Page 18 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
At least they had a few days together before she’d leave. That was Marion’s only consolation.
Then the Duke’s voice cut through their moment, firm and resolute. “Well… Verity, join me in my study. We need to talk.”
For a brief second, a flicker of perplexion crossed his eyes, as though he questioned the plan himself. But just as quickly, the shadow passed, and was replaced by the careful mask of formality.
“I hope you enjoyed the dinner, my lady,” he said smoothly as he inclined his head with practiced courtesy toward Marion. “I wish you a good rest. If you’ll excuse me and my sister, we have matters to discuss.”
Chapter Seven
“Now, 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 naïve 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 haveme,” 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?”
