Page 11 of Duke of Storme
“Please,” Diana said. Her fingers stilled on the pearl bracelet she’d been trying to fasten. “I need… I need to do this without thinking too much about what comes after.”
The room fell silent except for the distant sounds of London waking – carriage wheels on cobblestones, a street vendor’s cry, the normal rhythm of a world that seemed utterly disconnected from the hollow ceremony awaiting her.
“Diana,” Lydia said softly, crossing to kneel beside her chair. “You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready, darling. It is not too late to–”
“Yes, it is.” Diana’s voice carried a finality that surprised even her. “The arrangements have been made. The contracts are signed. His Grace has traveled from Scotland specifically for thispurpose.” She managed a small smile. “Besides, is it not what’s expected of me?”
“What’s expected,” Jane echoed, her voice tight with frustration, “is not always what’s right.”
Before Diana could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them. Their mother’s voice carried through the wood with a note of barely contained anxiety.
“Girls, the carriage is here. We mustn’t keep His Grace waiting!”
Diana rose and smoothed her skirts with hands that only shook slightly. Her sisters gathered around her like a protective wall, each adjusting some small detail of her appearance with the concentrated attention of women who understood they were preparing for a sacrifice.
“Remember,” Marian said fiercely, “you are Diana Brandon, and you are worth more than any title or alliance. Do not let anyone convince you otherwise, little dove.”
“Even if that anyone is my own husband?” Diana asked, attempting levity.
“Especially then,” Jane said firmly.
The carriage ride to St. George’s Chapel passed in a blur of London streets and nervous silence. Diana sat between her parents. Her father’s proud satisfaction radiated from him likeheat, and her mother’s anxious energy made the small space feel suffocating. Through the window, she caught glimpses of her sisters’ faces in the following carriage – Jane’s concern, Marian’s barely contained anger, and Lydia’s protective diplomacy.
The chapel itself was small and dim, with only a handful of witnesses scattered among the pews. Diana had expected this – His Grace had been quite specific about wanting a private ceremony – but the emptiness still felt like a rebuke. Where were the flowers, the music, the celebration that should mark the beginning of a new life?
She walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, her steps measured and steady, while her eyes searched for the man who would become her husband. He stood at the altar with his back to her, his tall frame rigid with military bearing, his dark hair neatly styled, but somehow at odds with the formal setting.
When he turned to face her, Diana felt her breath catch. He was handsome, certainly, with the kind of strong features that spoke of Highland winds and endless skies. But his expression was deafeningly neutral – as though he were attending a tedious business meeting rather than his own wedding.
“Dearly beloved,” the rector began, his voice echoing strangely in the empty space, “we are gathered here today to join this man, and this woman in holy matrimony…”
Diana heard the words as if spoken from a great distance. Her attention was fixed on the Duke’s profile. She noted the way hisjaw was set like granite, and the careful distance he maintained between them even as they stood side-by-side.
“Do you, Finn Hurriton, take Diana Brandon to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?”
When the Duke spoke, his response was clipped and efficient, as though he were issuing orders to subordinates. “I do.” Two words. Delivered with the emotional weight of a weather report.
“And do you, Diana Brandon, take Finn Hurriton to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?
She answered clearly, her voice carrying in the silence. “I do.” Her voice was steadier than she’d expected, though her hands trembled as the Duke slipped a simple ring onto her finger. His touch was warm, his fingers sure and strong, but he released her hand immediately after the gold band was in place.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Neither moved. The moment stretched between them like a chasm. Then, Diana tilted her face up expectantly, her heart beating so fast she was certain everyone could hear it. The Duke looked down at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he simply inclined his head.
“Ye are the Duchess of Storme now,” he said quietly, “Congratulations.”
Diana stared at him as heat flooded her cheeks. Around them, the small gathering of witnesses seemed to hold its collective breath. Even the rector looked uncertain.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Diana managedmeekly.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur of signatures and congratulations. Diana’s family surrounded her with careful embraces and whispered words of encouragement, while the Duke stood slightly apart, accepting handshakes and formal pleasantries with the same cool courtesy he’d shown throughout the entire proceeding.
Outside the chapel, London stretched around them with all its bustling morning glory. The sun had emerged from behind the clouds, casting everything in sharp, clear light that made Diana’s ivory gown seem almost translucent. She stood beside her new husband, acutely aware of the space between them, while arrangements were made around them.
“The carriage is ready, Your Grace,” Whitmore said, appearing at the Duke’s elbow with the efficient discretion of a well-trained secretary.
“Which carriage?” Diana asked, looking perplexed as her eyes darted between the Brandon family coach and the more imposing vehicle bearing the Storme crest.
