Page 99 of Her Lion of a Duke
It was definitely proper; the sort of thing any well-bred young lady should say. But she noticed Jane’s jaw tighten, the pain in Lydia’s face, and the worried glance from Marian.
“Excellent,” Lady Brandon said briskly, though Diana detected relief beneath the satisfaction. “It’s settled then. We have a great deal to accomplish. Your wardrobe will need updating, and we must review your accomplishments to ensure you can present yourself as a worthy Duchess.”
The rest of the breakfast passed in a blur of practical arrangements. Diana nodded at appropriate intervals while her mind drifted like smoke, unable to grasp the reality of what had occurred. When the meal concluded, she found herself retreating to her bedroom, seeking refuge from the overwhelming weight of her new future.
In her bedchamber, Diana moved to her wardrobe and began pulling out gowns with trembling fingers. She tried her best to focus on the task of packing, but her hands shook more and more as her fingers brushed over the familiar spines of her favorite books lined up on a nearby shelf. The pale morning dresses, and soft evening gowns lay sprawled on her bed. She stared at them and wondered if she would ever wear such colorsagain. A Scottish Duchess would surely require deeper, more imposing shades?
A soft knock at the door interrupted her contemplation. “Come in,” she called, expecting Sarah with tea.
Instead, Lydia entered quietly. Once more, her expression was gentle but concerned. Without a word, she settled on the edge of Diana’s bed and watched as her youngest sister continued her aimless attempts at organizing her belongings.
“Diana,” Lydia said softly, her voice carrying the wisdom of someone who had walked this path before. “Come, sit with me.”
Diana abandoned the gowns and books and sank onto the bed beside her eldest sister, feeling oddly childlike again. Lydia had always been the one they all turned to, the dutiful eldest sister who had navigated her own arranged marriage with grace.
For a long moment, they sat in comfortable silence. Then, Lydia asked in a quiet and non-judgmental voice the question Diana had been dreading.
“Do you want this, darling?”
Diana hesitated, staring down at her hands folded in her lap. The question was so simple, yet it cut to the heart of everything she couldn’t bear to examine too closely.
“It hardly matters,” she whispered finally, the words barely audible.
And it really didn’t, did it? Her fate had already been decided, contracts drawn up, arrangements made. What she wanted had never truly been part of the equation.
Lydia reached over and covered Diana’s hands with her own, warm and steadying. “It matters to me,” she said gently. “And it should matter to you.”
Tears threatened, but Diana held them back through sheer force of will. “I know you found happiness with Elias. But that was different, wasn’t it? You were ready for marriage, ready to be a Duchess. I’m not… I’m not like you, Lydia. I’m not brave or graceful or–”
“You are precisely who you are meant to be.” Lydia interrupted firmly. “And any man fortunate enough to marry you should recognize that.”
They sat together quietly after that, and Diana felt some of the overwhelming panic begin to settle into something more manageable. When Lydia finally rose to leave, she pressed a gentle kiss on Diana’s forehead.
“Whatever happens,” she said softly, “you will always have a home with us. Remember that.”
Diana sat alone on her bed for a moment as her sister’s words echoed in her mind.
The afternoon was spent being measured and fitted and Diana had her complexion analyzed to determine flattering colors for her new station. Lady Brandon had summoned Madame Rousseau, a sharp-eyed French woman who circled Diana like a predator evaluating prey.
“She is terribly pale,” the modiste announced, speaking as if Diana weren’t present. “The Scottish climate will be harsh on such delicate skin. We must choose colors that give her warmth and presence. She cannot afford to fade into the background as a Duchess.”
“Precisely my concern,” Lady Brandon agreed, gesturing toward the array of fabric samples spread across Diana’s willowy frame. “The Duke of Storme will no doubt expect his wife to command attention at social gatherings. We cannot have her looking like a ghost drifting through the Highland moors.”
Madame Rousseau lifted a bolt of deep emerald silk, holding it against Diana’s cheek. “This, perhaps? Rich jewel tones will give her the authority she lacks naturally.”
Diana winced at the assessment, but remained silent as the modiste continued her examination.
“And this burgundy velvet for formal occasions.” Madame Rousseau continued, draping another fabric sample across Diana’s shoulders. “It will complement her coloring while projecting the gravitas expected of a Duchess.”
“What about everyday wear?” Diana ventured quietly, eyeing the increasingly dark palette being assembled.
“Everyday wear must still reflect your position, dear.” Lady Brandon said firmly. “You are no longer simply a Viscount’s daughter, Diana. Every choice you make – no matter how inconsequential it may seem – will reflect upon the Duke’s reputation.”
The modiste nodded enthusiastically. “Precisely! Perhaps this sapphire blue for morning calls, and this deep plum for afternoon visits. Nothing too frivolous or girlish.”
Diana felt something inside her rebel. “But surely, I might be allowed some lighter shades? I’ve always found soft colors… comforting.”
Lady Brandon’s eyebrows rose. “Comfort is less important than presence. You must command attention as a Duchess, not blend into the wallpaper as you’ve always done.”
