Page 3 of Duke of Storme
The afternoon was spent being measured and fitted and Diana had her complexion analyzed to determine flattering colors for her new station. Lady Brandon had summoned Madame Rousseau, a sharp-eyed French woman who circled Diana like a predator evaluating prey.
“She is terribly pale,” the modiste announced, speaking as if Diana weren’t present. “The Scottish climate will be harsh on such delicate skin. We must choose colors that give her warmth and presence. She cannot afford to fade into the background as a Duchess.”
“Precisely my concern,” Lady Brandon agreed, gesturing toward the array of fabric samples spread across Diana’s willowy frame. “The Duke of Storme will no doubt expect his wife to command attention at social gatherings. We cannot have her looking like a ghost drifting through the Highland moors.”
Madame Rousseau lifted a bolt of deep emerald silk, holding it against Diana’s cheek. “This, perhaps? Rich jewel tones will give her the authority she lacks naturally.”
Diana winced at the assessment, but remained silent as the modiste continued her examination.
“And this burgundy velvet for formal occasions.” Madame Rousseau continued, draping another fabric sample across Diana’s shoulders. “It will complement her coloring while projecting the gravitas expected of a Duchess.”
“What about everyday wear?” Diana ventured quietly, eyeing the increasingly dark palette being assembled.
“Everyday wear must still reflect your position, dear.” Lady Brandon said firmly. “You are no longer simply a Viscount’s daughter, Diana. Every choice you make – no matter how inconsequential it may seem – will reflect upon the Duke’s reputation.”
The modiste nodded enthusiastically. “Precisely! Perhaps this sapphire blue for morning calls, and this deep plum for afternoon visits. Nothing too frivolous or girlish.”
Diana felt something inside her rebel. “But surely, I might be allowed some lighter shades? I’ve always found soft colors… comforting.”
Lady Brandon’s eyebrows rose. “Comfort is less important than presence. You must command attention as a Duchess, not blend into the wallpaper as you’ve always done.”
The words stung, though Diana supposed they were accurate. She had always preferred to observe rather than be observed.
“Even so,” Diana said, finding unexpected firmness in her voice. “Surely His Grace will not object to his wife wear clothing that flatter her natural coloring? We could have a few pale shades incorporated for informal occasions?”
Madame Rousseau looked between mother and daughter with the calculating expression of someone accustomed to navigating family politics. “Perhaps,” she said diplomatically, “we might include some lighter pieces for private wear around the castle. A soft rose silk for family dinners, or cream muslin for morning walks. But the formal wardrobemustproject authority, Miss.”
“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Lady Brandon conceded reluctantly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Though I still maintain that Diana needs to cultivate more presence. She’s far too retiring for her new position.”
“With the right coloring, Madame, even the most retiring young lady can appear formidable,” the modiste assured her. “The cut, color, the drape – all contribute to the impression one makes. We shall transform her into a Duchess worthy of any Scottish castle.”
Diana stood on the little platform in her chemise while yards of fabric were draped around her, feeling oddly like a doll being dressed for display. Each pin and tuck seemed to reshape not just her silhouette, but her very identity.
When the ordeal concluded and Madame Rousseau departed with fabric samples, Diana retreated to her room with relief. Evening shadows were lengthening across her bedroom floor, and she moved to her writing desk to light a candle against the gathering dusk.
A soft knock interrupted her. “Come in,” she called, expecting one of her sisters.
Instead, a footman entered, carrying a silver salver with a single letter. “This has arrived for you, Miss. The messenger said it was urgent.
Diana’s heart fluttered as she recognized the black wax seal. Her name was written in bold, masculine handwriting that spoke of confidence and authority. With trembling fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the heavy parchment.
Miss Brandon,
You are to be my wife. We shall meet upon my arrival in London, in three days’ time.
F.H.
That’s it? No greeting. No sentiment. No acknowledgement that she was a person rather than a business transaction. Diana read the brief message twice, searching for warmth or personality, but found none.
She walked over to her writing desk and opened the wooden box where she kept her most treasured possessions – pressed flowers from childhood walks, letters from her sisters, and a lock of hair from the spaniel they had as children. Carefully, she placed the Duke’s letter between two dried roses from Marian’s wedding bouquet, pressing it down as though treating it with reverence might transform its cold formality.
But as she closed the box and prepared for bed, Diana couldn’t shake the feeling she had just sealed away her last hope of finding love in marriage. The Duke of Storme had written to her as if she were property he had acquired, and she wondered if that was indeed how he viewed her.
Three days. In three days she would meet the man who would determine her entire future. But as Diana thought again of the cold formality of his letter, she realized something with dawning certainty. The Duke of Storme saw her exactly as her mother did – as something to be molded and shaped to suit his requirements.
