Page 38 of Duke of Storme
“They why do ye watch her like ye want to memorize every step she takes?”
Finn spun around, his temper finally fraying. “What do ye want me to say, Locke?”
“I want ye to tell me the truth.” Locke’s voice was gentler now, without its usual mocking edge. “Because ye’re my oldest friend, and I’ve never seen ye this twisted up over anythin’. Not even when we lost theIntrepid.”
The mention of his former ship hit him like an axe to the torso. Finn had commanded theIntrepidfor three years before losing her in a battle off the coast of Spain along with twenty-three good men. The guilt of that loss still woke him up in the dark hours before dawn with disturbing regularity.
“This is different,” Finn said quietly.
“Aye, it is. Because this time, if ye’re smart about it, ye might actually get to keep what matters to ye.”
“Nothin’–”
“Bull.” Locke stood, crossing to stand beside his friend at the window. “Look at her, Finn. Really look at her.”
Finn followed his gaze to where Diana had stopped beside the old oak tree. She tilted her head back as though she were studying the bare branches against the gray sky. Her sketchbook was open in her hands, and even from this distance, he could see the careful attention she paid to capturing some detail that had caught her artist’s eye.
“She’s sketchin’,” Locke observed. “Even in this bitin’ cold, she’s out there drawin’ yer castle like it matters to her.”
It shouldn’t matter to him what she thought of his ancestral home.But watching Diana capture some detail that had enticed her artistic sensibilities, Finn felt something shift in his chest – like a key turning in a long-locked door. She wasn’t just performing the role of Duchess – she was trying to understand this place, to find beauty in its harsh lines and cold stones.
“She’s been doin’ that since she arrived,” Finn found himself saying. “Drawin’ everythin’ – the castle, the grounds, even the servants goin’ about their work. Mrs. Glenwright told me she even found her in the kitchens yesterday, sketchin’ Cook while she kneaded bread.”
“And how does that make ye feel?” Locke asked with the careful tone of someone navigating treacherous waters.
“It makes me feel like she sees somethin’ here worth preserving,” Finn admitted before he could stop himself. “Or worth rememberin’.”
“The ball really rattled ye, didn’t it?” Locke said quietly.
“No.”
“Then explain to me why yer hands are shakin’.”
Finn looked down and was horrified to discover that Locke was right. His hands – normally steady enough to thread a needle in a storm or fire a pistol with deadly accuracy – were trembling like those of a green midshipman facing his first battle.
“Christ,” he muttered, curling his fingers into fists and pressing them against the window frame.
“It’s not weakness, ye know,” Locke said softly. “Carin’ about someone.”
“It is for me. Every time I’ve cared about anyone, I’ve lost them. My ship. My men. My mother… Caring is a luxury I can’t afford, Locke.”
“And if ye don’t have a choice?”
The question hit its mark with devastating precision. Because that was the terrifying truth, wasn’t it? Diana was wiggling her way in past his carefully erected defenses whether he wanted her to or not. The way she’d looked at him during their dance, the quiet strength she’d shown with Highland society, the grace with which she was learning to navigate his world – it was all conspiring to make him want things he’d sworn off years ago.
“There’s always a choice,” Finn said, but the conviction had gone out of his voice.
“Is there?” Locke moved away from the window, heading toward the door. “Because from where I’m standin’, it looks like ye’ve already made yers. The only question is whether ye’re brave enough to admit it.”
“Where are ye goin’?”
“To find this English Duchess of yers and introduce myself properly. If she’s half as remarkable as ye’re pretendin’ she isn’t, I want to meet her.”
“Locke–” Finn started, but his friend was already at the door.
“Don’t worry,” Locke said with a grin that reminded Finn of their shared youth. “I promise I’ll be the perfect Highland gentleman. I might even compliment her sketches.”
After Locke left, Finn returned to his desk, attempting to force a concentration that seemed to have abandoned him entirely. The estate reports blurred before his eyes as he thought of Diana again, standing underneath that tree, sketchbook in hand, capturing the likeness of the world through her artistic skills.
