Page 48 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Anselm merely glanced up. His expression was neutral as he set down the ledgers.
“Nonsense. I heard you admired it. And one requires tools for one’s pursuits.” He waved a dismissive hand, already looking back at his papers. “Verity hasn’t gotten up to much trouble, and for that, I thank you.”
“Still,” Marion pressed. “It means a great deal. Thank ye, Anselm.”
He offered a slight nod, and Marion watched the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth, hinting at a curbed smile.
“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to.”
Marion smiled and left him to his work without another word.
He may feign indifference, but I ken better.
Armed with her new art set, Marion wasted no time getting to work. She enlisted her maid, Beth, to help her to transform one of the townhouse’s smaller, sun-drenched drawing rooms on the second floor into a private studio.
Easels appeared as if by magic, canvases were stretched, and the rich scent of paint began to mingle with the usual fragrance of beeswax polish and potpourri that represented the Greystead townhouse.
It was her sanctuary, a place where she could escape the pressures of being a duchess and slip away from her husband.
Much as she sought refuge in her room, it was difficult to relax knowing he was just on the other side of the door, and yet so far away.
She was able to really lose herself in the swirling colors of her imagination in her studio all while recapturing a part of herself she thought long lost.
She thought of her parents and the blissful memories of her childhood while painting the landscapes surrounding Strathcairn Hall.
She smiled when she saw that the azure blue in the kit had captured the nearby loch’s hue so well.
Aye, I will get used to this…
One drizzly afternoon, seeking quiet after a particularly trying social call, Marion walked into the drawing room to lose herself in a novel, only to see there was someone in the corner chair.
Thinking it might be Verity, she stepped in and walked to the windows to throw open the curtains to cast better light.
And then she froze.
Anselm.
He was seated in her favorite armchair and utterly absorbed by something. A single candle was on the side table and in his hands, held at an angle that hid the title, was a book. He was so engrossed, he had not heard her, nor noticed her drawing the curtains.
Marion’s eyes narrowed as she inched closer. She recognized the subtle, slightly worn edges of the binding and the distinct font. It was certainlyThe Highland Holiday.
I cannae believe me eyes. He is readin’ Verity’s novel! This is too good to be true.
A small, mischievous smile played on Marion’s lips. She cleared her throat and created a soft, deliberate sound as she walked toward him. She enjoyed startling him, not often having the chance with all of his calculations.
Anselm stiffened instantly. His shoulders tensed as he looked up at her. With a startled huff, he snapped the book shut and shoved it beneath the cushion of the armchair with all the casualness of a bull.
“Duchess!” he exclaimed, his voice gruff and eyes wide as he looked at her. “What are you… what are you doing in here?”
Marion leaned against the wall by the ornate fireplace, crossing her arms, while her smile widened.
“Well, Yer Grace. I was just comin’ here to do some readin’ meself. Though it appears I have interrupted a rather private moment.” She raised a brow and her gaze pointedly dropped to where the book had been stuffed. “Engrossed in some ledgers, I presume? I ken you usually only have time for work matters.”
Anselm cleared his throat while looking at the floor. “Indeed. It is a weighty tome on agricultural reform, which I plan to use to…um, well, yes. It is tremendously stimulating. But quite boring for you, I am sure.” He coughed again as he shifted in his seat.
“Of course,” Marion drawled, stepping closer to him and savoring the subtle shift in power. “Perhaps you should try somethin’ new, like a darin’ tale on the complexities of love?Something with… hm, perhaps a Scottish settin’ is more to your likin’?”
Anselm spluttered while rising to his feet and tucking the book underneath his arm.
