Page 60 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Verity’s polite smile faltered. Her gaze drifted over Lord Standale’s shoulder. She was clearly searching for an escape route.
“Indeed, Lord Standale. I had not considered how…fulfilling such a hobby would be. How utterly fascinating,” Verity said.
Lord Standale, oblivious to Verity’s waning interest, brightened at her response. “Oh, indeed, Lady Verity! You would be surprised how intricate the process is. I daresay it requires a steady hand, much like painting. The precision, the patience…it is quite an art form in itself.”
“How riveting,” Verity replied. Her voice was pleasant but distant and her polite smile grew more brittle by the second.
“Why, just last season I had a magnificent stoat preserved. The craftsman did a fine job of capturing its ferocity mid-pounce.You must come see it sometime, my lady. It holds a place of great honor in my study.”
Verity’s eyes flicked briefly toward Anselm. She silently pleaded for rescue. But before he could intervene, a familiar voice cut through the droning conversation like a blade through silk.
“Good heavens, Standale, you’ve trapped them with your taxidermy tales already?” Emmanuel’s voice carried easily. It was warm with amusement as he strolled nearer. Wrotham held a glass of wine in one hand and had a wicked grin playing upon his lips.
“Wrotham.” Anselm nodded at him.
“Lord Wrotham.” Verity greeted with him with a curtsy, barely disguising her relief.
Lord Standale looked vaguely affronted. “I was merely sharing a passion, Lord Wrotham.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Emmanuel said smoothly, giving a lazy bow. “Though you must forgive me for stealing Lady Verity away before you tempt her to mount her first fox. She promised me the next dance. Or at least a lively discussion that does not involve stuffed vermin.”
Anselm glared at his friend but halted as he noticed the evident relief in his sister’s features. He wanted her to secure arespectable match, yes, but it seemed that Verity was pleading for a rescue.
His sister gave a quick, graceful curtsy. “I’m afraid duty calls, Lord Standale.”
Before another word could be uttered, Emmanuel offered his arm to Verity with a wink, and she took it gladly.
Anselm offered a swift excuse to Standale and walked off, but he kept his eyes fixed on his friend and sister.
Then, his gaze swept across the ballroom, searching.
There she was.
Marion stood by a dowager countess. Her posture was composed and her smile was perfectly measured. She feigned interest in the woman’s endless chatter, but when their eyes met, something raw flickered in Anselm’s chest.
A fierce protectiveness surged first, as sharp and immediate as a blade.
She was his. No one could forget that.
Then, almost against his will, he drank in the sight of her. He appreciated the curve of her neck, the way the candlelight caught the glint in her eyes, and the soft swell of her lips.
Heat bloomed low and urgent in him. It was distracting and unwelcome.
He pushed the feeling down, reminding himself of decorum, and of his need to maintain control. He was a duke, not a boy overtaken by his animalistic urges.
But as their eyes held for a heartbeat longer, he knew one thing with undeniable certainty: no matter the rules, she stirred something in him that was not so easily contained.
The music swelled around them while voices and laughter filled the space.
Anselm’s breath steadied, and he turned away. The weight of desire and duty pressed heavily on his chest.
Chapter Twenty-Four
That night, the townhouse was as hushed as the sleeping city itself.
Marion lay in her bed, restless. A common occurrence, which painting could not cure as of late.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep when she was startled by a loud, sudden sound.
