Page 29 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“I mistake nothin’ and I can understand yer English just fine,” she said as she lifted her chin. Her eyes dared him to respond.
She would not cower to the likes of Lord Drewble or the passersby on the streets. She would not cower to anyone. She was her parents’ daughter, and no one would dampen her spirit. Not anymore.
So much had happened since they passed when she was fifteen. Reverend McCrae’s household, the engagement to Gilton, the coolness of her aunt and uncle… and now this life with the Duke of Greystead.
Suddenly, a presence came over them and they both froze in place. She could feel he was behind her before she even turned around.
“Drewble,” the Duke greeted cooly as his voice was devoid of warmth. “I believe my wife was just about to join me.” His hand settled on Marion’s lower back as he drew her closer to him.
The pressure of his fingers, surprisingly firm, sent a jolt through Marion. How she had longed to feel his touch only compounded by his intervention in what was becoming an uncomfortable situation.
“Ah, yes, of course, Your Grace. My apologies. I was merely admiring your wife’s…charming spirit,” he said as his eyes trailed one last time to her chest, earning a murderous look from her husband.
He bowed awkwardly and retreated then, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away.
“Was that truly necessary, Yer Grace?” she asked, turning to face him. “I believe I was quite capable of handling Lord Drewble.”
The Duke’s grip on her back tightened as he pulled her closer to him.
“Indeed, Duchess… but I promised to ensure your safety. And I mean to make good on that vow.”
After dinner was finished, which was pleasant enough and without issue, they retired to the drawing room for digestifs. The meal itself was elegant and well-planned, although Anselm did not care much for such over-the-top dishes as escargot and foie gras.
Lady Featherstone, a notorious gossip, cornered Anselm and Marion with her plump body before they could make their exit. She wore an ostentatious purple gown that ironically had feathers sewn throughout it amidst glittering beads. When the candlelight hit her just so, it could be blinding to the naked eye.
“My dear Duke, one must ask about your sister’s most unfortunate situation. I felt so bad for her when I learned of the news. Such a pity about the Marquess of Fanthorpe. He was quite a catch I say. One heard such whispers, oh dreadful whispers, really. Was it true he ran off with an underage ballet dancer from the theater? Or perhaps it was a widowed countess in a remote part of Ireland—the one with the scar on her face?”
Anselm offered a calm smile. He would be ruffled by no one, let alone Lady Featherstone. He was prepared for such questions, although Lady Featherstone’s flare for drama was unmatched.
“My lady, you do flatter me, attributing such scandalous melodrama to my most simple sister. It was, I assure you, a mutual understanding to go their separate ways. Sometimes, even the most promising unions simply aren’t meant to be. We cannot all marry for love, like I have,” he said, holding Marion close against his side to sell the story.
He did not miss how Marion leaned into it and the heat of her body warmed his own.
“Oh indeed,” Lady Featherstone cooed.
“Lord Fanthorpe is a most agreeable fellow. But he realized his heart lay elsewhere and Verity, of course, respected that. She is a sensible girl. They parted as the fondest of friends.”
He paused then. His gaze subtly swept the room, ensuring he had everyone’s attention as he raised his voice.
“He is currently on a long overdue holiday, enjoying the sun in the Italy I believe. A well-deserved respite, after the rigorous demands of the Season. He even sent Verity a most delightful seashell just this morning. Such a thoughtful gesture, wouldn’t you agree?”
His tone was so reasonable, so utterly convincing, that even Lady Featherstone, despite her insatiable appetite for scandal, seemed to accept it. In fact, she seemed to be hanging on his every word as he found himself adding details to the story.
Anselm looked at Marion then, who gave him the tiniest wink. His chest brimmed with pride as he stood straighter.
“Well, that does sound sensible and quite nice given the circumstances,” Lady Featherstone said as she angled her body away from the couple, allowing a small space for them to sneak away from her clutches.
“Well, I do believe my Duchess needs a bit of fresh air,” Anselm offered as he ushered Marion away.
“Yes, I do. Lovely seein’ ye, Lady Featherstone. Yer dress is beautiful,” she said as they walked away.
“My, my, your accent is as unique as the folks have been saying! Perhaps I should have been talking with you. You are such an…enchanting creature.”
“Perhaps another time, Lady Featherstone,” Anselm replied as he led Marion away from the crowd.
It seemed thetonhad shifted its fascination from Verity’s broken engagement to Marion, also known as the wild Scottish bride, in a matter of minutes.
As Anselm and Marion continued to circulate and guests enjoyed after dinner drinks while making polite conversation and introductions they found themselves surrounded by cruel whispers and lingering glances.
