Page 58 of Duke of Storme
Jane’s expression remained skeptical. “And you’re willing to forgive being abandoned on your wedding day because he was frightened?”
“I am not excusing it,” Diana said firmly. “But I’m trying to understand it. And more importantly, I’m trying to focus on who he’s becoming rather than dwelling on who he was when all this began. After all, I have changed just as much. Why shouldn’t I afford him the same courtesy he has afforded me?”
The sisters exchanged one of their meaningful looks, and Diana felt the familiar flutter of being under their joint scrutiny.
“Diana,” Jane said carefully, “you’re not developing feelings for him, are you?”
Diana felt her breath catch and her pulse quickened in a way that was answer enough.
“I... why would you ask that?”
“Because--” Lydia said gently, “you get this expression when you talk about him. Like you’re trying to solve the most fascinating puzzle in the world. And because you’ve stopped talking about this marriage as something that happened to you.”
“How do I talk about it now?”
“Like something you’re actively choosing,” Jane said bluntly. “Like something you want to succeed.”
Diana was quiet for a long moment, staring into the fire. “Is that so wrong?”
“It could be dangerous,” Jane replied. “Diana, promise me you won’t lose yourself trying to save a man who might not want to be saved.”
“I’m not trying to save anyone,” Diana protested.
“Aren’t you?” Lydia asked softly. “You’ve always had a tender heart, dearest. And wounded creatures have always called to you.”
“He’s not a wounded creature,” Diana said. “He’s a man who’s spent his entire life fighting to prove he belongs somewhere. That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Jane agreed. “Just… be careful with your heart, Diana. Make sure he’s truly changing before you offer it completely. You deserve someone who will treasure it.”
The warning hung in the air between them like smoke. Diana felt something twist in her chest at the words, partly because they echoed her own fears and partly because they might already be too late.
“Does he make you happy?” Lydia asked quietly.
Diana considered the question seriously. “He makes me feel... seen. And undone. And a little alive. Is that happiness?”
Jane and Lydia exchanged another look, this one heavy with concern and recognition.
“Sometimes,” Lydia said carefully, “feeling alive is the beginning of happiness. But sometimes it’s just the beginning of heartbreak.”
“You’ve spent too many years believing you weren’t worth loving,” Jane added urgently. “Don’t waste your heart on someone who might never be brave enough to love you in return.”
“But what if he could be?” Diana asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if he’s just as frightened as I used to be?”
“Then that’s his battle to fight,” Jane said firmly. “Not yours to fight for him.”
The conversation drifted to other topics after that, but Diana found herself only half-listening. Her sisters’ warnings echoed in her mind, mixing with memories of Finn’s confession about needing her as his anchor and his moments of unexpected vulnerability.
When her sisters finally retired to their chambers, Diana remained by the dying fire with her sketchbook open on her lap. She’d intended to capture the way the flames danced across the ancient stones but instead found her charcoal moving of its own accord.
Finn’s face emerged from the paper, but not the controlled mask he usually wore. This was Finn as he looked during their dancing lesson, when his guard had slipped for just a moment. His eyes held that intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world.
But it was his hands that drew her attention as the sketch developed. Without conscious thought, she found herself drawing them with particular care – the way they’d felt at her waist during their lessons, strong and steady and surprisingly gentle. The memory sent warmth spiraling through her chest.
Diana paused, studying what she’d created. When had she memorized the exact shape of his fingers? When had the memory of his touch become something she treasured?
She touched the charcoal lightly to the paper, adding depth to the shadows around his hands, and felt a startling moment of clarity.
She wasn’t falling in love with the idea of Finn, or with the romantic notion of transforming a difficult marriage into something beautiful. She was falling in love with the man himself – his careful honor, his hidden vulnerability, and the way he looked at her as though she were something precious he was afraid to break.
