Page 70 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“Do ye ken…” she whispered, her blue eyes twinkling bright. “Do ye ken why dogs make the best arborists?”
Anselm, who had been half listening to Lord Bowman with detached politeness, stiffened at the sound of Marion’s voice in his ear. A faint muscle twitched in his jaw. He was unsure if he heard her correctly.
“Can you kindly repeat your question?” he whispered back with a tight smile.
“Do ye ken why dogs make the best arborists?”
“Yes, that is what I thought you said… And I have no idea what you are getting at but?—”
“Because…they are experts inbark.”
A soft, foreign, and unexpected sound escaped from deep within Anselm. It took a moment for him to realize it, but yes. It was a low chuckle, which he quickly stifled with a forced cough.. He turned his gaze back to Lord Bowman, who was still going on about his dogs.
His shoulders gave him away though. They shook, almost imperceptibly, as he tried desperately to stifle his laugh, which percolated under the surface. The more he tried to suppress his amusement, the more his shoulders began to shake. His lips curved into a genuine, unforced smile as his eyes met Marion’s. She smiled back at him, and he returned to the pheasant on his plate.
He took a bite and looked up around the table. He noticed that the guests were not looking at Lord Bowman, but they were intently watching him and Marion.
Lady Featherstone, who had been dissecting her meat with surgical precision, looked right at him. She raised her eyebrow as her fork hovered in mid-air.
“I must be clued in on whatever has made His Grace so amused,” she said with a whistle as she turned her gaze to Marion.
“Oh, I assure, you, my lady, that there was just something caught in my throat,” Anselm said as he took a sip of his wine. “I am perfectly fine now. Thank you for your concern, but it is not needed.”
“Surely, not our dinner! Everyone is enjoying our main course, yes? I had Chef Paquet come in from France just for the season!”
Heads turned to Lady Featherstone, and they nodded frantically in approval. Guests began to obligatorily stuff themselves. Yet even before her intervention, Anselm registered the collective realization that the formidable Duke had just laughed. And in public. And it was clearly at somethinghis Scottish Duchesshad said.
“I do apologize, Yer Grace,” Marion murmured once polite conversation had resumed around them. “I seem to have rattled yer perfect composure.”
He merely inclined his head as a hint of a lingering smile still played about his lips, even as he tried to hide it.
“On the contrary, Duchess,” he replied. “You merely proved that even the most insufferable of bores must break eventually.”
Lady Featherstone narrowed her eyes, clearly overhearing his statement. Yet, contrary to her flamboyant nature, she did not push. A smile crossed her plump face and reached her dark brown eyes.
“Come, let us eat dessert,” Lady Featherstone announced as the servants brought out slices of pound cake with Chantilly cream and strawberry compote to the guests.
“This is most delicious, Lady Featherstone,” Marion said as she devoured each bite. “Truly a feat!”
“Well, I am glad we are able to satisfy her Scottish appetite,” Lord Bowman said with a chuckle as he drained his glass of port wine.
Anselm stiffened at the insinuation that his duchess was anything less than a perfect lady. It took everything inside of him not to stand up and show the old codger some manners. He set down his napkin when Marion shot him a knowing look.
“It is fine,” Marion said as she took his hand in hers. “Let them say what they want. They will be tired of me Scottishness one day. Just nae this day.”
“I do not like it,” Anselm said as he took a small bite of the dessert. “But you are right. This really is excellent cake.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Finally, the day is done, and I can settle by the fire and enjoy a small brandy,Anselm thought to himself as he left the drawing room where his sister was reading.
The day after Lady Featherstone’s dinner party had passed without consequence many of his stray thoughts drifted back to the event. He thought of the unexpected laughter and the reactions of the other guests.
Am I so unabashedly serious that it is a shock for me to laugh in public? Worthy even of the gossip sheets?
Yet, he kept coming back to how good the feeling settled in his chest. He felt lighter and almost jovial. He had forgotten how healthy a good laugh could make one feel.
He was wandering the halls, intending to retire to his chambers, when a soft glow came from the door to Marion’s studio. It caught his attention, and he was drawn to it like a moth to aflame. The gas lamps cast long, dancing shadows which were offset by her work. He paused for a moment to watch and noticed how her brush moved with practiced ease across the canvas like a waltz in the light.
