Page 4 of Duke of Myste (Braving the Elements #3)

“ M ust you insist on infuriating the Duke before he has even made his offer?” Lord Drownshire’s voice boomed through the morning room, causing the delicate china on the tea tray to rattle in protest.

Jane remained outwardly composed, even as her fingers tightened around the embroidery hoop in her lap—a prop she had deliberately chosen to project an image of feminine docility that she knew was expected of her this morning.

“I merely suggest that forcing a man to propose out of obligation rather than inclination seems a rather poor foundation for any marriage.”

Lady Drownshire gave a soft, despairing sigh from her position near the window, where she had stationed herself to give the earliest possible warning of the Duke’s arrival.

“Jane, dear, this is hardly the moment for philosophical debate on the nature of marriage. The Duke of Myste will be arriving within the hour, and we must present a united front.”

The morning light filtering through the tall windows cast a deceptively cheerful glow over the scene—three members of the Brandon family arranged with careful casualness, as though this were any ordinary morning, rather than one that might determine Jane’s entire future.

Only Diana’s absence betrayed the gravity of the situation; she had pleaded a headache and remained in her bedchamber, unable to face the consequences of what she still viewed as her mistake.

“I am simply trying to manage expectations,” Jane replied, setting another neat stitch that belied her inner turmoil. “The Duke made his opinion of me quite clear at Marian’s wedding. I doubt last night’s events have improved his assessment.”

Her father’s mustache twitched ominously. “His assessment is irrelevant. You were discovered alone together under circumstances that permit but one honorable resolution. He will offer, and you will accept.”

Jane’s needle paused mid-air. “And if I do not?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees.

Lord Drownshire turned slowly to face his daughter, his expression thunderous. “You would dare refuse? After the scandal you have brought upon this family?”

“A scandal that might have been avoided entirely had proper chaperones been present at Lady Thornton’s ball,” Jane pointed out, unable to resist the logical riposte, despite knowing it would only anger her father further.

“Jane!” Lady Drownshire abandoned her post by the window, moving swiftly to intervene before the conversation could devolve into open conflict.

“Your father is merely concerned for your welfare, as we all are. The Duke of Myste is a man of impeccable character and considerable fortune. Many young ladies would consider such a match the pinnacle of achievement.”

“I am not ‘many young ladies,’ Mama.”

“No, indeed,” Lord Drownshire muttered. “Other young ladies possess the good sense to avoid compromising situations with eligible bachelors.”

Before Jane could formulate a suitably cutting response, the butler appeared at the door, his expression as impassive as ever despite the tension he had interrupted. “His Grace, the Duke of Myste has arrived.”

The announcement fell into the room like a stone into still water, sending ripples of nervous energy through its occupants.

Lady Drownshire immediately smoothed her already immaculate skirts, while Lord Drownshire squared his shoulders as though preparing for battle.

Only Jane remained as she was, though her pulse had turned into a mad flutter that she firmly attributed to anticipation of the upcoming verbal spar, rather than any reaction to the Duke himself.

“Show him in,” Lord Drownshire commanded.

The Duke entered the morning room with the measured stride of a man accustomed to commanding attention without effort.

His tall frame was impeccably attired in a coat of dark blue that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, his cravat arranged in a style of elegant simplicity that somehow conveyed more refinement than the most elaborate fashions.

His dark hair was neatly styled, though a single rebellious lock curved over his forehead in a way that seemed at odds with his otherwise perfect composure.

“Lord Drownshire,” he greeted, bowing with precise correctness to the Viscount before turning to Lady Drownshire. “My Lady.” His gaze finally settled on Jane, who had risen from her seat, embroidery abandoned. “Miss Brandon.”

The sound of his deep voice sent an involuntary shiver up her spine—one she firmly attributed to apprehension rather than anything more complex.

“Your Grace,” she replied, bobbing a curtsy neither too deep nor too shallow, a gesture calibrated to acknowledge his rank without suggesting deference.

