Page 91 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
He moved through the crowd with Verity as a reluctant shadow at his side. He dutifully introduced her to a series of eligible, if unremarkable, lords and to her credit, she looked every bit the part of a beautiful lady. He could only hope that she would be amenable to his introductions.
“Lord Fairworks,” Anselm announced, presenting a young man with a receding hairline and a nervous cough. “My sister, the Lady Verity. Lord Fairworks is known for his keen interest in…what was it again? The breeding of prize-winning cattle or something of the like?”
“I am most honored that you remember, Your Grace,” he said with a wide smile. His nervous cough disappeared with the compliment. “I very much take pride in the abilities of our estate to produce such fine stock.”
Verity offered a polite if strained smile as she looked between the two of them before finally speaking.
“Indeed?” she said, more as a question than a statement. “How… fascinating.”
“And Lord Percival,” Anselm continued as he waved another gentleman over, moving on to a portly chap whose eyes seemed to glaze over like a French pastry. “Dear sister, Lord Percival here is a noted collector of ancient coins.”
Verity’s smile tightened once more, and Anselm knew the expression on her face well. She was bracing herself, trying not to say something unseemly.
At least she is trying to soldier through this painful ordeal,he thought to himself as Lord Percival went on about coins.
It was clear to Anselm, and to anyone with an ounce of wit, that none of these men possessed a fraction of his sister’s intelligence or her vibrant spirit. He felt a flicker of frustration himself and acknowledged the futility of his efforts, even as he pushed them forward.
Why must everything be so bloody hard?he thought as he took a glass of champagne from a passing servant and downed it in a single gulp.
Just as Anselm was attempting to introduce Verity to a particularly vapid Viscount, whom he secretly despised for the ostentatious color of his clothing, and only out of sheer desperation, a booming laugh cut through the polite chatter.
“Well, Your Grace! One finds you surrounded by such interesting, if earnest, company this evening!”
Emmanuel, his leanly muscular frame clad in a rather elaborate yet elegant waistcoat, materialized beside them with a knowing twinkle in his eye.
“Lord Faircranks, is it?” Emmanuel asked, his face as serious as cardiac arrest.
“Yes, Faircranks, my lord,” he said in response before correcting himself, the nervous cough returning to his throat. “It is Lord Fairworks. I am sorry, but I must?—”
“Oh, of course, a thousand apologies, my dear boy. And Lord Percy?”
“You know well that it is Percival?—”
“Well, I do hope they are not discussing the merits of cow manure, or the intricacies of Roman coinage, for her lady’s sake.”
“You are incorrigible,” Verity whispered as she walked closer to him.
“And you, my dear, are looking entirely too serious for such a festive occasion,” Emmanuel retorted, then turned his gaze to Anselm. “Though I daresay, your brother here looks as thoughhe has just swallowed a sour lemon. What is the matter with you, my dear friend?”
“Your usual charm is, as ever, overwhelming.” Anselm grabbed another passing flute of champagne on a servant’s tray.
“Oh, I strive for consistency, Your Grace,” Emmanuel chuckled. He then turned back to Verity and lowered his voice. “So, my lady, have you found any inspiration for your next literary endeavor amongst these fine gentlemen? Quite a cast of characters I do say.”
“Anselm, if you would excuse me,” Verity said as she turned to her brother. “I believe I shall procure a beverage. All this stimulating conversation has made me quite parched.”
“I think that is a wise idea,” he said as she offered her brother a nod and slipped away into the crowd.
Emmanuel watched her go, then turned his full attention to Anselm, his expression fading.
“And where, pray tell, is Her Grace this evening? I confess, I rather miss her insightful commentary on the various artistic merits of the assembled company. She is quite funny. Funnier than you at least, which I suppose is not all that difficult and?—”
Anselm stiffened, which silenced Emmanuel.
“Marion is… indisposed this evening.”
Emmanuel raised an eyebrow as he shifted his back to passersby, creating a more private conversation.
“Indisposed?” he asked. “Ah, yes. A sudden chill, perhaps? Or a headache of the most inconvenient variety?”
