Page 50 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“No. He would only see the risks, the potential scandal, and the impropriety of it all. That is all he cares about,” she said. Her green eyes cast down on the cobblestones.
“He cares for yer safety. He just wants to protect ye,” Marion pressed. “I ken it is important to him.”
“Protect, yes,” Verity agreed. “Do you know a good synonym forprotect? It’scontrol. It is all the same with Anselm. He’d lock me away in the countryside if he thought it would keep me safe, but he knows I would just find a way to escape again.”
“Oh, Verity!”
“Do not feel bad for poor little me. Things have been so much better since I returned from Scotland and since you came into our lives,” she said, grabbing Marion’s hands in hers. “I am sorry, but I cannot tell him. Not now, not ever.”
She pulled her hands away and wrapped the cloak tighter around her shoulders .Verity walked a few paces ahead, where Marion could see their carriage waiting.
The stillness of the townhouse felt suffocating to Marion as she laid awake in her plush bed.
She stared up at the ceiling. The shadows danced around in swirls as she imagined they were different shapes.
Sleep is out of the question, she thought as her mind buzzed.Between that startlin’ noise in the alley and Verity’s reaction to me request she confide in her brother…
She pushed the covers down and sat up, reaching for her robe at the nearby table. She put it on, got up, and walked down the hall with a single candle in her hand. She was not sure where she was wandering to when she suddenly found herself drawn to the studio.
She lit several more candles once she was inside her sanctuary. Their flickering flames cast dancing silhouettes on the canvases she had been working on that week.
The familiar scent of paint was a balm to her restless spirit. She picked up a brush and began working.
She was lost in the rhythmic sweep of her brush as it moved up and down on the fresh canvas like a dance. She felt like she was a young girl again, safe in her parents’ home and able to just focus on her art.
Just as she was about to select her next color, a soft creak in the floorboards startled her.
She took a deep, steadying breath as she heard someone enter. She inhaled the masculine scent of pine and fine soap.
Anselm.
She turned around and her heart began pounding.
He stood, framed in the doorway, wearing a loose cotton shirt and breeches. His dark hair was tousled, as if he too could not sleep.
“Marion?” he asked, a hint of the usual steel beneath his sleepy voice. “What are you doing in here at this hour?” His gaze swept over her, then around the candlelit room.
“What does it look like I am doin’, Yer Grace? I am makin’ use of the beautiful paint set ye saw fit to give me?—”
“And what were you and Verity doing out?”
Marion stiffened. Her hand froze. . She offered a sheepish smile as she set her tools down.
Of course he’d ken.
“Since ye ken we were out, ye also ken what we were doin’, Yer Grace,” she told him.
He smirked. “I doken, indeed. I wanted to see whether you’d tell me the truth.”
Marion lips drew into a tight line. “Ye have no faith in me, then, Yer Grace?”
He stilled. “Anselm.”
“What?”
“Call me Anselm. It’s only the two of us here,” he said softly.
She exhaled. “Very well,Anselm. Will ye answer me question now?”
