Page 28 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
And he had to fight a chuckle when Fanthorpe’s eyes threatened to bulge out of their sockets.
“Also,” Anselm added as he swirled his glass, “perhaps a lengthy holiday is in order? Wherever your heart desires. Say, a villa in Italy? An apartment in Paris? A place where the current gossip will not reach you. A place where you could rediscover your finances and reputation.”
While Anselm embellished here and there, it was true Fanthorpe had been squandering his money on drink, gambling, and women.
Fanthorpe’s eyes greedily devoured the sum. His exasperation melted away like an icy beverage on an island holiday. He clutched the paper to his chest before giving a silent nod confirming his acceptance.
“Italy, you say? The Tuscan sun sounds rather appealing now that you mention it. And the wine, of course is impeccable.”
The men stood up then. But before Fanthorpe could make his escape, Anselm’s voice cut through the clamor of the gaming hell one last time as he brought him close.
“Should I hear even a whisper of ill will about my sister’s name… I am talking even a single, solitary word… You will regret it. Even if you aren’t the one to say it. I assure you that my reach extends far beyond the gaming tables of London. Far beyond even the Tuscan sun. Are we clear?”
Fanthorpe merely nodded in silent promise. When Anselm released him, he practically bolted from the room.
Chapter Twelve
“Polite society, my arse,” Marion grumbled under her breath.
She had quickly discovered that she abhorred the gilded cage of polite society.
While she was no stranger to theton, being a duchess was new territory and with it came unwanted scrutiny. She felt as though she was an ant under a magnifying glass because of the awful way the single young ladies treated her with a restrained disdain.
“I wonder how a wild creature like her managed to capture the heart of the Duke?” One girl whispered when Marion was passing down a London street on her way to the market one morning.
“It must be that she is so exotic,” her companion retorted as they laughed, walking by her without greeting.
At Lady Danvers’ seasonal dinner later that week, Marion was resplendent in an emerald gown with her hair drawn up in an elegant bun. Anselm had insisted that the family diamonds be brought out of the safe. She selected a delicate necklace with a teardrop which fell just between her full breasts.
Perhaps this will grab his attention,she thought as she prepared herself for the night’s festivities.
“Your Grace,” purred Lady Thistlewaite, fanning herself as she approached Marion over aperitifs. “Such a distinctive shade of green. Is it, perhaps, a tribute to your Highland heritage? Perhaps next time you should try tartan?”
“Indeed, Lady Thistlewaite. I find it rather suits my figure and complexion,” Marion said, setting her shoulders back.
“Indeed,” she responded in kind, looking up at Marion from behind her fan.
Aye, she is unsufferable as a wet tartan on a cool night! Why must I attend these frivolous performances?
Before Marion could deliver a satisfying retort, a man came to her side. It was a man she did not recognize, but she quickly realized his gaze was lingering on her hair, then her lips.
“Your Grace, what a beautiful necklace,” the man said. His eyes drew immediately to her generous bosom. “You are a breath offresh air in this rather stodgy company. I am Lord Drewble,” he said as he planted a chaste kiss on her hand.
Aye, I ken that name. I can remember Verity tellin’ me the stories of Lord Donald Drewble. I believe she said he was a man of questionable taste and unseemly morals.
“Thank you very much, Lord Drewble,” she said politely, as she slowly took her hand out of his grasp. “It is the family’s.”
“You are a beautiful contrast to your husband. Much as I respect the Duke, I always found him rather dull,” he whispered in her ear, liquor heavy on his breath. “You are positively wild and full of life.”
“Speakin’ of the Duke, I really should be findin’ His Grace.”
“That accent drives me wild,” he slurred. He stepped so close that his breath, heavy with stale malt and cigar smoke, fouled the air around her. His words dripped with lechery as he leaned in. “Is it true what they say about Scottish women? That you’re untamed, fiery… ripe for a man’s taking? I’ve been wanting to see if the stories are true.”
Marion straightened. A cool smile played on her lips as she willed herself to remain composed despite his audaciousness. She could hardly believe her ears.
“Lord Drewble, I assure ye, I am quite tame. I find that a strong will is often mistaken for wildness in circles such as these. Ifbein’ me own person makes me wild, then I suppose I am. And I daenae take kindly to yer advances.”
“Oh, please, Your Grace! You are mistaking my English. I was merely trying to pay you a compliment,” he purred. His eyes were wild as he looked at her. “It must be a difference in the meaning of our vernacular, you see.”
