Page 22 of Duke of Storme
It had taken Mrs. Glenwright nearly a week to assign her a personal maid – whether from Highland practicality that saw lady’s maids as English frivolity, or from uncertainty about whether the new duchess would adapt to castle life long enough to warrant such arrangements, she couldn’t say. She’d dismissed her maid, needing solitude to process what had happened that moment when Finn’s arms had closed around her waist and the world had narrowed to heartbeats.
She’d felt safe in his arms. More than safe – cherished, as if she were something precious rather than an inconvenience to be managed. His hands had been strong and sure, his body solid and warm against hers.
Then he’d spoke and the illusion shattered.
This land is no place for daydreamers.
The words had hurt deeply, reducing her back to feeling like a troublesome burden. But underneath the hurt, something else had taken root—a stubborn spark of defiance that refused to be extinguished by his casual dismissal.
Diana moved to the window, overlooking the castle’s front approach. In the distance, she could see lights flickering in his study – the west wing he’d claimed as his domain.
Was he thinking about this afternoon? Did he remember the way they’d looked at each other before he’d retreated behind his walls?
Something fundamental had changed between them, that much was certain. And now, that something would be awfully difficult to ignore, no matter how safe it might be to try.
CHAPTER 8
“Are you entirely certain His Grace never enters this wing?”
Morag shifted the bundle of linens in her arms as her young face creased with worry. The crisp Highland morning had brought frost to the castle windows, and Diana could see her breath misting slightly in the cold air of the corridor.
“Aye, my lady. Not since he returned from his service in the Navy. Won’t even let us dust properly in there. Says it’s to remain untouched.”
Diana paused at the heavy oak door. Her fingers traced the iron handle that hadn’t been turned in years. The metal was cold as ice beneath her gloved touch, and she could feel the weight of secrets pressing against the other side of the ancient wood. Though she couldn’t explain it, something had drawn her here this morning – a restless energy that followed her like Highland mist, refusing to be dismissed.
“But surely as Duchess, I should know what rooms lie within my own castle?” Diana pressed gently.
“Och, that ye should, Your Grace!” Morag’s eyes brightened with sudden enthusiasm. “It’s just… well, it was Lady Catherine’s favorite wing. His Grace’s mother, God rest her soul. She had such particular ways about everythin’.”
Diana felt a flutter of anticipation mingling with trepidation. Ever since arriving at Storme Castle, she’d sensed the presence of ghosts in its corridors – not supernatural spirits, but the lingering echoes of lives lived and lost within its ancient walls.
“Tell me about her,” Diana said, pushing at the stubborn door. “What was she like?”
Morag glanced nervously down the corridor before lowering her voice conspiratorially. Her words came out in excited whispers that spoke of long-held secrets finally finding a voice. “My own mother was her lady’s maid, Your Grace. Said Her Grace was the kindest mistress she ever served. Always askin’ after the servants’ families, rememberin’ birthdays and such.”
The door groaned in protest as Diana pushed it open. Centuries of Highland dampness had warped the wood beyond easy use. The hinges shrieked like banshees, and Diana winced at the sound, hoping it wouldn’t carry to other parts of the castle. Inside, dust motes twirled lazily in shafts of pale morning light.
“Oh my,” Diana breathed, stepping into the space that time and grief and life forgot.
The room was practically a shrine to abandoned dreams. Furniture stood draped in holland covers like sleeping giants, and the very air itself seemed thick with memory and sorrow. Diana’s artistic eyes immediately catalogued the details – the way the morning light fell across the dust-covered pianoforte, the delicate needlework frame still holding an unfurnished piece of embroidery, and the books whose leather bindings had faded but whose titles could still be glimpsed through the years of neglect.
“Mother used to tell me stories about this room,” Morag whispered, following her inside. Her voice carried the reverent tone of someone entering a cathedral. “Her Grace would sit right there by that window every mornin’, brushing her hair and singin’ Highland lullabies. Said she had the voice of an angel.”
Diana stepped over to the window Morag indicated and ran her fingers along the stone sill where Finn’s mother must have rested her hands countless times. The view overlooked the castle gardens, now wild and overgrown, but still beautiful in their untamed state. She could almost visualize the figure of a young woman sitting there, humming softly as she watched the Highland landscape stretch endlessly toward the horizon.
Diana moved deeper into the chamber, taking in the dust-covered books and abandoned violin. The instrument lay open in its case, the strings long since snapped and curled with age. Sheet music lay scattered around it that bore the stains of water and brown spots marking the passage of time, but Diana could still make out the elegant handwriting that had scribbled notes in the margins, suggestions for tempo, and reminders about phrasing.
But it was the portrait propped against the wall that stole her breath entirely.
“Morag,” she said softly, “is that…?”
“Aye, Your Grace. That’s her.” Morag’s voice a gentle whisper. “She commissioned it herself when she was well along with child – wanted a portrait to commemorate becomin’ a mother. Ye can see how proud she was of her condition.”
Diana stared at the canvas with her heart breaking. Lady Catherine stood in profile, her hands resting atop an obviously rounded belly with tender reverence. The artist had captured every detail – the way her gown was specially tailored to accommodate her pregnancy, the protective curve of her hands upon her unborn child, and the absolutely radiant expression of maternal joy and anticipation resting on her beautiful features that seemed to glow from within the paint itself.
The woman in the portrait possessed an ethereal beauty that transcended mere physical attractiveness. Her dark hair was arranged in elegant curls that caught the light, and her eyes – Finn’s eyes, Diana realized with a start – held depths of adoration and hope that made Diana’s throat tighten with emotion. The artist had painted her surrounded by symbols of motherhood and fertility.
“She looks so happy,” Diana murmured, unable to look away from the masterpiece.
