Page 51 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Anselm crossed his arms, showcasing his broad shoulders. He looked impossibly tall as he casually paced around the small studio.
Then, his gaze shifted to the paintings, and she watched him look at the canvases stacked against the walls.
He paused before a landscape. Its vibrant greens and deep blues created a stark contrast to the muted tones of London. The painting represented a land of nymphs and fairies, of magic and adventure.
“These are… quite remarkable,” he said. “You were modest when speaking of your work.”
Marion felt a blush creep up her neck, heating the dimples of her cheeks as she rubbed them absentmindedly.
“Well, I… Ye dinnae answer me question.”
His smirk dropped a little. “It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, wife. Apprehension is in my nature.”
Marion’s face softened. It wasn’t an admission of trust, not fully. But it was a step.
She could only nod at him. In return, he glanced back at her landscape painting.
“You are very talented,” he said softly.
“Oh, it is… merely a pastime, Yer Grace. Nothin’ as grand as what hangs in this townhouse.”
She felt shy, humble, and exposed. Surely, a duke was accustomed to far grander works of art than this and she had seen them hung about the grand townhouse. Yet, something about the look in his emerald eyes as he took in her work filled her with a sense of pride.
Aye, he really likes them.
She watched him closely as he turned to another canvas, a misty mountain scene that filled Marion’s most tender dreams of home.
“These are in Strathcairn, aren’t they? I did not get much of a chance to take it all in, but I recognize these.”
“Aye,” Marion admitted, her voice soft. “I… I have been a little homesick, I suppose. Paintin’ helps to transport me back there, to immortalize me memories on canvas. A bit of the Highlands in the middle of London.”
His face fell slightly, and she swore she saw a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but it was gone by the time he looked back at her.
“What was it like? In Strathcairn.”
A wistful smile formed on her lips, and Marion glanced away as her mind filled with fond memories.
“Aye, it was a wonderful place to grow up,” she began. “Me faither encouraged me to be curious. He allowed me to study geography and history but also to ride to me heart’s content on me prized mare, Morrigan, and hunt like any young lad. Me maither encouraged me paintin’. I cannae help but think of her every time I hold the brush.”
“It sounds beautiful,” he said quietly. “You’ve captured it well in this painting.”
“Thank ye,” she whispered back.
Anselm nodded and his gaze stayed fixed on the painting. He then moved to a stack of papers on a nearby table and idly flipped through them.
Suddenly, he paused, and a subtle but clear tension rose up his shoulders. He pulled out a single sheet, which was beneath a pile of unfinished studies. They were mostly for reference, nothing of consequence…
Then, it hit her like a ton of bricks.
How in the bloody hell did I forget that was in there?
Marion’s eyes widened in horror as she took a step back. It was a charcoal sketch, raw and unfinished, of a male torso—suspiciously, and unmistakably, like his.
Marion’s mouth watered as she compared the broad shoulders and defined musculature of the sketch to the very real man who held the paper. She had drawn it from memory after that single, shocking encounter in her room.
A low chuckle rumbled from Anselm’s chest as he turned to face her then. He smiled broadly, holding the sketch aloft, with a devilish look in his eyes as he stepped closer to her.
“And what exactly inspired this… anatomical study? From what I recall, you said you focused mainly on landscapes and still life,”he said as he raised a brow, the smirk widening as Marion’s pulse quickened. “I had no idea you were such an expert on the human form.”
