Page 29 of Duke of Storme
Outside his study window, the Highland wind howled eerily across the moors, carrying with it the promise of change. Finn had spent years fighting against change, clinging to the safety of emotional distance and rigid control. But now, as he sat in his study, the whisky burning his throat, he began to wonder if perhaps it was time to stop fighting and start living.
The Inverthistle ball was a week away. They had seven days to prepare Diana for Highland society and to help her discover the duchess she was meant to be.
CHAPTER 10
“We’ll begin with the most precarious moment,” Finn said, gesturing for Diana to take her place in the center of the ballroom’s polished marble floor. “Yer entrance.”
Pale morning light streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air between them. Diana stood where he’d indicated with her hands folded at her waist, waiting for instruction while exhibiting a particular stillness he’d begun to recognize as her way of listening.
“In London, ye enter a ballroom and disappear into the crowd,” he continued, beginning to pace around her like a naval instructor addressing new recruits. The comparison wasn’t lost on him – he’d spent enough time drilling green sailors to recognize the focused attention of someone determined to master a new skill. “Here, every eye will be on ye from the moment we cross the threshold. They’ll be cataloguing everythin’ – yer gown, yer posture, how ye hold my arm, whether ye seem nervous or confident.”
“And I suppose nervous would be… inadvisable?” Diana asked carefully.
“Disastrous.” Finn stopped his pacing to face her directly. “Highland society respects strength, not vulnerability. Show them uncertainty, and they’ll pounce like wolves on a wounded deer.”
Diana’s chin lifted slightly. “Then I shall endeavor tonotappear wounded.”
Something in her tone made him study her face more carefully. There was that new edge of steel beneath her careful composure. Good. She was going to need it.
“The key,” Finn said, moving to stand beside her, “is to make them come to ye. Don’t chase their approval – command their respect.” He gestured toward the ballroom’s entrance, imagining it filled with peers, all eyes trained upon the new Duchess. “When we enter, ye’ll be on my right arm. Keep yer chin up, shoulders back – but not rigid. Ye’re no’ a soldier on parade.”
“How reassuring,” Diana murmured, but she adjusted her posture as instructed.
“Walk with me,” Finn commanded, offering his arm. As Diana placed her hand on his sleeve, he felt that familiar jolt of awareness. He told himself to focus sternly. This was pure instruction, nothing more.
“Now, the introductions,” Finn began as they moved in a slow, measured pace across the marble floor. “Highland titles are different from English ones. There’s Laird MacPherson, who owns half the country and thinks the other half should be grateful for his benevolence. His wife will be polite to yer face but sharp as a dirk behind yer back.”
Diana nodded, her attention focused entirely on his words. “Should I expect her to test me directly?”
“Aye. She’ll ask seemingly innocent questions about estate management, about yer plans for the castle, about whether ye intend to spend yer time in London or here. Every answer will be weighed and found wantin’ if ye show the slightest uncertainty.”
“And what would the correct answers be?” Diana asked, her voice steady despite the challenge ahead.
“That depends on whether ye want to be accepted or respected,” Finn replied, surprised by his own honesty. “Acceptance comes from tellin’ them what they want to hear. Respect comes from tellin’ them what ye truly think.”
Diana was quiet for a moment, considering this. “And which would you prefer I choose, Your Grace?”
The question caught him off guard. Whichdidhe prefer? The safe path of acceptance, or the more precarious route to respect? “I’d prefer ye choose what feels right to ye,” he said finally. “But know that once ye make that choice, there’s no changin’ their minds.”
Diana nodded quietly.
“Then there’s Old MacTavish – everyone calls him that, though he’s not yet fifty. He’s got the largest whisky distillery in the region and believes strong drink is the solution to most of life’s problems. He’ll test ye by offerin’ ye something that could strip the paint straight off a ship’s hull.”
“Good heavens! Should I accept?”
“A sip. No more. Show ye’re game, but no’ foolish.” Finn found himself studying the graceful line of her neck as she nodded. The morning light caught the chestnut highlights in her hair, and he had to force himself to concentrate on the lesson rather than the way she moved beside him. “His daughter Margaret will be there – unmarried at twenty-six and bitter about it. She’s got a tongue that could flay a man at fifty paces.”
“She sounds delightful,” Diana said dryly.
“She’s the one ye’ll need to win over the most,” Finn said seriously. “The other women all follow her lead for some reason. If Margaret accepts ye, the rest will fall in line.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then ye’ll spend the evenin’ surrounded by polite smiles and carefully veiled insults.” Finn’s jaw tightened at the thought. “But that won’t happen. Not if I have anythin’ to say about it.”
They practiced the entrance several more times. Finn adjusted her pace, the way she held his arm, and the angle of her chin. Each time, she improved as her natural grace became more confident andcommanding.
“Better,” he said after their fourth attempt. “But ye’re still thinkin’ too much about what they might be thinkin’. Focus on what ye know to be true – ye’re the Duchess of Storme. This is yer domain, and they are yer guests.”
