Page 8 of Duke of Storme
Only the memory of his conversation with Whitmore kept him on course. This marriage served necessary purposes – it provided political connections, social advancement, and provided him with the Duchess his new title required. Personal comfort was irrelevant.
“The Highland roads must present rather difficult challenges,” Richard observed. “I imagine the terrain requires considerable tactical knowledge.”
“Aye.” Finn replied, sensing the underlying assessment. “The Highlands don’t forgive carelessness or assumptions.”
“Much like marriage,” Nicholas added dryly, earning a sharp look from his wife.
“We’re so pleased you could join us, Your Grace,” the Duchess of Fyre said with careful warmth. “It’s wonderful to finally meet the man who will be joining our family.”
Joining their family.The phrase twisted something uncomfortable in his gut. He wasn’t ‘joining’ anything – he was completing a transaction. The distinction felt important, though he couldn’t articulate why.
“The honor is mine,” he replied, the response automatic and meaningless.
The meal proceeded with the stiff formality of a diplomatic negotiation. Lord Brandon inquired about his Scottish estates with the determined interest of a man fulfilling his social obligations. Lady Brandon offered observations about London Society that required polite acknowledgement. The men contricubet their own carefully measured questions – Richard enquiring about Highland politics, Nicholas asking about estate management, and Elias offering occasional observations about northern trade routes.
The sisters contributed carefully neutral comments designed to demonstrate their acceptance of his suit, without suggesting any particular enthusiasm for it.
Through it all, Miss Brandon said virtually nothing.
She listened with apparent attention, occasionally nodding when someone addressed her directly, but offered no opinions of her own. Her silence wasn’t awkward – indeed, it was precisely the sort of well-bred restraint one would expect from a properly educated young lady. Yet, something about her stillness began to irritate him in ways he couldn’t name.
Was this the woman he would be taking back to Scotland? Someone so thoroughly trained in compliance that she had no thoughts of her own to offer?
The prospect should have pleased him. After all, a quiet, manageable wife who would perform her duties without challenging his authority or demanding engagement was exactly what he had requested. But watching Miss Brandon’s careful composure, he found himself wondering what thoughts moved behind those dark eyes and what opinions she might hold if anyone just bothered to ask for them.
When the final course was cleared and the ladies prepared to withdraw, tradition demanded he request a private word with his intended. The three husbands rose as well, but their movements were casual, settling themselves near the windows with brandy while maintaining clear lines of sight to the engaged couple. The message was subtle, but unmistakable: privacy would be granted, but protection remained close at hand.
Miss Brandon rose gracefully when he approached, allowing him to escort her to a small alcove near the drawing room – a space where they could still be observed, but speak in relative privacy.
For a moment, they stood together in silence while the rest of her family settled themselves at a polite distance. Miss Brandon’s hands remained folded at her waist. Her expression was pleasant and utterly unreadable.
“So, ye’re the quiet one,” Finn said finally, the words emerging more bluntly than he intended. “Good. Ye’ll be a duchess who knows when to hold her tongue.”
Her head tilted slightly, and for the first time that evening, something shifted in her expression. Finn thought he saw a flash of… amusement? Annoyance? Challenge? He couldn’t tell.
“How perceptive of you, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice carrying a hint of steel beneath the silk. “Though I wonder if you mistake a preference for thoughtful silence as evidence of an empty mind? Perhaps Scottish definitions differ from English ones?”
The response caught him completely off-guard. Where he’d expected either shy protestation or demure argument, she’d offered something that managed to be both perfectly polite and utterly cutting.
His dark eyebrows rose before he could stop it. “I don’t require a clever wife,” he heard himself say, though he wasn’t entirely certain why the qualification felt necessary. “Just a competent one.”
Diana’s expression didn’t change, but something in her dark eyes seemed to sharpen like a blade finding its edge. Whenshe spoke, her voice remained perfectly level, perfectly proper – and somehow managed to slice through his assumptions with precision.
“Then I suppose we shall both be disappointed, Your Grace.” She paused, her brown eyes softening slightly. “I fear you’ve mistaken quietness for emptiness, while I…” She hesitated, then lifted her chin almost imperceptibly. “I rather think it unfortunate that neither of us bothered to clarify our expectations before making such binding arrangements.”
The words left Diana’s lips before she fully realized she intended to say them. For a heartbeat, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake – if her first real conversation with her intended had just destroyed any possibility of a cordial marriage.
But something in his assumption had stung deeply.The quiet one.As though being naturally reserved made her simpler, easier to manage. As though her preference for listening rather than chatting mindlessly marked her as some docile creature without any thoughts of her own.
She watched his face carefully, cataloging the way his gray-blue eyes widened slightly at her response. His expression suggested a man who’d just discovered that a piece of furniture had opinions about its placement.
“I see,” he said slowly, and she heard something new in his voice – not displeasure, exactly, but a kind of wary assessment. “And what, precisely, am I to be disappointed by?”
The question hung between them like a challenge. Diana felt her sisters’ attention focusing on their conversation from across the room, though they were too well-bred to stare openly. Her mother’s fan moved with increasingly agitated precision.
“I am not as manageable as you seem to believe, Your Grace,” Diana replied, her voice remaining soft, but carrying an edge that surprised even her. “Though you might not think it, I have thoughts of my own and opinions I’m not inclined to abandon simply because they might prove inconvenient. If you’re seeking a wife who will nod pleasantly at everything you say and never trouble you with her own perspective, then I’m afraid you’ve chosen rather poorly.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I see. And you, Miss Brandon? What disappointment awaits you in this arrangement?”
