Page 102 of Her Lion of a Duke
Perhaps there was hope that Miss Diana Brandon possessed similar strength beneath her shy exterior.
“What time is the ordeal scheduled to begin?”
“Seven o’clock, Your Grace. The Viscount has arranged for a small, intimate gathering – just the immediate family.”
“Intimate.” Finn laughed grimly. “Nothin’ like being examined by a debutante’s parents and siblings to make a man feel welcome.”
“I’m sure they’re as nervous about the match as you are, Your Grace. After all, they’re entrusting their youngest daughter to a man they barely know and sending her off to a castle in Scotland they’ve never seen.”
The observation stung because it was accurate. From the Brandon family’s perspective, he was little better than a stranger who had appeared at a ball, danced once with their daughter,and then presumed to claim her hand in marriage. They had every right to scrutinize his credentials and examine his motives.
“Have ye learned anything about Miss Brandon’s own feelings regarding the engagement?” Finn asked, surprised by his own curiosity.
“Only that she has raised no objections, Your Grace. Though I’m told she is naturally quite reserved, so her silence might not indicate enthusiastic approval.”
The words lodged themselves in Finn’s chest like a splinter. What if Miss Diana Branon was as trapped by family expectations as he was by social necessity? What if she was dreading this marriage as much as he was anticipating it?
“Whitmore, when ye were arrangin’ the details of this engagement, did anyone bother to ask Miss Brandon what she wanted?”
The secretary’s pause was answer enough.
“I see.” Finn turned back to his desk, suddenly feeling the worst sort of selfish brute. “A young woman’s preferences are irrelevant, provided the business dealings of the arrangement satisfy everyone else.”
“Your Grace, such considerations are… unusual in marriages of this social level. Most young ladies understand that duty must supersede personal inclination.”
“Most young ladies are taught to accept their fate without question, you mean.” Finn sat. The weight of the approaching dinner pressed down on him. “Christ, Whitmore, what kind of man does that make me? Binding myself to a woman who mightwell prefer to remain unmarried rather than exile herself to Scotland with a husband she doesn’t know?”
“A practical man making the best of an imperfect world?” Whitmore suggested gently. “Your Grace, if I may… Miss Brandon could have refused the match, despite her reserved nature. Young ladies of her standing are affordedsomemeasure of say in these matters, particularly when the family is as progressive as the Brandons seem to be.”
Finn grunted wryly. That was not exactly a ringing endorsement of his prospects as a husband.
A knock at the study door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called.
Thomas, a footman, appeared with a silver salver bearing a single letter. “This arrived by special messenger, Your Grace. From Storme Castle.”
Finn’s chest tightened as he recognized the handwriting. Mrs. Glenwright, his housekeeper, wrote to him weekly with updates, but she rarely used special messengers unless something was seriously wrong.
He broke the seal without ceremony and read quickly. His expression grew grimmer with each line.
“Trouble, Your Grace?” Whitmore inquired.
“The north tower needs immediate repairs before winter, three tenant families require assistance after the last storm damage, and Mrs. Glenwright is asking when to expect the new Duchess so she can prepare appropriate quarters.” Finn set the letter aside with more force than necessary. “Meanwhile, I’m playin’ at being civilized while my responsibilities pile up in Scotland.”
“Perhaps marriage to Miss Brandon will resolve some of these difficulties,” Whitmore suggested. “A Duchess can shoulder many of the domestic and social burdens that currently fall to you alone.”
Finn considered this. It was true that managing an estate the size of Storme required more than one person’s attention. A competent Duchess could handle tenant relations, household management and the endless social obligations that came with his title. Miss Brandon had been raised to manage large households. Presumably, she could adapt admirably to Highland requirements.
“Assuming she survives the transition from English drawing rooms to Scottish castle halls,” he muttered, his voice thick with worry.
“Your Grace seems determined to assume the worst about this arrangement.”
“I’m being realistic. Miss Brandon has lived her entire life in comfort and refinement,” he said, the slight softening in his vowels betraying his concern. “Storme Castle is beautiful, but it’s no’ gentle. The wind off the loch can cut a man in half, the nearest neighbor is half a day’s ride away, and the social season consists of harvest festivals and Highland games. She’ll be isolated, probably lonely, and certainly bored.”
“Or perhaps she’ll find the Highland way of life refreshing after the artificiality of theton,” Whitmore countered. “You mentioned that she showed genuine interest in Scottish culture during your previous conversation?”
Finn remembered the way Diana’s eyes had lit up when he described the traditional ballads. And, she had asked severalthoughtful questions about Highland customs. Perhaps there was more to her than mere politeness.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said, standing and straightening his waistcoat. His voice softened with resignation. “I should begin preparing for this… performance.”
