Page 47 of Duke of Storme
She moved toward him, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of rosewater that always seemed to cling to her skin.
“Tomorrow, I’ll teach ye how to walk into a room and have every head turn without havin’ to speak a word. No more sisters to hide behind. No more vanishing into walls.”
Diana’s eyebrows rose at the unexpected declaration. “I beg your pardon?”
Finn leaned closer, slowly, deliberately, until they stood close enough that he could see the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat.
“Ye are the Duchess of Storme,” he said, his voice dropping to that tone of command that had once made naval officers scramble to obey. “Ye will be seen.”
For a moment, something flickered in her eyes – surprise, perhaps, or something that looked eerily close to hurt.
“Then I expect you shall simply have to look harder, Your Grace,” she said quietly. “Because I have always been right here.”
The statement was unexpected and devastating. She walked past him toward the door, her spine straight and her chin lifted with a dignity that made something twist painfully in his chest.
Finn watched her go, noting the confident set of her shoulders. When had she transformed from the quiet, uncertain woman who’d arrived at his castle into this formidable creature?
And when exactly had she become the one giving out lessons?
The following afternoon found Diana in the blue drawing room, standing before the tall windows that overlooked the castle’s formal gardens. Sunlight streamed in through the glass, casting prismatic patterns across the Persian rug beneath her feet, and highlighting the dust motes that danced in the still air.
She’d been waiting patiently for nearly ten minutes, but she didn’t mind. The time gave her opportunity to study the room with an artist’s eye, noting the way light played across the silk wallpaper and the careful arrangement of furniture that spoke of centuries of refined aristocratic taste.
“Punctuality is a Duchess’s first weapon,” came Finn’s voice from behind her.
Diana turned to find him filling the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light from the corridor beyond. He’d changed from his morning attire into a dark blue coat that emphasized the breadth of his chest and the gray-blue of his eyes.
“Is it?” she replied evenly. “I was under the impression that intelligence might rank rather higher, Your Grace.”
“Intelligence without presence is useless in society. Ye can be the most brilliant woman in the room, but if ye enter it like ye’re apologizin’ for existing, no one will bother to listen to a single word ye have to say.”
He moved into the room with that controlled stride she’d come to recognize, the measured pace of a man accustomed to both giving and receiving command.
“Today, ye’ll learn how to enter any space and make everyone stop speakin’. Not by shouting, not by creating a scene, but by existin’ with purpose.”
“Existing with purpose,” Diana repeated thoughtfully. “How does one practice such a thing?”
“By walkin’ like ye belong wherever ye are. By speakin’ like yer words matter. By lookin’ at people as though ye expect them to be interesting, rather than hopin’ they won’t notice ye.”
He gestured toward the far end of the room. “Go to the door. Enter as though ye were arrivin’ at Lady Fraser’s drawing room for afternoon tea.”
Diana complied, moving toward the doorway. She paused to gather herself before stepping back into the room with practiced elegance. She’d been trained in deportment since childhood, could walk with a book balanced on her head, and could curtsey to precise degrees depending on the rank of the person she was greeting. Yet, she somehow felt woefully unprepared.
“Ye walk like ye expect to be ignored,” Finn said quietly, his voice carrying that note of gentle criticism that somehow stung worse than outright censure.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yer head’s down, yer shoulders are curved inward as though ye’re tryin’ to make yerself smaller. Every step ye take apologizes for the one before it.”
The accuracy of his observation was mortifying. Diana lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders.
“Again,” he commanded.
This time, she moved more deliberately, her steps slower and more purposeful. She could feel his eyes tracking her progress across the room, cataloging every gesture, every breath, and despite herself, Diana felt a warmth spread through her chest.
“Better. Now, greet the room. Imagine Lady Fraser is here, along with five other ladies whose approval ye need.”
Diana turned to face the imaginary gathering, summoning the social graces that had been drilled into her since before she could speak properly.
