Page 45 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
With a slight bow, Gilton inclined his head again towards Marion. “Your Grace, you are simply flourishing. London clearly agrees with you, perhaps more than the Highlands.”
“Lord Gilton,” Anselm stated as he reached out to shake his hand out of obligation. “A pleasant surprise.”
Marion managed another stiff nod as words finally came to her.
“Lord Gilton,” she said softly. Her voice was tight and barely above a whisper. “Thank ye for yer kind words.”
The weight of Anselm’s hand on her back was her only anchor to reality as all that she had endured barreled through her mind in rapid fire.
The notes…thank heavens I dinnae marry him…
“Indeed,” Gilton replied, his eyes lingering on Marion’s face.
Anselm’s grip on Marion’s back tightened and she arched into it.
“Well, I shall not monopolize your time further. Enjoy the festivities.”
With that, he turned and melted back into the crowd, leaving a shadow in his wake.
Anselm’s hand lingered on Marion’s back, a feeling she savored. The warmth of his palm was palpable even through her dress. It was a welcome comfort after the sight of Gilton, which brought back the trauma that had led her to Anselm.
She assumed he would pull away, yet he just stood there. Marion felt her heart thrumming against her ribs as she turned to face him.
Then, as if snapping out of a trance, Anselm’s hand lifted, and he looked around the party as if he had forgotten something.
“We should circulate, Marion,” he said, his voice clipped. “There are others we must greet.”
“Of course.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Marion alone as she looked around for Verity or Catriona. She was in desperate need of company and distraction from all men.
Finally, she saw they were seated at a table enjoying refreshments. As she walked toward them, she found herselfplacing her hand on the small of her back and soaking in the residual warmth left by her husband’s touch.
When will I feel that touch again?She wondered, as the familiar longing filled her and she looked over at him across the lawn.
Chapter Eighteen
“Come on now,” Verity called as they hurried to the next stall. “Each vendor is more exciting than the next! Do you not agree?”
The vibrant chaos of the market was a welcome distraction.
From Anselm. From Gilton. From everything.
She savored the scent of fresh bread mingling with exotic spices and looked at the vibrant hues of flower stalls with eager eyes as her lady’s maid trailed behind them.
“Oh, Marion, look here!” Verity cried, pulling her towards a small, unassuming stall tucked between a fruit stand and a ribbon seller. “This is simply perfect!”
“Oh my,” Marion sighed. “It has been a long time since I set me eyes on that.”
On display was an exquisite art set. Marion ran her fingers over the gleaming wooden box, with an intricately carved floral pattern on the top. She opened it to see an array of watercolors, brushes, and smooth, heavy papers. The colors gleamed in the sunlight. Her fingers ached to use the brushes, but she shut the cover and looked away.
Her mind instantly went to Reverand McCrae and the fateful day he had taken her supplies from her. He was frustrated that she was not taking his sermons more seriously and thought it prudent to remove any distractions. She remembered the painful tug in her heart as he hauled her canvases away.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Verity murmured, already reaching for it. “You simply must have it. Imagine what you could create with these!”
Marion pulled her hand back and looked at the price, which was scrawled on a small card. It was exorbitant.
“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head from side to side. “It is far too expensive, Verity. Out of the question.”
