Page 47 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Verity’s grin widened. “Well, you seemed pretty familiar in the theatre box.”
Marion’s eyes shot open in surprise.
“What, you thought that Emmanuel only noticed? Do you take me for a complete idiot?” Verity tilted her head to the side.
“No! I didn’t… I just…” Marion stumbled over her words.
Aye, she should’ve expected that her observant friend would have noticed the tension between her and Anselm. She only hoped she hadn’t seen him put his hand…
Blast it!
Her cheeks burned.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I am simply letting you know that I have eyes, Marion,” Verity said softly. “It’s quite all right. I only hope you and my brother keep your…nocturnal activitiesto the hours when I’m fast asleep.”
“Verity!”
Her friend laughed, unabashed. “There’s no need to be coy with me.” Then she grew serious. “I only want you to be happy. You did this for me, after all.”
Marion shook her head. “Ye should never feel guilty, Verity. I am happy. I am here with you, my dearest friend. As for Anselm… well, he needs a bit more work.”
Verity chuckled knowingly. “Don’t I know it.”
Marion smiled faintly and changed the subject. “What are you working on now?”
Verity’s eyes gleamed as she spoke. “It’s about a lady promised to a cold earl but in love with a scandalous poet. She risks everything. There’s secret letters, stolen meetings, and our heroine must follow her heart instead of duty.”
Marion nodded, though her thoughts began to wander. Beneath the surface of Verity’s fiction, she sensed whispers of their own tangled lives woven quietly into the pages.
Her mind drifted involuntarily to Anselm, the man who held her future but also guarded his own heart fiercely.
She swallowed the ache that followed, pushing down the restless longing that stirred whenever she thought of him.
A few days later, Marion returned to her bedchamber after a particularly grueling morning of household tasks.
On her dressing table, where only moments before a vase of fresh roses stood, now sat a familiar, gleaming wooden box.
The art set…
Her heart gave a startled leap as she walked over to it. Attached to it, with a simple piece of ribbon was a folded note.
She picked it up and her fingers trembled slightly. She hated notes, especially after all she endured with Gilton.
The handwriting was distinctively Anselm’s, as bold and decisive as the man himself.
Duchess,
An impractical expense, perhaps, but a necessary one. I believe you mentioned a need for a particular shade of blue.
Anselm
A flush spread to Marion’s cheeks. He had listened when she had mentioned the color during dinner a few days ago after she andVerity had returned from their excursion to the market. He had noticed she wanted a hobby, something else to occupy her days than the duties of being his Duchess.
He had remembered and Verity had sweetly intervened.
It was a small gesture yet filled with kindness. She turned on her heel in search of him and found him in his study, immersed in a stack of ledgers.
“Yer Grace,” Marion began as she entered with a soft knock. “I… I wanted to thank ye for the art set. It was very thoughtful of ye. Ye really shouldnae have…”
