Page 35 of Duke of Storme
Finn’s eyes darkened, and for a moment Diana thought he might forget where they were entirely. His hand flexed against her back as his grip on hers tightened until she could feel the heat of his skin through her gloves.
The music swelled around them, and they moved together perfectly, though Diana felt as if her heart was ready to burst out of her chest. Every brush of his fingers against her back, everyshared breath, and every moment their eyes locked sent fresh waves of fire racing through her veins.
This was so far removed from the pretense they’d planned – and it should have shocked her. But instead, it filled her with a wild, reckless joy that made her want to throw caution to the wind.
Something was different, but Finn couldn’t quite figure it out as he guided Diana through the final turns of the dance. She was supposed to be his anchor tonight, his proof that he could navigate Highland society with grace, and with a wife on his arm. But instead, she was… distracting him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.
The way she’d handled Margaret MacTavish, the confidence in her voice, the way she wore that damned tartan sash like she truly belonged in this world – it was doing something to him that had absolutely nothing to do with social performance.
Bu more than that, it was the way she felt in his arms and the way she looked at him when she thought no one else was paying attention. His wife was slowly unravelling something inside him that he’d kept carefully controlled for years.
“They’re watching us,” Diana murmured, her eyes flickering toward the crowd.
“Aye,” Finn replied, but he found he couldn’t bring himself to care about their audience. Not anymore. Not when her hand in his felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Ye’re handlin’ it well.”
“Am I?” There was something different in her voice too – less uncertainty, more… presence.
“Better than well, actually.”
When the final notes began to fade, neither of them stepped apart immediately. They stood there for a heartbeat longer than propriety dictated, close enough for him to catch a faint scent of her rosewater perfume.
The dance was ending, but Finn found himself reluctant to release her. Around them, other couples were beginning to step apart, but his hand lingered at her waist just a moment longer than it should have.
“Your Grace?” Diana said quietly, and something in the way she said his name made his chest tighten.
“Aye?”
She looked up at him then, really looked at him, and Finn felt something shift between them – something he was not prepared to examine too closely.
“This was supposed to be simple, but…”
He stared down at her, not trusting himself to respond. Yes, it should have been a simple affair. A dance. A performance, nothing more. But the way she was looking at him now…
The final notes faded away, and reality crashed back over them. Finn forced himself to release her, to step back to proper distance and remember they had an audience.
“Well done, Duchess,” he said formally, offering her a bow.
Diana curtsied in return, but when she rose, her eyes held something new – a question he wasn’t ready to answer.
As they walked off the dance floor in careful silence, Finn couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had just changed between them.
He just wasn’t sure he was ready to find out what.
Diana sat at her dressing table an hour later, her silver-blue gown carefully tucked away, her hair loose around her shoulders. But her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her sketchbook. Her mind still turned over the evening’s events.
The ball had been an unqualified success. They’d convinced Highland society that they were a devoted couple, and Diana had passed every test with flying colors.
Margaret MacTavish had personally introduced her to three different ladies. Old MacTavish had insisted on showing her his collection of Highland artifacts, and even the formidable Lady MacPherson had pronounced her ‘a credit to the Storme name’.
But none of that mattered as much as those precious moments on the dance floor when Finn had looked at her like she was something precious and worth admiring.
This was supposed to be simple.
Her own words echoed in her mind as she opened to a blank page.
She picked up her charcoal and began to sketch, her hands moving without conscious thought. She drew their dance, the way he’d held her, the careful distance that had somehow felt less careful as the music played. But as the image took shape on the page, she found herself capturing something she couldn’t quite name, the moment when the performance had felt… different.
What was that look in his eyes? What had he meant when he said she disarmed him? And why did her own bold declaration – that she wanted it all from him – still send that strange heat twirling through her chest?
