Page 37 of Duke of Storme
“No one’s captured anythin’,” Finn replied sharply. “It’s a practical arrangement. Nothin’ more.”
Locke’s eyebrows rose at the vehement denial. “Aye. Practical. That’s why ye’re pourin’ whisky at ten in the mornin’, lookin’ like ye haven’t slept properly in weeks?”
“I’ve had estate matters–”
“Finn.” Locke’s voice carried the authority of someone who’d stood beside him on burning decks and watched him command men through Hell itself. “‘Tis me yer talkin’ to. The man who watched ye take apart a French frigate with nothin’ but cannon smoke and sheer bloody-minded determination. What’s really goin’ on?”
Finn stared into his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. Whatwasgoing on with him? Two days ago, he thought he understood his marriage, his life, his carefully ordered existence… and then Diana had walked into that ballroom wearing his family colors like she belonged there, belonged to him, and everything had shifted beneath his feet like a deck in a storm.
“She’s… different than I expected.”
“Different how?”
“More…” He struggled for the word while running a hand through his hair. “…present.”
“Present?”
“She doesn’t fade into the background the way I thought she would.” Finn moved to the window, needing distance from Locke’s penetrating stare. “At Inverthistle Hall, she commanded that room like she was born to do it. You won’t believe this, but Margaret MacTavish actually smiled at her – genuinely smiled, not that sharp-edged thing she usually wears.”
Locke whistled low. “That’s impressive. Maggie MacTavish hasn’t genuinely smiled at anyone since the Battle of Trafalgar. So, what’s the problem?”
The problem was that he couldn’t stop thinkin’ about her. The problem was that when she looked at him, he forgot why he built these walls around his heart in the first place. The problem was that he’s starting to want things he swore he’d never want again.
“There’s no problem,” Finn said instead. “We have an understanding. She plays the Duchess; I play the devoted husband. Everyone’s sufficiently satisfied.”
“Are they now?” Locke leaned back in his chair, studying Finn with the intensity that had made him a formidable intelligence officer. “And how did this… performance go over at the ball?”
Finn’s jaw tightened. “Well enough.”
“Well enough?” Locke echoed, his smile deepening. “Because from what I heard, ye danced with yer wife like a man enchanted. Word is ye couldn’t take yer eyes off her.”
“The gentry saw what they were meant to see. That’s all.”
“Is it?” Locke set down his glass and leaned forward. “Because for as long as I’ve known ye, Finn Hurriton – what’s it been, fifteen years now? – I’ve seen ye charm admirals’ daughters when it served yer purposes, and I’ve watched ye cut seasoned officers to ribbons with no more than a look… but I’ve never seen ye lose control of a situation.”
“I didn’t lose–”
“Then why do ye look like a man whose been caught in a riptide?”
Finn found himself thinking of Diana and the way she’d felt in his arms during their dance – warm and real in ways he couldn’t quantify.
“It was just a performance,” he said again. “Nothing more.”
Locke’s laugh was deceptively casual, but his eyes remained sharp and assessing. “The Finn I know wouldn’t need to convince himself of that quite so hard.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means ye’re lyin’ to yerself, and we both know it.” Locke picked up his glass again, swirling the whisky thoughtfully. “What I want to know is, why?”
Finn stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with more force than necessary. He moved to the window that overlooked the castle grounds. He stood there with his hands clasped behind his back in the rigid posture that hand once commanded respect from hardened sailors.
In the distance, he could see Diana walking through the garden. Her dark cloak created a stark contrast against the winter landscape. Even from here, there was something about the way she moved – purposeful, graceful, and entirely herself.
“She’s my responsibility,” he said without turning around.
“Responsibility.” Locke’s tone was carefully neutral, but Finn could hear the skepticism beneath it. “Is that what we’re callin’ it?”
“It is what it is.”
