Page 66 of Duke of Storme
“Just... be natural,” he said, though his own voice sounded anything but. “Don’t think about the drawin’.”
“That’s rather difficult when you’re staring at me so intently,” Diana replied, and there was something almost like amusement in her tone.
Finn felt heat creep up his neck. “I’m not starin’. I’m... observin’.”
“Ah, the artist’s defence,” Diana said with understanding. “I use the same excuse when I’m caught studying people too closely.”
Finn’s hand stilled on the charcoal. “Ye understand then.”
“Of course I do. Though, I confess, being the subject rather than the artist makes me feel rather… exposed.”
“Does it bother ye?”
“No,” Diana said softly. “It’s rather flattering to be seen as worthy of capturing.”
The statement hung between them, weighted with implications neither seemed brave enough to address directly. Finn’s hand moved across the paper, capturing the curve of her cheek andthe slight tilt of her head that was so distinctly hers. Every line he drew was an act of devotion he couldn’t voice; every shadow a confession he was too afraid to speak aloud.
“Why do you draw?” Diana asked quietly, her voice carefully neutral.
Finn’s charcoal paused against the paper. It was a simple question, but the answer felt revealing. “I started as a child. My mother... I was told she used to encourage it.”
“Before she died.”
“Aye. It was... easier than talkin’, I suppose. Safer.”
“Safer how?”
Finn looked up from the sketch, meeting her steady gaze. “Words can be misunderstood. Used against ye. But a drawin’... it just is what it is.”
“And what is this?” Diana gestured toward the sketchbook. “What am I, in your drawing?”
The question was dangerous territory, but something in her expression – open, genuinely curious rather than accusatory – made him answer honestly.
“Beautiful,” he said simply. “Strong in ways ye probably don’t even realize. Real, in a world full of pretense.”
Diana’s breath caught audibly, and Finn felt his own chest tighten in response. He was saying too much, revealing too much, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“Ye asked why I’ve been cruel,” he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “It’s because looking at ye, being near ye... it makes me want things I have no right to want.”
“What things?”
Finn’s hand stilled completely, the charcoal frozen against the paper. “To be the man I should have been all along, instead of the broken one I’ve always believed myself to be.”
The confession hung in the air between them like smoke, impossible to take back. Diana’s eyes had gone very wide, and Finn could see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat.
“Oh…” she said softly, and the simple sound on her lips sent something hot spiraling through his chest.
“Don’t,” he said quickly, setting aside the charcoal and sketch. “Don’t say anythin’ kind. I don’t deserve it.”
“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” Diana replied, her voice stronger now. “That’s not how this works.”
“Isn’t it? I’m the one who knows what I am, Diana. What I’ve done, what I’m capable of. Ye see what ye want to see, but the reality–”
“The reality is that you’re a man who draws portraits of his wife by candlelight because she inspires you. A man who’s so afraid of not being good enough that he’d rather be cruel than risk being vulnerable.” Diana leaned forward slightly, her brown eyes blazing with something that might have been fury or passion or both. “The reality is that you’re human, Your Grace. Flawed and frightened and trying to do right by people who depend on you. Just like everyone else.”
Finn stared at her, this woman who’d somehow seen through every defense he’d spent years constructing. “‘Tis not that simple.”
“No,” Diana agreed. “It’s not. But it’s also not as complicated as you’re making it.”
