Page 69 of Duke of Storme
“Perhaps,” she said, her voice carrying just enough authority to remind both men of their manners, “we might discuss something else? Lord Rutherford, I understand you’ve recently returned from London. How did you find the Season?”
The deflection was masterfully done, steering the conversation away from dangerous territory with the skill of a diplomat who’d learned to navigate treacherous social waters. But Finn barely heard Rutherford’s response about London’s social whirl, too focused on the way the man’s gaze kept returning to Diana’s face, studying her with an intensity that made Finn’s hands form unconscious fists beneath the table.
Rutherford regaled them with stories from London society – tales of scandals and engagements, political intrigue and social climbing that painted a picture of a world Diana had left behind. He complimented her management of the household, expressing amazement at the efficiency with which she’d organized everything from the servants’ schedules to the castle’s social calendar.
“It’s quite remarkable,” he said, his tone suggesting genuine admiration mixed with something more calculating. “Most young ladies of your background would find such responsibilities overwhelming. But you seem to have taken to estate management with remarkable ease.”
“Diana has always been exceptionally capable,” Finn said, surprised by the pride that crept into his voice. “She sees solutions where others see only problems.”
It was the truth, though he hadn’t fully realized it until the words left his mouth. Diana had transformed not just the castle’s physical appearance but its entire atmosphere, turning a fortress into something that actually felt like a home. She’d earned the respect of servants who’d been suspicious of change, managed complex social situations with grace, and somehow made Finn himself feel less like an interloper in his own inheritance.
“Indeed,” Rutherford agreed, though his smile suggested he was thinking of capabilities that had nothing to do with household management. “I imagine a woman of such... talents... must find Highland society somewhat limiting after London’s more sophisticated pleasures.”
“On the contrary,” Diana replied, her voice carrying a note of steel that Finn was beginning to recognize. “I find Highland society refreshingly honest. People say what they mean rather than hiding their intentions behind elaborate courtesy.”
The subtle rebuke was delivered with perfect politeness, but its message was clear enough to make Rutherford’s smile falter slightly. Diana was not the naive country wife he’d apparently taken her for.
The remainder of the visit passed in a blur of increasingly strained civility. Rutherford made several more attempts to secure private meetings with Diana – to discuss estate management, to view the gardens, to share his insights on dealing with Highland customs. Each time, Finn found reasons why such meetings would be impossible. The estate required Diana’s attention. The weather was too unpredictable for garden tours. His wife’s schedule was entirely committed to existing obligations.
By the time Rutherford finally took his leave, promising to call again soon and expressing hope that the Duchess might find time in her busy schedule for a more extended conversation about gardening, Finn felt as though he’d been through a battle. Every muscle in his body was tense with suppressed aggression, and his hands ached from being clenched into fists for the better part of an hour.
“Such a charming man,” Diana observed as they watched Rutherford’s carriage disappear down the drive, hertone carefully neutral. “Very well-informed about estate management. And so interested in gardening techniques.”
“Charmin’,” Finn repeated, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “If ye find predatory behavior charmin’.”
Diana turned to study his face, and there was something almost like amusement dancing in her brown eyes. “Predatory? My, that’s quite an accusation. He seemed perfectly polite to me.”
“Polite.” Finn’s laugh was harsh and entirely without humor. “The man was practically undressin’ ye with his eyes, and ye call it polite.”
“Finn,” Diana said, her voice carrying a note of gentle reproach.
Her voice stopped him at the threshold, and he turned back reluctantly, bracing himself for whatever observation she was about to make.
“Were you jealous?” she asked, her head tilted slightly in that way she had when she was trying to solve a particularly interesting puzzle.
The direct question forced him to confront emotions he’d been trying to ignore for the past hour. Jealous? The word seemed inadequate to describe the primitive fury that had torn through him at Rutherford’s attention, the possessive need to mark Diana as his own in ways that went far beyond legal documents and marriage contracts.
“Don’t be absurd,” Finn scoffed, but even as the words left his mouth, he could feel the flush creeping up his neck. “I simply don’t appreciate strange men making advances toward my wife.”
“Of course not,” Diana agreed, though her tone suggested she didn’t believe his denial for a moment. “After all, he only asked about the garden. Perfectly innocent curiosity about horticultural techniques.”
Something about her deliberately innocent expression made the last of Finn’s control snap. He took a step toward her, close enough to see the way her pupils dilated slightly, close enough to catch the faint scent of rosewater that seemed to cling to her skin.
“He wasn’t interested in yer garden,” Finn said, his voice low and rough with emotions he was only beginning to understand. “He was interested in ye. In findin’ ways to get ye alone, away from yer husband’s watchful eye so he could pursue whatever fantasies that charmin’ smile was hiding.”
Diana’s lips parted slightly, and a flush spread across her cheekbones like spilled wine. “No?”
“No.” The word came out weighted with all the possessive fury that had been building in his chest since the moment Rutherford’s gaze had lingered on Diana’s face. “He was interested in seduction, in conquest, in addin’ the Duke of Storme’s wife to whatever collection of conquests he’s assembled since his wife’s death.”
“And that...” Diana’s voice was barely above a whisper. “That bothers you?”
The question was asked so quietly that Finn almost missed it.
Did it bother him? The thought of another man pursuing Diana, charming her with smooth words and practiced flattery? The image of Rutherford’s hands touching hers, of his lips forming her name with intimate familiarity? The possibility that she might be flattered by such attention, might begin to see her marriage to a gruff Highland Duke as less appealing than whatever romantic fantasy Rutherford was prepared to offer?
Yes.
It bothered him more than anything had bothered him in years. It bothered him in ways that went far beyond duty or propriety or protecting his wife’s reputation.
