Page 30 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“Did you see her standing with her husband earlier as they talked with Lady Featherstone?” Lady Scrimshaw tutted to her husband. “Positively glued to him as if she were at a Highland fling! One would think she’d forgotten she was a duchess, not some lass at a barn raising. What has gotten into the man?”
“And her gown,” Lady Nichols chimed in, her voice dripping with disdain as she sipped her champagne. “Such a vibrant shade of emerald! It practically screams attention. So, unlike His Grace’s sister, the dear Lady Verity. She always dresses with such refined subtlety and her dresses are cut tastefully.”
“Can we leave now?” Marion asked. Her blue eyes looked up at Anselm and made her plea. She knew he could overhear the conversations around them as well as she could.
“Very well, I too have had enough for one night,” he said as he wrapped his arm around her and escorted her to their carriage.
She sat back against the velvet and looked out into the dark night up at the stars. Finally, there was some sense of peace.
They can talk all they like. I am the Duchess of Greystead now, much as they daenae like it.
Chapter Thirteen
Marion was relieved that each day became a little easier as she acclimated to the routines and demands of being a duchess. The most mysterious aspect, though, was her husband himself. She could learn about selecting menus and what patterns matched others, but the Duke was a most complex puzzle.
She found herself observing him and watching his controlled demeanor as he went about his days, trying to decipher what made him tick. He was a slave to work and nothing else. He took great pains to avoid her most days and only engaged in shared meals and social events that required the presence ofhis wife.
He was truly living up to their marriage in image only, for the sake of preventing scandal—just as he’d said. At least he was true to his word and she could depend on that. Marion knew she should be grateful given the choices she had, yet she couldn’t help but want more.
One afternoon, while overseeing the ordering of spring linens with Mrs. Clarke, Marion ventured a question.
“Mrs. Clarke,” she began, her voice soft as her fingers traced the delicate embroidery on a pillowcase, “His Grace, well ye cannae deny that he carries such a burden. It is in his very eyes.”
“I suppose that is true,” she responded. “Most men of his station do.”
“It is just that… well, he seems so very stern, so responsible for everythin’ and everyone. Does he ever… relax? Read a book? Take a walk?”
“You are observant, Your Grace. You will do well in this place, I know it. His Grace is a good man, but he had to grow up quite quickly. Took on a man’s duties far earlier than most. It was after his parents passed, you see. Had to see to everything with Lady Verity so young.” She paused then and her gaze grew distant.
Swiftly, she shook her head, the produced the next linen sample to review.
“What do ye mean by that, Mrs. Clarke? I daenae mean to pry. I just want to understand. I could ask Verity, but…”
“Best not to dwell on past sorrows, especially in a house where new beginnings are so desperately needed.”
She gave Marion a warm, almost conspiratorial look and offered no more explanations. Mr. Lewis entered then.
“Are you finished selecting the linens, Your Grace? I have received word that the order should be placed today,” he said.
“Yes, indeed,” Marion sighed. “Let us go with the green pattern.”
“A wise choice,” Mrs. Clarke said as Mr. Lewis took the samples and exited the room.
Marion pressed no further on the matter of the Duke, and the meager details Mrs. Clarke had shared. Yet, she felt the hint of a deeper, untold story lingering in her mind. There was a puzzle piece she couldn’t quite fit into the formidable image of the Duke.
And she would seek it out.
A few days later, Marion accompanied Verity to a small, charming bookshop in the center of London that she had not been to before. Marion browsed a collection of illustrated botanical prints for her quarters. Her fingers traced the delicate etchings of orchids and ferns.
Verity, as if on cue, struck up a lively conversation with the bookseller. Her voice was animated as they discussed the merits of various novels which had become all the rage.
“Oh, Mr. Hawthorne,” Verity practically chirped. Her green eyes sparkled as she beamed at a captive audience. “You simplymusttell me. Does the hero finally declare his undying love in chapter seventeen, or does he remain tragically brooding until the very last page?”
“Lady Verity, for a true romantic, the brooding is half the pleasure, wouldn’t you agree?” Mr. Hawthorne laughed.
Marion listened idly to their conversation and had moved on from botanical prints to reference tomes, where she overheard a nearby conversation in the next aisle. She could tell there were two ladies even though they kept their voices hushed while discussing a newly arrived scandal sheet.
These people are in a bookstore, and they are readin’ that rubbish? What is wrong with these English lasses?
