm simply said.

She complied. The click of the latch was loud in the quiet room and she jumped in response like a mouse.

“Give me that note,” Anselm said, extending his hand. “I will have it investigated. This person might seek you out. I will leave no stone unturned.”

She hesitated, clearly startled by his insistence. And then—foolishly—she shook her head and took a step back.

“Yer Grace, ye have done more than enough already,” she said. “I couldnae possibly repay ye. I cannae let ye go through any more trouble for me.”

Anselm remained quiet at first. His gaze swept over her.

The sapphire gown Verity had lent her was far too snug for propriety; it clung to her figure, drawing attention to every curve it should have concealed.

He took in the way the bodice shaped her waist, the soft lines of her shoulders, and the quiet defiance in her stance.

Heat stirred low in his chest—sharp, unwanted.

He narrowed his eyes slightly and forced the thought aside, shutting it down with cold precision.

Foolishness .

He had no business noticing such things.

When he finally spoke, his voice was cool and steady as stone.

“I decide what trouble I am willing to take on. You would do well to remember that, Lady Marion. As for repaying me,” he countered, “you can. By steering clear of my sister.”

Her brows knitted together. “What do ye mean by that, Yer Grace?”

“What I mean, Lady Marion,” he started while taking a step towards her, “is that you and your circumstances amount to an imminent scandal. Bringing you here was necessary, and I will ensure you remain safe. But Verity’s disappearance has already set the ton whispering.

Managing the consequences is my responsibility, and I will do so.

But we cannot court more trouble. You will leave this house tomorrow.

I will oversee the arrangements myself.”

“But… what ye said earlier at dinner?” Marion asked softly. “Ye said I’d leave later this week. I thought I’d have a wee bit of’ time with Verity.”

Anselm’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That was the plan. But circumstances have changed. I cannot risk your safety or my sister’s. You’ll need to prepare to leave sooner than expected.”

Marion frowned. Her face flushed with resentment as she wondered just how red she could get.

“Risk yer sister’s safety? What do ye mean by that, Yer Grace?”

The Duke’s gaze was steady and unreadable. “It is a matter of discretion,” he said coolly. “The fewer complications surrounding Verity, the better.”

Marion’s brows drew together again as the weight of his words settled heavily.

“Complications?” she echoed as her voice tightened. “Ye’ll have to be plainer than that, Yer Grace. I deserve to ken exactly what ye’re implying.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly. He held her gaze for a long moment, silently, as though weighing whether she was even worth the explanation.

Then, finally, his patience thinned just enough to slip through his tone.

“You,” he said quietly but sharp, “are a bad influence on my sister.”

The words landed between them with the precision of a blade.

“A bad influence?” Marion scoffed as her temper sparked. “Ye speak as though I ordered her to flee!” She threw a hand toward the room around them. “Ye ken very well, Yer Grace, that I dinnae ken Verity had run from this place until I hopped into yer carriage. Not before.”

The Duke’s gaze hardened. His voice was cutting, though he kept it level. “I did not suggest you orchestrated her escape, my lady.” His words were clipped and precise. “But she certainly seems to believe it was the right choice. And that, I suspect, is your doing.”

Marion’s breath caught, but only for a heartbeat. Then her eyes narrowed as they became sharp and bright with fury.

“Me doin’?” Her voice dropped so that it was quiet but scalding.

“Aye, I encouraged her to stand her ground. Because we both believe a woman should have a say over her own life, to chase her dreams instead of settlin’ as some man’s wife.

For that is far from the grand purpose of a woman’s existence. ”

Her voice was rising before she realized it. Her anger was sharp and sudden and it burned through her restraint.

He took a step toward her. Then another.

Marion’s back met the study door with a soft thud. Her breath caught in her throat as he closed the distance between them. He wasn’t touching her—not yet—but she could feel the heat of him and sense the tension crackling in the narrow space between their bodies.

His green eyes locked on hers, burning—not just with fury, but something deeper, darker. Something neither of them dared name.

“You were always going to be trouble,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, meant more for himself than her but she heard every word.

His gaze dropped, lingering and devouring , before dragging back up to meet her eyes.

“I knew it the moment you looked at me,” he added. His breath ghosted against her skin. His nearness was overwhelming—too much, yet not enough. “A tempest within my own home.”

Every part of her was sharply aware of him—of the power coiled in his frame and the faint scent of brandy and cedar that clung to him.

She should’ve pushed him away.

Instead, she swayed closer, caught somewhere between fury and something far more dangerous. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

“Look at you tempting me, little tempest.” His voice turned into a deep, husky whisper. “I wonder how prettily you’ll moan for me when I taste your lips.”

Marion’s breath hitched and her pulse pounded in her ears. She could feel the unspoken dare hovering between them.

And then, just as swiftly as he’d closed the space between them, he tore himself back and cleared his throat.

“Go to your room, Lady Marion,” he commanded.

The sudden absence of his warm presence made her knees weaken. She clutched the door behind her breathlessly and stared after him as if she’d been spun through a storm.

Yet she knew well to steer clear from such storms.

She turned and rushed out of the room. Her emotions swirled chaotically as they threatened to swallow her whole.

Part of her felt grateful for not entangling herself further with the Duke. He was complicated and his temper flew from hot to cold in a flurry. Yet the sharp sting of rejection gnawed deeper than any threat in those cursed notes.

She curled up in bed, pulled the duvet up to her chin, and willed herself to dream of anything but him.