Page 55 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Chapter Twenty-One
“Here we are,” Anselm said as he led Gilton into his study. The heavy wooden door thudded shut behind them and silenced the faint sounds of the household.
Anselm could already hear the whispers among the staff as they tried to guess the reason for the viscount’s unexpected visit.
He kept his posture stiff as he leaned against the lip of his desk. Then, Anselm nodded at an armchair, which Gilton plopped into confidently.
“Now, Gilton,” Anselm stated, his voice devoid of the polite civility he offered in the breakfast room. “Get on with it. What is it that you want from me?”
Gilton’s smile faltered slightly and was replaced by a look of feigned offense. “Your Grace! Such bluntness. I confess, I am rather disappointed. I came here with nothing but the best ofintentions. A cordial visit, an olive branch, if you will, between men of standing.” He gestured expansively and may as well have been on a stage.
Anselm was not going to buy this performance. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Spare me the theatrics, Gilton,” he said. “I have no patience for them. State your business or I’ll be happy to show you the door.”
“Very well,” Gilton sighed as he put his feet up on the nearby ottoman. “It seems we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, Your Grace. I hold you in the highest regard, a man of your stature and influence. And it is precisely because of that respect that I felt compelled to come here today. To… well, to warn you.”
He leaned forward then, as if readying himself to share a painful truth.
Anselm raised a single eyebrow. “You? Warn me?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Gilton continued. “About your… newDuchess. During our engagement, you see, I was utterly devoted to her. I sent presents, offered nothing but praise and sincere compliments. Anything to ensure my devotion was clear. There were no… distractions, no frivolous entanglements that sometimes men of our circles get into.” He paused and allowed the implication to settle. “However, I noticed certain… peculiarities over time.”
“What are you getting at?” Anselm pressed. “Speak plainly.”
“Well… Her Grace, my fiancée at the time, received a number of rather unsettling notes that were threatening in nature. And I, of course, was utterly baffled by them. There is no one in my life I could have thought would pen such terrible, awful words.”
Anselm’s expression darkened as he tried to predict Gilton’s angle. It was likely the viscount held information about these notes, and now, he was going to use that information as leverage.
Unfortunately, Anselm was waiting for more intel from Daniels, but the Runner was still investigating.
“I tried to help her, naturally,” Gilton went on, misinterpreting Anselm’s silence for attention. “But she was rather… defensive about them. Hysterical even, and prone to wild accusations. I found myself wondering, does this woman even want marriage? Wouldn’t a truly devoted lady wish to bind herself to her betrothed, no matter the obstacle?”
“Your point being?”
“One would not wish for such burdens to fall upon a man of your responsibilities and station, Your Grace. I merely wish to ensure you are prepared for what may come. Her uncle had warned me of her rather… spirited nature. But like you, I was also mesmerized by her beauty and?—”
Anselm stood straight and stepped forward, his hands in fists. The air in the study grew colder, charged with a dangerous intensity as Anselm glared at him. Gilton looked up in return and dared not to speak further.
“Gilton. Let me be unequivocally clear,” he growled. “My wife, the Duchess of Greystead, is beyond reproach. She is neither scheming nor hysterical. And should I ever heareven a whisperof you casting smears upon her character, her past, or her suitability as my wife… you will find the consequences most severe.”
Gilton swallowed hard. His face paled as his bravado crumbled. “Your Grace! I assure you, I was merely attempting to—to act out of concern! A gesture of goodwill, from one gentleman to another! I think you misunderstand me entirely. You know how these females can be?—”
“Your goodwill is neither required nor appreciated,” Anselm cut him off completely. “We are not friends, and your insinuations are an insult. Get out. Now. And do not darken my doorstep again.”
“But I?—”
“Now,” Anselm growled, and Gilton scrambled to his feet, offering a hasty, undignified bow.
The viscount turned on his heel and practically bolted from the study, leaving Anselm alone in the heavy silence.
He opened a window. The scent of Gilton’s cloying cologne lingered like a foul odor he was desperate to be rid of.
A few minutes later, a soft knock came.
“What is it?” Anselm grumbled. He kept his back to the door as he looked out the window.
“Anselm.” Marion’s voice was hesitant as she entered the room. “What didhewant?”
