Page 78 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
The inevitable topic ofThe Highland Holidayarose and circulated like a forbidden secret and only a select few new the true authoress. Marion watched as a young Lord Davidson, known for his inherited wealth and unearned arrogance, cornered Verity near a particularly ornate mantelpiece. She grimaced as she looked up at its carved cherubs, who were also wincing at his presence.
“My lady,” Lord Davidson began as Marion eavesdropped. “You are a woman of the world. Have you, perchance, indulged in this salacious novel…Highland Holidayeveryone is raving about? Utter nonsense, I daresay. A woman writing such passionateprose? Unthinkable. And under a false name, no less! This Eliza Jane Bennett is nowhere to be found, so clearly, it is a pseudonym. One must question the courage, or indeed, the legitimacy, of an author who dares not attach their name to their work. What a coward!”
“Well, I am sure she has a good reason for it and?—”
“Surely, if it were truly worthwhile, they would proudly claim it? It only affirms my suspicions that it is trite rubbish,” he said as he laughed at his own joke. It was a high-pitched sound, grating like fingernails on a slate. “Give me an author with conviction any day. Shakespeare for instance!”
“Well, they say there were many authors who may have used that name!”
“Oh rubbish, dear girl,” he said, acting as though they were not the same age and of equal standing.
Verity’s smile tightened. There was a dangerous glint in her eyes that Marion knew well. Marion saw her hand clenched at her side, a clear sign of her rising indignation. She was afraid Verity might punch him, and she prepared herself to intervene.
“Lord Davidson.” When Verity spoke, her voice was carefully modulated. “Perhaps the author chooses to use a pen name for reasons you cannot possibly comprehend. Perhaps they have more to lose than a mere reputation.”
She cast a quick, meaningful glance at Marion, who nodded imperceptibly, a silent reassurance.
“Oh, do not take it so personally,” he said with a dismissive wave. “It is merely an observation on the nature of authorship. One should not allow oneself to become so invested in mere flights of fancy. It is most unbecoming, especially for one I assume is in search of a husband.”
Before Verity could retort, a shadow fell over them and Marion saw him standing there.Anselm.
He had approached silently, drawn by the rising inflection of Davidson’s voice, like a predator sensing weakness. Marion knew he had heard everything but had no idea how he would react.
“Lord Davidson,” Anselm’s voice was low and laced with a chilling authority that cut through the din like a sharpened blade. “It seems you hold rather peculiar, or dare I say pedestrian notions, on literature. If one judges a novel’s worth solely by whether a name is attached to it, rather than by the skill of its prose or the power of its narrative, then one clearly does not understand literature at all. Perhaps you should stick to your account books.”
“Oh, Your Grace! It was only a bit of passing conversation, not some pronounced statement. In fact, I merely meant to imply. Well, it is to say that… ummm…” He stammered and suddenly became unable to form a coherent sentence under Anselm’s unwavering, icy gaze.
“What was it you were saying?” Anselm pressed as others began to circle around them like vultures. “I am most curious now. I think we all are.”
“I… I must excuse myself, Your Grace. I just remembered a most urgent engagement and I must use the restroom,” he said as he bowed hastily, almost tripping over his own feet as he bolted from the conversation.
Verity stared after him, then turned her wide eyes to Anselm. She raised an eyebrow and shrugged. A mixture of surprise, gratitude, and a hint of bewildered admiration crossed her face.
“Anselm,” she began, “you know… you know that you did not have to do that.”
Anselm merely offered a curt nod and adjusted his cufflinks. His expression had already returned to his customary composure, as if chastising lords was a daily chore.
“He was being foolish, Verity. No one speaks to my sister that way.”
He met Marion’s gaze across Verity’s shoulder, and Marion offered him a warm, appreciative smile.
Well done, she mouthed to him from the small distance away.Let us go home and I will show you just how proud I am of you.
“I think we should get out of here, Verity. There is no sign of Wrotham, and I think this party is a bit boring for our exciting taste. Would you agree?”
“I like this version of you, Anselm. Let us be off!” She said as they linked arms and worked through the crowd to Marion.
Later that night, after they had returned to their own residence and Verity had retired to her chambers, Marion found Anselm in the library with a half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. The room was softly lit by a single lamp.
“That was rather... unlike ye, Anselm,” Marion ventured, approaching him. “I also thought you were goin’ to meet me upstairs for another art session.”
“To defend one’s family? I should hope it is not so unlike me,” he said as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
“No,” she clarified, a small smile playing on her lips. “To be so... public in yer disdain for that foolish young lord. Usually, ye simply freeze them out with a stare. But that, that was attacking.”
He took a slow sip and set the empty glass down on a nearby table.
“Perhaps I grow weary of such talk going unchecked. And his words were most offensive to Verity. And to... the authoress I mean.”
