Page 103 of Her Lion of a Duke
“Performance, Your Grace?”
“Aye. Playing the role of devoted bridegroom for the Brandons benefit. Convincing them I’m worthy of their daughter’s hand and their trust,” Finn replied, his accent sharp with self-mockery. “Let’s hope my actin’ abilities have improved since my last attempt at civilized behavior.”
Two hours later, Finn stood before his mirror adjusting his cravat for the third time. His evening attire was impeccable – black coat crafted by London’s finest tailor, pristine white shirt, and perfectly arranged cravat. He looked every inch the proper English Duke, which was precisely the problem.
The reflection staring back at him was a stranger. Where were the sun lines from squinting across ocean horizons? Where were the calluses from handling rigging? He even missed the comfortable weight of his naval uniform, which represented honor earned, rather than privilege inherited.
“Ye look like a bloody peacock,” he muttered to his reflection.
But this was what would be expected – a gentleman polished enough to escort Miss Brandon to London’s finest drawing rooms, refined enough to represent her in Society, and civilized enough to be worthy of her gentle nature.
The carriage ride to Drownshire House passed in a blur of London evening traffic. Finn found himself rehearsing conversations in his head, wondering what Diana might be thinking about their approaching marriage. Would she see straight through his carefully constructed façade of ducal refinement? Her sisters’ husbands – men who had clearly earned not just their wives’ love, but their respect – would be watching him closely. The Duke of Myste’s reputation for keen observation was well-known, and the Marquess of Stone had the protective instincts of a man devoted to his wife’s family. Finn wanted their approval not because the marriage required it, but because Diana deserved to have a husband her family could trust.
How did one explain that comfort and happiness were a luxury he never had experienced, or learned to provide – even for himself?
All too soon, the carriage drew to a halt before Lord Brandon’s residence. Light spilled from the windows, warm and welcoming, and Finn could see figures moving within. The family was preparing to receive the man who had come to take their youngest daughter away from everything she had ever known.
The thought made his chest tight with something that could have been either guilt, anxiety, or simple dread.
In a few short hours, his engagement to Miss Diana Brandon would be formally announced. After tonight, there would be no turning back for either of them.
He stepped down from the carriage and straightened his shoulders, calling on every ounce of military discipline he possessed. Tonight, he would play the role of devotedbridegroom. Tomorrow, he could return to worrying about whether he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
CHAPTER 3
“His Grace is late,” Lady Brandon murmured for the third time in twenty minutes as her fingers worried the edge of her silk fan. “Perhaps we should delay the dinner service?”
Diana stood by the drawing room window of the Drownshire townhouse that gleamed with careful preparation. Her mother had spent the better part of the week ensuring every surface shone, every flower arrangement spoke of refined taste and that every detail proclaimed the Brandon family worthy of ducal attention.
“He’ll come,” she said quietly, though she wasn’t entirely certain she hoped he would.
“Of course he will,” Jane said from her perch near the fire. Her tone carried the particular sharpness that emerged when she encountered behavior she deemed inconsiderate. “Though one might question whether a gentleman who fails to observe proper timing deserves the courtesy we’re extending. Richard has already expressed his opinions about punctuality and respect,”Jane added pointedly, nodding toward her husband who had settled himself near the window with a book.
“Perhaps something detained him,” Lydia offered with characteristic diplomacy, ever the peacemaker. “Important business matters, or unforeseen circumstance. Elias mentioned that Highland travel can be unpredictable.” She glanced toward her own husband who stood near the mantlepiece, his dark eyes thoughtful.
“Or he’s reconsidering the wisdom of binding himself to a family he barely knows,” Marian quipped with her customary directness. “Which, frankly, demonstrates more sense than I credited him with. Though Nicolas did say the same,” she smiled toward her husband, who was stationed protectively near her chair. “Though he might have phrased it more diplomatically.”
Diana’s reflection wavered in the window glass. Her mother had dressed her with particular care this evening in a gown of dove gray silk that complemented her coloring without overwhelming her delicate features. Her chestnut hair was arranged in an elegant chignon that emphasized the graceful line of her neck. She looked every inch the proper young lady who was prepared to meet her ducal destiny with appropriate serenity.
But on the inside, she felt like a violin string stretched too tight, ready to snap at the slightest pressure.
“Diana, step away from that window this instant,” Lady Brandon commanded with the brisk authority of a general marshalling troops. “You’ll wrinkle your gown, and we must present you in the very best light possible.”
Before Diana could respond, a commotion in the entrance hall announced an arrival. Deep voices – her father’s and another,familiar and unmistakably authoritative – carried through the drawing room doors. Her pulse quickened despite her efforts to remain calm.
“That will be His Grace,” Lady Brandon said, rising with swift efficiency. “Remember, Diana, posture is everything. A Duchess must always maintain perfect deportment.”
The drawing room doors opened, and Lord Brandon entered with measured steps. “Ladies,” he announced to the assembled family, “may I present, His Grace, the Duke of Storme.”
Diana’s breath caught audibly in her throat.
The man who filled the doorway was impeccably dressed. His evening coat was perfectly tailored and his cravat was arranged with nothing short of military precision. Every detail of his immaculate appearance spoke to careful preparation. Yet somehow, in the intimate confines of her family’s drawing room, he seemed broader, more imposing than she remembered from their single dance at her sister’s ball. Perhaps it was the way his shoulders filled the doorway, or how his commanding presence seemed to dwarf the familiar furnishings, but he appeared taller, darker, and more overwhelming that the polished gentleman who had guided her through a Scottish reel.
His gray-blue eyes swept the room with the methodical assessment of a military man cataloging potential threats, and when that penetrating gaze found hers, it held with an intensity that made her want to step back into the shadows.
But she didn’t. Some unknown reserve of pride kept her spine straight and her chin raised as he approached.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, executing a curtsy that would have made her mother weep with satisfaction.
