Page 21 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“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.
Chapter Eight
“Must you always make such dramatic entrances?” Anselm drawled, not looking up from his coffee after a loud, unceremonious bang had announced his friend’s arrival.
He knew the sound as well as he knew his own voice.
Emmanuel Brimsey, the Marquess of Wrotham, strode into the breakfast room. He held a triumphant grin on his face and was clearly oblivious to the fact that Verity and Marion had not yet descended that morning.
“Apparently, scandal just runs in your blood, old friend,” Emmanuel quipped, brushing off Anselm’s dry remark with a dismissive wave. “As rigid as you are, your true nature cannot escape you.”
Anselm’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly. His green eyes narrowed as he stared at his friend.
“What are you talking about? I am in no mood for jokes or riddles. Out with it. And quick.”
Emmanuel extended his hand and revealed a crumpled scandal sheet. Anselm walked over to him and snatched it. His gaze swept over the bold headlines.
He cursed under his breath.
“Good mo?—”
Just then, Verity and Marion sauntered into the room. Their morning greetings immediately died on their lips as they heard his words.
Emmanuel instantly brightened at the sight of not one, but two beautiful ladies.
“Verity, my dear! You are a ravishing sight. And you… good morning to you, my lady. I am Emmanuel Brimsey, Marquess of Wrotham. At your service.” He bowed dramatically as he took Marion’s hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Anselm, I must commend your taste. Truly exceptional.”
Marion looked confused, while Verity, sensing the undercurrent of anger radiating from her brother, stepped forward.
“Anselm? What is it? Is something wrong?”
“We were seen. Lady Marion and I,” he said through gritted teeth while tossing the crumpled sheet at Emmanuel.
“Seen?” Verity gasped. Her hands found her cheeks. “Where?”
“Stamford.” Anselm began anxiously playing with his beard and pacing the room.
“Well, I did indeed leave you two alone for a moment. But—” Verity started before Marion cut her off.
“The sound we heard… near the alleyway,” she said quietly.
Emmanuel passed the scandal sheet to the ladies. Verity and Marion leaned in and pressed their heads together as they scanned the words. Anselm watched their expressions shift from curiosity to shock as they read the salacious details in plain black and white.
