Page 100 of Her Lion of a Duke
The words stung, though Diana supposed they were accurate. She had always preferred to observe rather than be observed.
“Even so,” Diana said, finding unexpected firmness in her voice. “Surely His Grace will not object to his wife wear clothing that flatter her natural coloring? We could have a few pale shades incorporated for informal occasions?”
Madame Rousseau looked between mother and daughter with the calculating expression of someone accustomed to navigating family politics. “Perhaps,” she said diplomatically, “we might include some lighter pieces for private wear around the castle. A soft rose silk for family dinners, or cream muslin for morning walks. But the formal wardrobemustproject authority, Miss.”
“I suppose that would be acceptable,” Lady Brandon conceded reluctantly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Though I still maintain that Diana needs to cultivate more presence. She’s far too retiring for her new position.”
“With the right coloring, Madame, even the most retiring young lady can appear formidable,” the modiste assured her. “The cut, color, the drape – all contribute to the impression one makes. We shall transform her into a Duchess worthy of any Scottish castle.”
Diana stood on the little platform in her chemise while yards of fabric were draped around her, feeling oddly like a doll being dressed for display. Each pin and tuck seemed to reshape not just her silhouette, but her very identity.
When the ordeal concluded and Madame Rousseau departed with fabric samples, Diana retreated to her room with relief. Evening shadows were lengthening across her bedroom floor, and she moved to her writing desk to light a candle against the gathering dusk.
A soft knock interrupted her. “Come in,” she called, expecting one of her sisters.
Instead, a footman entered, carrying a silver salver with a single letter. “This has arrived for you, Miss. The messenger said it was urgent.
Diana’s heart fluttered as she recognized the black wax seal. Her name was written in bold, masculine handwriting that spoke of confidence and authority. With trembling fingers, she broke the seal and unfolded the heavy parchment.
Miss Brandon,
You are to be my wife. We shall meet upon my arrival in London, in three days’ time.
F.H.
That’s it? No greeting. No sentiment. No acknowledgement that she was a person rather than a business transaction. Diana read the brief message twice, searching for warmth or personality, but found none.
She walked over to her writing desk and opened the wooden box where she kept her most treasured possessions – pressed flowers from childhood walks, letters from her sisters, and a lock of hair from the spaniel they had as children. Carefully, she placed the Duke’s letter between two dried roses from Marian’swedding bouquet, pressing it down as though treating it with reverence might transform its cold formality.
But as she closed the box and prepared for bed, Diana couldn’t shake the feeling she had just sealed away her last hope of finding love in marriage. The Duke of Storme had written to her as if she were property he had acquired, and she wondered if that was indeed how he viewed her.
Three days. In three days she would meet the man who would determine her entire future. But as Diana thought again of the cold formality of his letter, she realized something with dawning certainty. The Duke of Storme saw her exactly as her mother did – as something to be molded and shaped to suit his requirements.
Outside her window, London continued its eternal rhythm, oblivious to the fact that Diana Brandon was about to disappear forever.
Perhaps, she thought,it is time to stop being the invisible sister.
CHAPTER 2
“Another invitation, Your Grace. Lady Pemberton requests the honor of your presence at–”
“No.” Finn Hurriton didn’t look up from the estate reports scattered across his London desk. The morning light streaming in made the marble floor gleam like ice – bold and unwelcoming as everything else in this godforsaken city.
His secretary, Whitmore, cleared his throat delicately. “Perhaps I should mention that the Duke of Marlborough will be in attendance, along with several other members of Parliament who–”
“I said no.” Finn’s quill scratched against the paper with unnecessary force. “Send regrets.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Whitmore’s tone suggested he found his employer’s antisocial tendencies both mystifying and professionally challenging. “Shall I also decline the invitation from Lord Castlereagh regarding the agricultural committee?”
Finn finally looked up. His gray-blue eyes were sharp with irritation. “That one’s different,” he said, the slight softening inhis vowels reflecting his Scottish heritage. “Agricultural policy affects my tenants, and I’ll no’ have them suffer for my social failings. Besides, Lady Pemberton’s soiree affects nothing but her own social standing.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Though I feel compelled to mention that your… absence from Society has been noted. There are expectations–”
“There are always expectations, Whitmore,” Finn replied, his Highland accent growing more pronounced in his irritation. He set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, suddenly feeling every one of his twenty-nine years. “The question is whether they’re worth the effort of pretendin’ to care about which wine pairs best with gossip.”
