Page 8 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“Good,” Anselm said, turning back to his sister. “Then make haste. I wish to be on our way at once. Let us get Lady Marion back to where she belongs.”
Anselm saw a man blocking the steps of the local church.
His posture was rigid with the practiced ease of one used to drawing rooms rather than rustic villages. The man’s pale,angular face held an angry frown, and his eyes flicked over Lady Marion with a kind of impatience barely concealed beneath polished civility.
“There you are, niece,” the man hissed and seized Lady Marion by the arm roughly.
Lady Marion winced, and a flicker of anger surged through Anselm’s veins. The man seemed vaguely familiar. Something about his bearing stirred a distant memory.
I do not care for the way he handles her,Anselm thought as he walked a few paces behind and stored the moment for later.
The familiar man released Lady Marion and turned his gaze to Anselm. His entire demeanor shifted instantly, flipping like a coin.
“Ah, the Duke of Greystead,” he said smoothly while extending a hand. “We met at Lady Forshaw’s ball some years past, Your Grace. Lord Harlowe, at your disposal.”
Recognition clicked into place. Anselm recalled the cold courtesy and subtle barbs masked by practiced charm.
“Lord Harlowe,” Anselm simply repeated the title.
“Your Grace!” The earl’s voice sharpened with forced warmth. “What an unexpected pleasure to find you at my niece’s nuptials! Pray, to what do we owe the honor of your presence?”
A woman appeared beside him with the careful grace of a woman well versed in the unspoken rules oftonsociety. She was just over forty. Her dark hair was streaked with early silver and her expression was a practiced blend of deference and calculation, much like the man beside her. She stepped forward timidly and executed a perfect curtsy.
“My dear husband, I believed we would be aware if a man of His Grace’s status was invited to our Marion’s wedding. We are most surprised, Your Grace,” she said softly to Anselm, “to see you so far from Greystead Hall and London this time of year. Are you on holiday in fair Scotland?”
Anselm felt a wave of disgust at their hollow pleasantries. There was a careless indifference beneath their words toward the young woman between them. Something was clearly amiss—and neither seemed to care.
“Your niece appeared to be in need of assistance,” he stated plainly, offering no further remarks.
A man stepped forward, thin-lipped and sneering. He looked about thirty and was plain enough, though his clothes were impeccably tailored—as if that alone could make up for a lack of any real presence. His dark eyes were cold and calculating, but there was nothing about him that stirred respect or fear.
Anselm recognized him then. Lord Gilton. He didn’t know the man well, but from the tension around Lady Marion, it was clear she dreaded this match.
“Marion, my dear, you’ve kept us waiting quite a while,” he said with a singsong tsk-tsk. “While I hear lateness can be fashionable, a bride ought not to be so tardy on her own wedding day. Fear not, Lord Harlowe, I shall have to teach her better manners.” He laughed lightly. “Rest assured, I’ll see she knows her place.”
Gilton reached out then so his fingers could brush Lady Marion’s arm. The sight of this movement sent a spike of anger through Anselm and was only amplified as he watched her recoil at the contact.
She is genuinely afraid of him.
This man was a danger and of what variety, Anselm did not know. He had heard rumors of his peculiar tastes and proclivities, which he’d paid no mind to in the private clubs of London. Yet, looking at him now, he was unsure they were just rumors; Gilton oozed treachery.
Lady Marion inched away from the Viscount and pulled a note from her sleeve to present to the group. Anselm watched her hand tremble as she held it out to Gilton.
“I received this,” she whispered. “Just as I was finishin’ up dressin’ for our wedding day with Jean.”
Anselm’s eyes narrowed as he snatched the paper from her hand. He unfolded it quickly. Anselm leaned forward so he could read the words before Gilton.
Gilton has already promised himself to me. Cross that line and I will make sure you are buried in that wedding gown.
He reread the words several times, letting them register, then looked up at Lady Marion.
“Why did you not show me this before?”
Before she could answer, Harlowe laughed loud and dismissively.
“This is all nonsense, Your Grace! A ruse! What you are seeing is a flighty girl’s defiance against a respectable match. You know what fickle creatures these females can be. It is in their nature. They cannot help it! With her parents gone, I have taken great pains to see her throughseveralseasons and ensure that she has an excellent husband to care for her. She needs a firm hand, that is all. I know she will do well.”
Lady Harlowe’s posture straightened at his comment indicating she silently agreed with him on the matter.
