Page 101 of Her Lion of a Duke
Whitmore’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “I take it Your Grace finds London Society somewhat… artificial?”
“Artificial?” Finn laughed humorlessly. “They speak in riddles when plain words would do, smile when calculatin’ how best to use ye, and spend their days arrangin’ flowers while Rome burns around them.”
“Shall I prepare a list of genuinely essential social obligations? Events that serve your political or business interests rather than mere entertainment?”
“Aye, that would be useful.” Finn stood and walked to the window, gazing out at the busy London street below. “How many invitations did you say we received yesterday?”
“Seventeen, Your Grace. Though I suspect that number will increase significantly once news of your engagement becomes public knowledge.”
Finn’s jaw tightened. His engagement to Miss Diana Brandon – a perfectly suitable young lady who would make a perfectly malleable Duchess. The arrangement had been concluded with admirable efficiency, with bloodlines examined, dowry negotiated, and expectations clearly outlined. The transaction was as clean and uncomplicated as a military supply contract.
“Speaking of which,” Whitmore continued carefully, “I’ve received word from the Viscount’s secretary regarding the engagement dinner tonight. Shall I confirm your attendance?”
“I’m hardly likely to miss my own engagement dinner,” Finn said dryly. “Though I confess, the prospect holds all the appeal of a court marital.”
“Forgive my boldness, Your Grace, but are you not being somewhat… dramatic? Miss Brandon is by all accounts a charming young lady. Well-educated, well-connected, possessing of all the accomplishments expected in a Duchess.”
Finn turned from the window, his expression unreadable. “Have ye met her, Whitmore?”
“I have not had that pleasure, Your Grace.”
“She’s quiet. Thoughtful. The sort of woman who listens more than she speaks and thinks before she acts.” Finn paused, remembering soft brown eyes and the graceful way she had followed his lead during their dance at the Myste ball. “She’ll make an excellent Duchess.”
“You sound… uncertain about something, Your Grace.”
“Not uncertain. Practical.” Finn returned to his desk where he shuffled through papers with unnecessary vigor. “Miss Brandon understands what this marriage represents. Mutual benefit,social advancement, the continuation of two respectable family lines. No romantic nonsense to complicate matters.”
“Ah.” Whitmore’s tone was carefully neutral. “And Your Grace is satisfied with this… practical approach?”
Finn’s hand stilled on the papers. The question was innocent enough, but it prodded at something he preferred not to examine too closely. Was he satisfied? He should be The arrangement met all his requirements.
“My satisfaction is irrelevant,” he said finally. “This marriage serves the interests of both families. That’s sufficient.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Though I wonder… have you given any thought to what Miss Brandon might hope to gain from the arrangement? Beyond the obvious advantages of title and position?”
The question hit harder than Finn cared to admit. WhatdidDiana Brandon hope for? He remembered the way she had spoken about Scottish music. There had been genuine interest in her voice when she had described his homeland. She hadn’t seemed like a woman motivated purely by social ambition, but then again, he had spent perhaps twenty minutes in total conversing with her. How could he possibly know what she wanted from life?
“Miss Brandon will have everything reasonable a woman could desire,” he said curtly. “Security, status, a household to manage, and eventually children to raise. What more could she possibly want ?”
“Love, perhaps?” Whitmore suggested quietly. “Affection? Companionship? The sort of partnership your parents–”
“That,” Finn cut in sharply, his voice thick with agitation, “is not a topic for discussion. Ever.”
Whitmore bowed his head. “My apologies, Your Grace. I overstepped.”
Finn stared at the man for a long moment, then sighed. “No, I did. Ye’re trying to help, and I’m being a surly bastard because this entire ordeal makes me feel like a fraud.”
“A fraud, Your Grace?”
“Look at me, Whitmore. Five years ago, I was a ship’s captain with rough hands and rougher manners, takin’ orders from men who wouldn’t have bothered to learn my name if I hadn’t been so useful to them,” he said, his voice thick with self-doubt. “Now I’m expected to be a Duke, complete with all the polish and refinement that comes with centuries of aristocratic breedin’. Do ye honestly think I belong in drawing rooms with women like Miss Brandon?”
Whitmore studied him with the calculating expression of a man who had served powerful men long enough to understand their insecurities. “Your Grace inherited more than a title. You inherited responsibilities. You’ve met them most admirably. As for belonging in drawing rooms…” He shrugged. “Half the men who frequent such places inherited their polish along with their debts. You’ve earned your position through service and sacrifice. That should count for something.”
“Should, perhaps. But will it?” Finn moved to the window again and his voice softened slightly. “I can only pretend to be civilized for so long. What happens when Miss Brandon becomes my wife and sees all the rough edges I’m hidin’?”
“Perhaps Miss Brandon is intelligent enough to value substance over superficial refinement,” Whitmore suggested. “The Brandon family has a reputation for producing women of exceptional character. Surely, the youngest daughter inherited some measure of that strength.”
Finn considered this. He had observed Diana’s sisters at the Myste ball – all had married well, but more importantly, they had married men who clearly valued them for more than their breeding and beauty. The Duchess of Fyre radiated contentment despite her husband’s reserved nature. The Marchioness of Stone sparkled with wit and confidence. The Duchess of Myste had somehow managed to bring out an almost human side in one of London’s most notoriously rigid Dukes.
