Page 88 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
“This… this closeness, it jeopardizes everything. It makes us vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable?” Marion cried. “Or human? Is that what ye fear, Anselm? To feel? To allow yerself to be loved by someone?” She stepped closer, reaching out a hand. He flinched, a movement that stung her more than any harsh word.
“Once Verity is settled,” he continued, ignoring her plea, “once she is married and secure, there will be no further need for this arrangement. You may return to Scotland and live your life as you wish. As you always intended, I am sure.”
Marion stared at him. Tears stung her eyes, blurring his rigid form. She blinked, hoping that this was all a cruel nightmare, and that she would awake in his bed and in his arms. And yet…
The coldness in his voice, the stark finality of his words, was a wall more impenetrable than any he had built around his emotions before. Much as things had changed between them, she knew Anselm and what he was capable of. The detachment. The unrelenting sense of duty.
Duty. How about your marriage? But what duty is owed to a farce?
Her throat tightened A painful knot formed there preventing any further debate as she realized there was some truth behind his words. She would not beg. Not for his affection, not for a love he now so cruelly denied her. The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken grief.
She nodded, once, giving a single, sharp dip of her head.
“As ye wish, Yer Grace,” she said. Her voice was thin and brittle. She turned her back to him, and walked slowly, deliberately, towards the door. Each step was agony as it represented a silent farewell to a future she had only begun to imagine. She waitedfor seconds that felt like minutes, yet she heard nothing from him. There was no word or sound, as she left the drawing room.
The moment her bedchamber door closed behind her, she leaned against it and slid slowly to the floor. She buried her face in her hands as wrenching sobs tore through her like a knife. The tears came, hot against her cool cheeks. She cried to mourn the love she had found, the intimacy they had shared, and for the crushing reality of its sudden, brutal end just when things seemed to fall into place.
Marion stood up and walked to her desk, where she retrieved her journal. She sat herself up in bed and as emotionally spent as she was, began to write. She wrote until she could no longer hold the quill in her hand. A feverish stream of consciousness flowed from her as she sought to unburden herself.
I daenae ken how I could have fooled myself into thinkin’ I would be a duchess or that all this could truly be mine. The call of Scotland appeals and yet, sours in my mouth as I consider how much this place feels like… home. Yet, is it this place, or is it the man who occupies it?
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Will Her Grace be joining you this morning for breakfast, Your Grace?” Mrs. Clarke asked as she looked around at the empty table.
“No, I do not believe so,” Anselm said as he finished his coffee. “Please be sure to leave the breakfast buffet out for her to come down when she would like.”
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mrs. Clarke said with a raised eyebrow. “And what of Lady Verity? Shall we be expecting her as well at a later hour?”
“I have no indication of that,” Anselm said as he set down his cup. “That will be all, Mrs. Clarke.”
Anselm sat at the head of the long, mahogany table as Mrs. Clarke left him alone with his thoughts, which were most unwelcome company. The usual clatter of crockery and conversation were absent, replaced by the unrelenting tick ofthe grandfather clock in the hall and the distant sounds of household staff. Anselm knew they were talking about him and the quiet turmoil that had enveloped his household.
He picked at his breakfast. The food was tasteless in his mouth so he finally pushed it away.
This distance is for the best. This coldness is a necessary shield.
Yet, the quiet gnawed at him. He felt a hollow ache where Marion’s presence, her quiet smiles, her insightful comments, used to be at the opposite end of the table. For the first time in months, the house felt truly empty.Hewas empty.
He poured himself into his work and fencing in the mornings as the days bled into a week. The three of them lived under the same roof yet existed in separate worlds.
Marion always seemed to know when Anselm was in a particular room, and she would subtly alter her path to avoid him. She spent most of her time in her studio, a place where Anselm could not find reason to intrude. Somehow, their paths never crossed in the hallways, at meals or in the gardens.
The silence between them grew like rain clouds: heavy, dark, and suffocating.
“Marion? Are you there? It is Verity.”
Marion had been sitting by her window, lost in yet another journal entry as she sought to make sense of her life. Much as she craved conversation with Verity, after all they had both gone through, she could not bring herself to get up from the chaise on which she sat.
“Marion, please,” Verity pressed. “I know I was angry. And I… I was wrong to lash out at you. I so desperately would like to speak with you, and I am sorry for being so cross. Please, open the door…”
After a moment of hesitation, Marion set down her journal and walked to the door. She opened it a crack, revealing her tear-streaked face to Verity.
“Oh, Marion! What is going on, my dear?” Verity gasped, pushing the door open fully and pulling Marion into a tight hug. “I am so sorry for any pain I may have caused you! I was terribly horrid to you. Can you ever forgive me?”
Marion clung to her, burying her face in Verity’s shoulder. She breathed deep, taking in the sweet vanilla scent she associated with her. It was a welcome sensation after so much heartache.
