Page 5 of Duke of Storme
“Miss Brandon will have everything reasonable a woman could desire,” he said curtly. “Security, status, a household to manage, and eventually children to raise. What more could she possibly want ?”
“Love, perhaps?” Whitmore suggested quietly. “Affection? Companionship? The sort of partnership your parents–”
“That,” Finn cut in sharply, his voice thick with agitation, “is not a topic for discussion. Ever.”
Whitmore bowed his head. “My apologies, Your Grace. I overstepped.”
Finn stared at the man for a long moment, then sighed. “No, I did. Ye’re trying to help, and I’m being a surly bastard because this entire ordeal makes me feel like a fraud.”
“A fraud, Your Grace?”
“Look at me, Whitmore. Five years ago, I was a ship’s captain with rough hands and rougher manners, takin’ orders from men who wouldn’t have bothered to learn my name if I hadn’t been so useful to them,” he said, his voice thick with self-doubt. “Now I’m expected to be a Duke, complete with all the polish and refinement that comes with centuries of aristocratic breedin’. Do ye honestly think I belong in drawing rooms with women like Miss Brandon?”
Whitmore studied him with the calculating expression of a man who had served powerful men long enough to understand their insecurities. “Your Grace inherited more than a title. You inherited responsibilities. You’ve met them most admirably. As for belonging in drawing rooms…” He shrugged. “Half the men who frequent such places inherited their polish along with their debts. You’ve earned your position through service and sacrifice. That should count for something.”
“Should, perhaps. But will it?” Finn moved to the window again and his voice softened slightly. “I can only pretend to be civilized for so long. What happens when Miss Brandon becomes my wife and sees all the rough edges I’m hidin’?”
“Perhaps Miss Brandon is intelligent enough to value substance over superficial refinement,” Whitmore suggested. “The Brandon family has a reputation for producing women of exceptional character. Surely, the youngest daughter inherited some measure of that strength.”
Finn considered this. He had observed Diana’s sisters at the Myste ball – all had married well, but more importantly, they had married men who clearly valued them for more than their breeding and beauty. The Duchess of Fyre radiated contentment despite her husband’s reserved nature. The Marchioness of Stone sparkled with wit and confidence. The Duchess of Myste had somehow managed to bring out an almost human side in one of London’s most notoriously rigid Dukes.
Perhaps there was hope that Miss Diana Brandon possessed similar strength beneath her shy exterior.
“What time is the ordeal scheduled to begin?”
“Seven o’clock, Your Grace. The Viscount has arranged for a small, intimate gathering – just the immediate family.”
“Intimate.” Finn laughed grimly. “Nothin’ like being examined by a debutante’s parents and siblings to make a man feel welcome.”
“I’m sure they’re as nervous about the match as you are, Your Grace. After all, they’re entrusting their youngest daughter to a man they barely know and sending her off to a castle in Scotland they’ve never seen.”
The observation stung because it was accurate. From the Brandon family’s perspective, he was little better than a stranger who had appeared at a ball, danced once with their daughter, and then presumed to claim her hand in marriage. They had every right to scrutinize his credentials and examine his motives.
“Have ye learned anything about Miss Brandon’s own feelings regarding the engagement?” Finn asked, surprised by his own curiosity.
“Only that she has raised no objections, Your Grace. Though I’m told she is naturally quite reserved, so her silence might not indicate enthusiastic approval.”
The words lodged themselves in Finn’s chest like a splinter. What if Miss Diana Branon was as trapped by family expectations as he was by social necessity? What if she was dreading this marriage as much as he was anticipating it?
“Whitmore, when ye were arrangin’ the details of this engagement, did anyone bother to ask Miss Brandon what she wanted?”
The secretary’s pause was answer enough.
“I see.” Finn turned back to his desk, suddenly feeling the worst sort of selfish brute. “A young woman’s preferences are irrelevant, provided the business dealings of the arrangement satisfy everyone else.”
“Your Grace, such considerations are… unusual in marriages of this social level. Most young ladies understand that duty must supersede personal inclination.”
“Most young ladies are taught to accept their fate without question, you mean.” Finn sat. The weight of the approachingdinner pressed down on him. “Christ, Whitmore, what kind of man does that make me? Binding myself to a woman who might well prefer to remain unmarried rather than exile herself to Scotland with a husband she doesn’t know?”
“A practical man making the best of an imperfect world?” Whitmore suggested gently. “Your Grace, if I may… Miss Brandon could have refused the match, despite her reserved nature. Young ladies of her standing are affordedsomemeasure of say in these matters, particularly when the family is as progressive as the Brandons seem to be.”
Finn grunted wryly. That was not exactly a ringing endorsement of his prospects as a husband.
A knock at the study door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called.
Thomas, a footman, appeared with a silver salver bearing a single letter. “This arrived by special messenger, Your Grace. From Storme Castle.”
Finn’s chest tightened as he recognized the handwriting. Mrs. Glenwright, his housekeeper, wrote to him weekly with updates, but she rarely used special messengers unless something was seriously wrong.
