Page 92 of The Duke's Scottish Bride
Anselm knew that while his tone was light, his eyes were sharp and probing. He had known Anselm for years, and he easily understood when something was amiss. Anselm’s jaw clenched as he considered his response.
“Oh… I am sorry for my jest. Is it serious? Is Her Grace all right?”
“She is simply not feeling well, Emmanuel. It is nothing of consequence nor of your concern.” His voice was dismissive, a clear attempt to shut down the conversation.
“Nothing of consequence?” Emmanuel pushed as he took a step closer and dropped his voice further. “Anselm, I have known you for long enough to discern when a matter is nothing of consequence and when it is a rather large, uncomfortable elephant in the room.”
“I assure you, Emmanuel, my private affairs are precisely that. Private. And you would do well to remember your place,” he said as he drained the last of the champagne flute.
He realized his tone was louder than he intended as a couple of nearby guests, sensing the shift in atmosphere, cast curious glances their way. Emmanuel, for once, seemed to genuinelyfalter. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes at Anselm’s raw anger. He took a small step back, raising his hands in silent surrender. He did not say another word.
Anselm, realizing he had drawn unwanted attention, instantly regained his composure as he straightened his waistcoat. His face smoothed into its customary, formal mask as he paced away from his friend.
“Now, if you will excuse me, Emmanuel. I believe I saw Lord Barrington near the refreshments. A man of considerable intellect, I assure you. Perhaps you might find his company more stimulating. I must find my sister,” he said as he turned abruptly, leaving Emmanuel standing alone.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
As unwelcome as I feel in this grand home, this room is an absolute sanctuary for me soul,Marion thought as she threw open the heavy curtains to bring light into her studio.
She looked around at how the rays of sunshine danced on the floor before her eyes. There was beauty to behold even in the worst of circumstances; she just needed to remember where to look.
She walked over and locked the door, then sought to begin her work. Her easel stood waiting in the middle of the room, a blank canvas mocking her with its emptiness.
It is time to put these emotions of mine in color,she thought.
She moved with a quiet, determined purpose as she gathered materials. She was unsure of her direction but knew what she needed to get rid of.
First, she gathered every sketch, every half-finished painting, and every single charcoal study that depicted Anselm.
Curse this bloody bastard,she thought as she piled them on a nearby table.
She looked at the quick, intimate sketches of him reading by the fire, as well as the more formal portraits she had begun, and even the playful caricatures she had drawn during their lighter moments. Those moments seemed a lifetime away.
She stacked them carefully on the table, then carried them to a large, unused trunk in the corner of the room. She placed them inside, one by one, covering them with linen cloth before lowering the lid. She pushed the trunk beneath a heavy table.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Or so she hoped.
Then, she began to paint. Not the vibrant landscapes of Strathcairn, not the delicate floral arrangements, and certainly nothim.Instead, she found herself drawn to make abstract swirls of color. The strokes started off dark and small, then spun into brooding shades of indigo and brown. She found a lovely crimson color that seemed to fit, and interspersed flashes of the angry hue at the heart of it.
She painted until her hands ached and every inch of white was covered. She painted until the emotional chaos within her found some release on the canvas.
She grew absorbed and painted for two days straight. She barely ate, slept, or bathed. The only sounds that came from the room were the scrape of her brush and the occasional, muffled sob that escaped her lips.
The only person she allowed into her self-imposed exile was Verity. Verity, after her own heated confrontation with Anselm, understood Marion’s pain with fierce empathy.
“Marion, my dear,” Verity said softly, entering the studio on the second afternoon, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits, “you must eat something. The air is thick with oil paint and turpentine, which cannot be good for an empty stomach. Please…”
Marion, her face smudged with paint, looked up from her latest work. She knew that her eyes were red-rimmed and distant, but she could not muster a smile for her dearest friend.
“I am not hungry, Verity. But I do thank ye for yer kindness,” she said as she wiped stray paint from her cheek which was streaked with salty tears..
Verity set the tray down on a table, then dragged a stool beside the easel. She sat down, gazing at the turbulent canvas for a few minutes before speaking.
“This is powerful work, much more abstract than you have ever done. You are truly a marvel with paint and brush,” Verity said softly.
“Thank ye.”
