Page 14 of Duke of Storme
There he was, standing in the doorway, taller than her memory had painted him. His presence filled the space like a gathering storm. Gone was the formal attire of their London meetings. Instead, he wore a simple dark waistcoat with no cravat and his white shirt was open at the throat. His dark hair looked damp from the rain, and there was something about his stance – more relaxed than it had been in London, yet somehow more intense, more authenticallyhim– that made her pulse skip.
“Ye arrived early,” he said, stepping into the room with that measured grace she remembered. His voice carried the same practical tone he might have used to discuss cargo deliveries.
“I followed your instructions explicitly, Your Grace,” Diana replied. Her own voice sounded steadier than she had expected. She rose from the bed and smoothed her skirts with a hand that only shook slightly.
A pause stretched between them. The silence was filled with the sound of rain against stone and the distant howling of Highland wind. His gray-blue eyes moved over her faces as though cataloging changes or perhaps searching for signs of displeasure with her newfound circumstances.
“If there’s anythin’ ye need,” he said finally, nodding toward the empty grate, “feel free to speak to Mrs. Glenwright. She runs the household with more efficiency than most generals run their armies.”
Diana glanced around at the bare stone walls, the empty hearth, and the lack of any personal warmth that might make this space feel less like a prison. “A fire perhaps?” she suggested, her voice carrying just enough edge to suggest this was not entirely a request, and most certainly not one that could wait on the housekeeper.
Without comment, he moved to the hearth and knelt before it. His movements were practiced and sure. She watched as he rearranged kindling with the efficiency of a man accustomed to practical necessities. His large hands were surprisingly gentle with the delicate work. When the first flames caught, they cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the concentration in his expression.
The fire blazed to life, sending warmth creeping into the corners of the room like a living thing. Diana found herself instinctively stepping closer, drawn not just by the heat, but by his unexpected display of consideration. He could have summoned a servant and ordered the fire lit through proper channels. Instead, he had attended to it himself.
“You didn’t write,” she said. The words tumbled from her cold, numb, lips before she could stop them.
The Duke stood, brushing his hands against his waistcoat. “I’m no’ a man of letters.”
The casual dismissal almost made her wince, but she straightened her spine. “And I am not a piece of furniture, Your Grace,” she replied before her better judgment could intervene.
His head tilted slightly and those eyes focused on her with new attention. Something shifted in his expression – not anger, exactly, but a kind of wary assessment.
“Ye’ll find the entire north wing is yers to command,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “My wing is the west. Meals are taken at yer discretion. I don’t require yer company.”
Diana felt her lips press into a hard line. The message was clear: they would live as strangers under the same roof. Their marriage would be a legal formality that required no actual interaction or investment. “And if I require yours?”
His eyes met hers then – really met them for the first time since their wedding day. The intensity of his gaze made her stomach flutter with a curious cocktail of fear and anticipation.
“Then I suggest we both adjust our expectations,” he said quietly.
He was gone before she could think of a reply. The door closed behind him with soft finality that somehow felt more devastating than if he had slammed it.
Diana stood alone in the flickering firelight, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor, feeling like a woman who had been uprooted by hundreds of miles only to live in elegant isolation.
Hours later, she made her way through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors toward – what she hoped – was the dining hall. The evening meal had been announced by a servant who’d appeared and disappeared so quickly Diana wondered if she’d imagined him.
The great hall, when she finally found it, was utterly magnificent in its overwhelming grandeur. A massive table stretched down the center, set for what looked like twenty people, but intended, she realized with a sinking heart – for just one. Her place setting looked lost and lonely at one end, like a child playing dress-up in adult spaces.
Diana took her set with as much dignity as she could muster. She held her spine straight and folded her hands properly in her lap. A parade of servants appeared with covered dishes – roasted fowl, buttered vegetables and delicate pastries that would have been delightful under different circumstances. But eating alone in this cold, vast place, with her cutlery clinking too loudly against porcelain and the wind wailing like something tormented beyond the windows, made every bite taste of nothing, as though her circumstances had stolen even her ability to enjoy a simple meal.
The roast grew cold before she was halfway through it. The wine sat untouched in its crystal glass. Outside, rain lashed the windows with increasing fury, as though the Scottish weatherwas as unhappy about her presence as everyone else seemed to be.
When she could bear the silence no longer, Diana retreated to her chambers, her footsteps the only sound in halls that seemed designed to amplify loneliness. She curled up beneath too many blankets. Her body was finally warm then, but her spirit felt colder than it had ever been.
How strange,she thought, staring at the ceiling where firelight danced against stone,to be a wife with no husband, and a Duchess with no voice.
But even as the thought formed, something stirred in her chest – not despair, but defiance. She was not going to be some delicate flower to wilt at the first sign of adversity. She was Diana Brandon – DianaHurritonnow – and she had survived her parents’ indifference, society’s dismissal, and her sisters’ overprotectiveness. She would survive this too.
Rising from the bed, she moved to her traveling trunk and began the methodical process of unpacking. Each familiar item felt like a small anchor to the person she had been mere weeks ago, who she still was beneath the title and the isolation. Her books were carefully wrapped in tissue. Her watercolor set was there too, though she wondered if there was anything of beauty in this forbidding castle worth capturing in paint. The magnificent Highland landscape beyond the windows was undeniably magnificent, but she felt too isolated to venture out and explore it.
At the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in soft muslin, lay her most precious possession: her sketchbook. Diana lifted it carefully, running her delicate fingers over the worn leather cover. Inside, there were months’ worth of drawings – depictions of London street scenes, her sisters’ faces, flowers and architectural structures that had caught her fancy.
She carried it to the window, settling into the deep stone embrasure with the book open in her lap. Outside, the rain continued its assault on the landscape, but from this height she could make out the dark outline of the castle grounds and the way the ancient walls curved around courtyards and gardens she had yet to explore.
Opening to a fresh page, Diana picked up her charcoal and began to draw.
But instead of sketching the castle as it was – cold, forbidding, unwelcoming – her hand seemed to move of its own accord. She drew it as itmightbe. She drew it as she wished it were: warm light glowing in the windows, ivy softening the harsh stone walls, smoke lazily curling from chimneys that spoke of hearth fires and human comfort.
