Page 80 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“Yes, it really is! And I have been considering a new direction for my next work. Perhaps something with a more… intellectual heroine.”
Anselm found himself nodding. He was genuinely interested in hearing her talk about her next project..
Perhaps there is some sense in this girl after all,he thought as he sat down at the nearby desk.
“Indeed. Intellect can be a formidable quality, ,” he said before springing up to walk towards the shelves and running a hand over the ancient spines of his own collection in the corner. “You seem to… understand these works. More than I do, perhaps.”
Verity’s eyes widened slightly at his unexpected admission. This was a rare crack in his formidable façade.
“Well, I enjoy them. They offer… different worlds.” She picked up a slim volume and turned it in her hands. “Do you ever read for pleasure and diversion, Anselm? Or only for business?”
He turned to her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. “Occasionally, Verity. Occasionally. Though my definition of reading for pleasure may differ from yours.” He paused, then gestured to the volumes of poetry. “Have you ever considered the classics as inspiration? There is much wisdom to be found in their words.”
Verity tilted her head, a thoughtful expression on her face, considering his words with a surprising openness. “Perhaps. If they are presented in a manner that does not make one’s eyes glaze over with boredom.”
“It is all in the reader,” Anselm teased. “If you find this boring, you only have yourself to blame.”
“All right, fine. Go on, brother. Tell me what I should be reading then.”
Anselm found himself chuckling. He produced a genuine, soft sound that filled the grand library.
“I shall endeavor to select a volume that avoids such a dire fate as being a bore. Perhaps something by Lord Byron? He, at least, understood passion.”
Verity’s eyes lit up with a true spark of excitement. “Lord Byron! You read Byron, Anselm? I never would have guessed! I thought you were all Socrates, Sophocles, and Hippocrates.”
“I think there is much you do not know about me…and that is my fault. Come, let us look at this one together,” he said, motioning to the desk.
They continued to talk as they read poetry. The conversation flowed more easily than it had in years.
Anselm looked up to see Marion listening from the hallway outside the library. She wore a small, knowing smile on her face.
“The roses are quite magnificent this year, aren’t they, Verity?” Anselm remarked, his voice softer than Marion was accustomed to hearing when he spoke to his sister as they sat in the drawing room one afternoon, some days later.
Verity looked up. Her brow was furrowed in concentration on her writing. “Indeed. Though I can never quite capture the exact shade of crimson when I try to write of it.”
“Try bein’ a painter,” Marion joked as she worked on a cross stitch.
Anselm turned from the window to face Verity.
“Mother used to say the same thing about the honeysuckle. She would try to paint it, but always claimed the delicate yellow was impossible to translate to canvas. I bet it is a similar feeling, is it not?”
Verity’s hand stilled as she set down her quill. Marion watched, holding her breath. The mention of their mother, usually a topic skirted around, hung in the air.
“She… she was quite talented, was she not?” Verity’s voice was barely a whisper. “I do not remember much…”
“She was,” he said as he walked over to a small, ornate table in the corner and picked up a framed miniature portrait. It was a depiction of a young woman with kind, green eyes and a gentle smile.
Their mother.
He had not touched the frame in years, or at least, not when others had been present.
“Yes, she was,” he confirmed, his voice thick with tenderness. “She had a particular fondness for the small, wildflowers that grew along the banks of a small lake she used to take us to some miles from here. I have not been able to go back, but I can see it if I close my eyes.”
Verity looked up at him. Her eyes were wide with a fragile emotion.
“Oh, Anselm! I remember… she used to make us daisy chains! And tell us stories about the fairies that lived amongst the heather.” A faint, almost wistful smile touched her lips. “I had thought… I had imagined those things, trying to create a memory that may not be real. I cannot tell you how it warms me to hear that.”
“And talk of fairies,” Marion chimed in. “Perhaps there is a bit of highlander in yer family after all. She sounds like a grand woman.”
