Page 69 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
This is it.
Anselm felt her presence on the balcony immediately that morning. He could smell the sweet notes of jasmine and lavender in the air, mingled with whatever hint that was uniquely her. He breathed deep as he practiced his fencing and channeled his energy.
He heard her shuffle away after a few moments and continued his workout, which had become a necessary means to keep himself focused. His own draw to Marion was nearly more than he could take, and physical exertion the only way to restrain it.
A few minutes later, he was alerted by the subtle rustle of her skirts nearby. He paused mid-lunge and turned his head around to locate where she was. Then, he saw her.
A faint flush rose on his cheeks. She had an easel and charcoal in hand. Her gaze was fixed on him with an artist’s intense focus.
For a beat, he simply stared back. His chest heaved from exertion, but also the sight of her. He simply nodded once, then turned back to his practice.
Let her, he thought as he continued, going harder and stronger in his movements.I never would have thought me to be a muse, yet here I am.
And so, Marion sketched an outline of him to later paint in her studio. She sketched the powerful sweep of his muscled arm as he lunged and the taut lines of his back as he twisted back from the strike. She tried her best to capture the concentrated intensity in his profile and the downward point of his nose.
He moved with such brutal elegance. Every inch of him was so defined, every movement purposeful. She worked quickly. Her charcoal flew across the page, as she attempted to capture the raw energy and disciplined strength.
She feared that the silence between them would be awkward, but it was not. It was hot. It was charged. They existed in that moment, a shared space of observation and creation between subject and artist.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Lewis called from the entrance to the yard. “Some important mailings have arrived that require your attention prior to breakfast. I only wanted to alert you as you have gone roughly a half hour over your usual practice time.”
“Thank you, Lewis,” he said as he picked up a nearby cloth and dabbed the sweat on his brow. “I will be just a moment.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I am sure Her Grace and Lady Verity will be down any moment to join you to break their fasts.”
Marion began packing up her supplies furiously then. She skirted off through a hidden trail to a little used entrance.
She did not want to explain to anyone why she had been up and in the yard at such an hour, nor have anyone ask what she had drawn.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Aye, this home is more tastefully decorated than I had imagined, Marion thought as she looked around the grand dining room, taking in the elegant paintings, lush drapery, and ornate candelabras.
Crystal chandeliers dripped light onto the polished mahogany of Lady Featherstone’s London home. The hum of polite conversation mingled with the clinking of glasses as everyone took their seats at the long, rectangular table.
Marion had selected an elegant gown of deep emerald, which had drawn her in like Anselm’s verdant eyes and the hills of Scotland she so missed. It was cut in a way that emphasized her curves without flaunting them. Her hair was swept up in an elegant arrangement with small rhinestones that glittered in the light.
She found herself seated near the head of the table and to Anselm’s left. The familiar current of awareness sparked between them as he took his place next to her.
She had difficulty getting comfortable in her chair, a product of sitting so close to him. Despite the formal setting, and the propriety it required, she felt hot and flushed. She looked at him then, realizing he was wearing a newly cut suit that perfectly fit his every line. Her eyes were drawn to the lapel, which had a small green fabric adornment.
It matches me gown perfectly.Her heart skipped a beat at the sight, and he looked at her with a small smile.
Aye, this man affects me so. I will have to trouble Lady Featherstone for a fan!
As if on cue, she made her way to the head of the table and gave a small nod for the party to begin the first course.
The conversation around them drifted from political gossip to the latest scandalous novel, which produced knowing smiles from both Anselm and Marion. They remained mostly silent as they moved from the first course to the second, their own unspoken conversation pulsing between them.
Marion observed how he maintained his dignified composure, offering concise, often dry, remarks when appropriate to the other guests at the table. She took a steadying sip of Portuguese wine, letting it sweep over her like a breeze.
As she savored a bit more of her glass, she found herself in a more whimsical mood. The day leading up to it had been pleasing enough. She had spent the afternoon in her studio testing paint colors to begin bringing her sketches to life. It was a far cry from her time with Reverand McCrae as she thought for a moment of the day he took her supplies from her. She shivered at the thought.
With Anselm next to her, she felt lighter. She was more connected to him and herself than ever. She was truly happy.
What would I have done…if the marriage to the Viscount had happened? While there is so much unsaid between me and Anselm… I cannae deny there is nowhere else in the world I would rather be than by his side.
As a particularly pompous lord, whom Marion literally could not name to save her life, launched into a lengthy monologue about the superiority of his many hounds, she drained the last of her wine glass. She leaned slightly towards Anselm while a playful fire rolled in her belly.
