Page 82 of Duke of Storme
“Stop telling me what I can’t handle and let me decide for myself.” She reached up to touch his face with fingertips that trembled with courage and desire.
For a heartbeat, they stood frozen in the study’s afternoon light, balanced on the edge of everything they’d both been too afraid to want.
Diana felt the weight of the moment pressing down on them both – the gift laying between them on the desk as proof that she had seen value in the parts of him he’d tried so hard to bury, that she was willing to fight for the dreams he’d given up on long ago.
It was beautiful and terrifying, and she could see it in his eyes that it was devastating to every wall he’d ever built around his heart.
Looking into Finn’s face, seeing the war between hope and fear playing out across his handsome features, Diana realized that all his careful distance had been crumbling steadily for weeks. He was no longer the cold, controlled duke who had married her out of necessity.
The only question now was whether her husband was brave nough to let himself be found.
CHAPTER 25
“The morning post, if ye please.”
Finn’s tone carried the crisp formality of addressing household staff rather than speaking to the woman who’d melted against him in Highland rain just two nights past. Diana lifted the silver letter tray with practiced grace, her movements careful as a diplomat’s as she placed it beside his untouched porridge.
“Thank ye.”
NotDiana.Not even the grudging warmth her name had carried during their lessons. Just the same distant courtesy he might offer any servant performing expected duties. Diana smoothed her napkin across her lap, watching morning light stream through tall windows to illuminate the rigid set of his jaw beneath perfectly groomed whiskers.
“Would you like some coffee? Cook prepared it specially.”
“Tea’s sufficient.”
Each clipped response landed like stones thrown into still water, creating ripples of tension that spread across the breakfast table. Diana studied the way candlelight flickered across silver service that had graced Storme tables for generations, wondering how many previous Duchesses had endured similar meals seasoned with masculine withdrawal.
Mrs. Glenwright appeared with silent efficiency, replacing Diana’s cold toast with warm Bannocks that smelled of honey and Highland heather. The housekeeper’s observant eyes noted the frost settling between Duke and Duchess with the practiced assessment of someone who’d weathered enough domestic storms to predict their severity.
“Will ye be reviewing the tenant petitions this mornin’, Your Grace?” she asked Finn.
“Later. I’ll be unavailable until afternoon. See that I’m not interrupted.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
Diana waited until the housekeeper’s purposeful stride faded before attempting conversation again. “The Cameron correspondence arrived yesterday. There’s some concern about winter preparations for the eastern cottages.”
“Handle it as ye see fit.”
“Shall I? How remarkably trusting of you, considering your previous concerns about my capabilities.”
Something dark flickered behind Finn’s carefully controlled expression, but he merely folded his unused napkin with military precision. “Ye’ve proven yerself... adequate to such responsibilities.”
“Adequate.” Diana tested the word like wine that had turned to vinegar. “What glowing praise from my devoted husband.”
Finn’s teacup clinked against its saucer with more force than necessary. “I have urgent matters requiring attention.”
“Of course you do. There are always urgent matters when conversation becomes too personal, aren’t there?”
This time, her observation made him pause entirely, his broad frame going still as Highland granite. For one breathless moment, Diana thought he might actually respond with honesty instead of ducal deflection.
“Ye’re imaginin’ things, Duchess.”
Then he was gone, leaving Diana alone with congealing porridge and the bitter taste of disappointment coating her tongue like Highland mist.
The traveling trunk squatted in Storme Castle’s main hall like a black raven announcing death, its brass corners catching afternoon light that streamed through ancient leaded windows. Diana descended the carved staircase slowly, her fingers trailing along centuries-old banister worn smooth by countless hands, as familiar voices drifted up from the stone floors below.
“His Grace requires the Edinburgh route prepared,” Robertson was explaining to a cluster of grooms and stable hands. “Fresh horses at every postin’ station, no delays permitted.”
