Page 65 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“Anselm,” she began. She kept her voice soft as she approached him cautiously. “About last night…well, ye should ken that I…well, ye see…”
“I wanted to talk to you as well,” he said as he turned to face her. “I am glad you are here.”
“Ye are? I mean, ye did?”
“Yes.”
Just then, Beth, Marion’s maid, suddenly appeared in the doorway. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion and she looked as though she had run up the stairs in a rush.
“Your Graces! Oh, please pardon the interruption, as well as my appearance, but the cook has a question about this evening’s dinner that requires your immediate attention. Mrs. Clarke sent me to fetch you at once. Something about the number of servings, or dietary preferences. I cannot recall…”
Marion sighed as Anselm looked deep into her sapphire eyes. A silent exchange passed between them.
“Of course, Beth. I will see to these questions and leave His Grace to the rest of his afternoon,” Marion said she approached her. “It is no problem at all.”
“I will see you at dinner,” he said with a nod.
“Yes, at dinner,” Marion said in reply.
She walked to the doorway and turned around, lingering in the threshold for a moment and looking at her husband longingly. He was impossibly handsome, tall and strong, which was all made only more evident in the warm light of afternoon behind him. Everything about him drew her in. His scent, his appearance, and his dry humor. How she longed to leap into his embrace and stay there forever.
“We’ll talk later, Yer Grace?” she said, a question more than a statement, to which he only nodded.
“Anselm,” Marion whispered from their adjoining door later that evening, after the rest of the household had retired.
“Anselm,” she called again after receiving no response. She kept her voice low as she opened and closed the door behind herself.
He turned from his fireplace to face her. He had a book in his hand and held the novel as if to throw it at the intruder. His expression softened at the sight of her which melted her nervous heart.
“How could ye expect anyone else from our shared door?”
“That is a good question. Much as I enjoyed dinner, the excitement of my sister and Emmanuel’s spirited argument was a lot. I will not let her imbibe quite so much wine in the future.”
“Aye, she was a bit in her cups. But it was an excellent vintage,” Marion said as she looked at the man in front of her. “I cannae blame her.”
He was shirtless. His broad chest was on full display and the shadows of his cut muscles glowed in the ambient firelight. His pants hung low on his hips, a sight she was unable to grow accustomed to. She wished she had her sketchbook handy and a charcoal pencil so she might capture his shape in that light. He was a perfect specimen.
“We need to talk,” he said, shaking her from her thoughts. “I assume that is why you are here?”
“Yes.”
Suddenly, a faint cry drifted down the hall and pulled their attention. The sound of hurried feet came next, then a loud knock at Marion’s door.
“Marion? I cannot sleep!” Verity’s hushed voice came through. “I have had a most dreadful thought about my heroine’s next dilemma and how untrustworthy a thief would be. I think I should go back to my previous outlines about the unexpected romance with her long-lost brother’s friend and?—”
Her voice was low, likely because she thought that Marion’s adjoining door was closed.
Anselm nodded. “Go ahead. We’ll speak tomorrow.”
And he closed the adjoining door.
Marion sighed and went to the door of her bedchamber. She opened it wide to see Verity standing there with a thick pile of smudged papers in her hands.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” she told Marion. “Could I bother you for just a few minutes? I really need a second set of ears, and you have become my most trusted advisor.”
“Very well, lass,” she said as she led Verity in, before shooting a yearning look at the door that separated her from her husband.
Chapter Twenty-Six
