Page 20 of Duke of Storme
“They’re rather like people, I suppose.” Diana continued stroking the horse’s neck, finding comfort in the simple, honest warmth of the animal. “Sometimes the quietest ones are the most worthwhile.”
“Aye,” Agnes agreed enthusiastically. “Like ye, Your Grace. I mean–” She flushed even deeper. “–not that yer quiet because yer dull, Your Grace, but because ye actually listen to people instead of just waitin’ for yer turn to talk.”
Something flickered deep within Diana’s chest – a warmth she hadn’t experienced since arriving in Scotland. These people, Mr. Calder with his practical wisdom, and Agnes with her unguarded friendliness, were showing her more genuine kindness than anyone else at Storme Castle.
“Agnes, saddle Sorrel for Her Grace,” Mr. Calder instructed. “And fetch the sidesaddle–”
“Actually,” Diana interrupted, surprised again by her own boldness, “might I use a regular saddle? I know it’s not entirely proper, but…”
Mr. Calder’s eyebrows crept upwards like two fuzzy, gray caterpillars. “Ye ride astride?”
“When my mother isn’t watching.” Diana felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I find it more… secure.”
For the first time since meeting him, Mr. Calder smiled – an authentic expression that transformed his weathered features. “Agnes, fetch the regular saddle. And find Her Grace somethin’ more suitable to wear than that mornin’ dress.”
“We keep spare ridin’ clothes for emergencies,” Agnes explained, already moving toward a large storage room. “Left behind by visitors and such. There might be somethin’ that fits.”
Fifteen minutes later, Diana found herself dressed in a riding habit of deep green wool that had clearly belonged to someone with a similar build. The skirt was divided for astride riding, and while the cut was perhaps three seasons out of fashion, it fit well enough and felt infinitely more practical than her usual attire.
“I think this one belonged to His Grace’s mother,” Agnes mentioned as she finished adjusting the stirrups. “Mrs. Glenwright saved it, though I don’t think His Grace knows. She was a fine rider, by all accounts.”
Diana felt her throat tighten. She was wearing a dead woman’s clothes, preparing to ride a horse on land that belonged to a man who barely tolerated her presence. Yet somehow, for the first time since arriving in Scotland, she was starting to feel like herself.
“Ready, Your Grace?” Mr. Calder asked.
Diana gathered the reigns, feeling Sorrel’s steady presence beneath her. “Ready.”
The moment she guided Sorrel through the stable yard gates and felt the Highland wind rush past her face, something inside Diana’s chest unfurled like a sunflower reaching toward sunlight. The landscape stretched before them – rolling hills dotted with heather, the distant gleam of a loch, and above itall, a sky vast enough to make London’s confines seem like a memory from another life.
This was freedom. Raw, unfiltered, and completely different from anything she’d known in her carefully regulated English existence.
Sorrel seemed to sense her mood, breaking into an easy canter that carried them across the open ground with a rhythm that felt like breathing. Diana let herself sink into the motion as her body remembered skills she’d thought lost to propriety and expectation.
Behind them, the castle grew smaller, its imposing stones softened by distance until it looked almost romantic against the Highland backdrop. Before them lay nothing but wild land and wilder skies, and for the first time since her marriage, Diana felt like she could breathe properly.
She was so absorbed in the sensation of movement and wind that she almost missed the figure watching from the path above.
Finn hadn’t meant to linger. He’d been returning from an inspection of the north pastures when he’d heard the sound of hoofbeats and glanced down toward the lower trail out of simple habit.
What he saw stopped him mid-stride.
Diana – his quiet, proper English wife – was riding across the open ground below with a grace and confidence he never would have credited to her. She sat on the horse like someone born to do it, her body moving in perfect harmony with Sorrel’s gait.
The green wool riding habit suited her perfectly, bringing out highlights in her hair he’d never noticed before. Something about seeing her mounted and confident stirred an unexpected warmth in his chest. But it wasn’t the clothes that held his attention. It was the transformation in Diana herself.
Gone was the carefully contained woman who spoke in measured phrases and held herself as if trying to disappear. This Diana moved with unconscious confidence, her face lifted to catch the wind, her dark hair escaping it spins to curl around her face in a way that was infinitely more appealing than any London coiffure.
She looked… alive. Present in a way he hadn’t expected from someone so carefully trained in Society’s expectations.
Finn found himself dismounting and ground-tying his own horse with automatic precision while keeping his eyes fixed on the woman below. He told himself he was simply ensuring her safety – Sorrel was gentle, but Highland terrain could be treacherous for someone unfamiliar with it.
That was what he told himself, but the truth was something much more unsettling: Diana had surprised him – again.
First with her quiet defiance during their wedding conversation, then with her composed manner in dealing with the household staff, and now this display of horsemanship that suggested depths he hadn’t bothered to explore.
What else had he failed to notice about his wife?
The thought was interrupted by a sharp crack from somewhere above – the sound of a dead branch, weakened by recent storms, finally giving way under its own weight. The heavy limb came crashing down through the canopy, spooking a pair of grouse that exploded from the undergrowth in a flurry of wings and alarmed cries.
