Page 7 of Duke of Storme
Diana’s reflection wavered in the window glass. Her mother had dressed her with particular care this evening in a gown of dove gray silk that complemented her coloring without overwhelming her delicate features. Her chestnut hair was arranged in an elegant chignon that emphasized the graceful line of her neck. She looked every inch the proper young lady who was prepared to meet her ducal destiny with appropriate serenity.
But on the inside, she felt like a violin string stretched too tight, ready to snap at the slightest pressure.
“Diana, step away from that window this instant,” Lady Brandon commanded with the brisk authority of a general marshallingtroops. “You’ll wrinkle your gown, and we must present you in the very best light possible.”
Before Diana could respond, a commotion in the entrance hall announced an arrival. Deep voices – her father’s and another, familiar and unmistakably authoritative – carried through the drawing room doors. Her pulse quickened despite her efforts to remain calm.
“That will be His Grace,” Lady Brandon said, rising with swift efficiency. “Remember, Diana, posture is everything. A Duchess must always maintain perfect deportment.”
The drawing room doors opened, and Lord Brandon entered with measured steps. “Ladies,” he announced to the assembled family, “may I present, His Grace, the Duke of Storme.”
Diana’s breath caught audibly in her throat.
The man who filled the doorway was impeccably dressed. His evening coat was perfectly tailored and his cravat was arranged with nothing short of military precision. Every detail of his immaculate appearance spoke to careful preparation. Yet somehow, in the intimate confines of her family’s drawing room, he seemed broader, more imposing than she remembered from their single dance at her sister’s ball. Perhaps it was the way his shoulders filled the doorway, or how his commanding presence seemed to dwarf the familiar furnishings, but he appeared taller, darker, and more overwhelming that the polished gentleman who had guided her through a Scottish reel.
His gray-blue eyes swept the room with the methodical assessment of a military man cataloging potential threats, and when that penetrating gaze found hers, it held with an intensity that made her want to step back into the shadows.
But she didn’t. Some unknown reserve of pride kept her spine straight and her chin raised as he approached.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, executing a curtsy that would have made her mother weep with satisfaction.
His bow was curt, perfunctory – the bare minimum required by politeness. “Miss Brandon.”
The silence stretched between them until Lord Brandon stepped forward. “Perhaps Your Grace recalls my other daughters? The Duchess of Fyre, and her husband, the Duke of Fyre. The Marchioness of Stone and the Marquess of Stone. And of course, the Duchess of Myste, and the Duke of Myste. And of course, my wife, Viscountess Brandon.”
The three men stepped forward with varying degrees of formality. Richard offered a precice bow, “Your Grace. Richard Riverstone, the Duke of Myste.”
“Nicholas Stone, Marquess of Stone,” Nicholas added with his characteristic easy authority, though his eyes remained watchful.
“Elias Blacknight, Duke of Fyre,” Elias said with reserved courtesy.
The Duke of Storme inclined his head to each man in turn. “Your Graces, my lord.” His assessment was swift but thorough, a true military man taking the measure of potential allies or adversaries.
Their mother, and each sister curtsied with varying degrees of warmth. Diana noticed that Jane’s greeting carried a particular coolness as her sharp gaze assessed the Duke with obvious skepticism. Lydia’s smile seemed strained despite her diplomatic efforts, while Marian appeared genuinely curious about the man who would soon whisk their youngest sister way to Scotland.
“Your Grace,” Jane said with pointed formality, “how good of you to join us.”
“Ladies.” His acknowledgement was as brief as it was impersonal.
“Shall we proceed to dinner?” Lady Brandon suggested with brittle brightness. “Cook has prepared a particularly fine roast, and we have a lovely wine that I believe Your Grace will appreciate.”
They moved toward the dining room in careful formation – Diana beside her intended, her family arranged around them like a protective phalanx. The presence of the three husbands transformed the dynamic entirely; presenting a united familyfront. The Duke’s presence seemed to fill the space entirely, making the familiar room feel suddenly cramped and airless.
Every bloody thing about this evening grated against Finn’s nerves like sand in a ship’s rigging. The perfectly appointed townhouse with its gleaming surfaces and artful flower arrangements spoke of a family that understood social presentation far better than he ever could.
But it was the men seated around the tablethat commanded his attention the most as Finn observed the easy intimacty between the couples.
He also noticed the careful way the Brandons positioned themselves around their youngest member, reminding him of Navy formations, designed to protect and shield the most vulnerable member from enemy fire.
Except in this situation,hewas the enemy.
The thought sat poorly in his chest, and he watched as Miss Brandon took her place at the dining table. She moved with the unconscious grace of someone trained from birth in the precise choreography of upper-class femininity. The fabric of her gown caught in the candlelight in ways that made her skin almost glow.
She was beautiful – he’d acknowledged that much during their dance at the Myste ball. But beauty was common enough among London debutantes. What struck him now was how utterly composed she appeared despite the circumstances. Where other young ladies might flutter or simper when meeting their arranged bridegroom, Miss Brandon sat with her hands folded calmly in her lap, her expression serene as a Highland loch at dawn.
“I trust Your Grace had no difficulty finding us this evening?” Lord Brandon inquired as the first course was served. “The city streets can be rather treacherous in weather like this.”
“No difficulty,” Finn replied curtly, though in truth he’d spent the better part of an hour driving through the rain, fighting the urge to direct his coachman back to his lodgings and send word that the engagement was off.