“Please, be seated,” Lord Drownshire urged, his tone markedly warmer than it had been moments ago. “We are most appreciative of your prompt attention to… last night’s unfortunate incident.”

The Duke took the indicated seat, his posture remaining rigid, despite the invitation to relax. “Some matters require immediate intervention,” he replied, his gaze briefly meeting Jane’s before returning to her father. “I believe we all understand why I have come here.”

Lord Drownshire nodded gravely. “Indeed. A most regrettable misunderstanding, but one that must be resolved with appropriate decorum.”

Jane couldn’t help but note how the men discussed the situation as though she were not present—a pattern so familiar in Society that it had long since ceased to surprise her, though it never failed to ignite her indignation.

“Perhaps,” she interjected, “we might dispense with euphemisms, gentlemen? We are all aware of what has transpired.”

Lady Drownshire made a small, distressed sound, but the Duke surprised them all by inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Miss Brandon is correct. Clarity serves us better than obfuscation in this instance.”

Jane blinked, momentarily disarmed by his unexpected support.

The Duke turned to face her directly, his hazel eyes studying her with an intensity that made her straighten instinctively in her chair.

“Miss Brandon,” he began, his voice carrying a formality that seemed to fill the entire room. “I have come to address the circumstances in which we found ourselves last night.”

“You mean the circumstances in which you found yourself with my sister ,” Jane emphasized, unable to resist correcting him despite her mother’s wince.

The Duke’s eyebrows rose fractionally—the only indication that her words had surprised him. “You were aware then that I recognized the substitution at the grand reveal?”

“Your expression made it rather obvious, Your Grace.”

A brief silence ensued, broken only by the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantelpiece.

Lord Drownshire cleared his throat awkwardly. “Perhaps, Your Grace, you and Jane might benefit from a private conversation. With appropriate supervision, of course,” he added hastily, glancing toward his wife.

The Duke considered this suggestion, his gaze never leaving Jane’s. “If Miss Brandon is amenable, I believe that would be most productive.”

All eyes turned to Jane, who found herself caught in an unexpected moment of indecision.

Part of her—the logical, practical part—knew that privacy would allow for a more honest exchange than this stilted, formal conversation conducted under her parents’ watchful eyes.

Yet another part—the part that had registered the Duke’s penetrating gaze with unsettling awareness—hesitated at the prospect of being alone with him, even with her mother present as a chaperone.

“Very well,” she heard herself saying, her voice steadier than her erratic pulse.

Lord Drownshire rose, relief evident in his expression. “Excellent. I shall retire to my study. Prudence, you will remain, of course.”

Lady Drownshire nodded, though the look in her eyes betrayed her nervousness at being left to oversee this volatile situation.

“Perhaps I might sit by the window,” she suggested, moving toward a chair positioned at a distance that would provide the illusion of privacy while maintaining propriety. “The light is better for my needlework.”

As Lord Drownshire left, closing the door with deliberate quietness behind him, a new tension seemed to fill the space he had vacated.

Jane found herself oddly aware of the physical details she had not previously noted—the faint scent of sandalwood emanating from the Duke, the way the sunlight caught a silver thread in his waistcoat, and the almost imperceptible tap of his fingers against his knee.

“Well, Your Grace,” she prompted when the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length. “You wished to speak privately.”

The Duke’s expression remained unreadable, though something flickered in his eyes before he masked it.

“I find myself in a unique position, Miss Brandon,” he began, his voice pitched low enough that Lady Drownshire, now industriously focused on her needlework, would struggle to overhear.

“Last night, I believed I was conversing with your sister about botanical specimens. This morning, I find myself obligated to offer marriage to a young woman who has made no secret of her… unfavorable opinion of me.”

Jane felt heat rise to her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or indignation, she could not tell. “I would not characterize my opinion as unfavorable,” she countered. “Merely… critical of certain positions you have expressed.”

“Ah, yes,” he drawled, the faintest hit of irony touching his voice. “I believe you described my views as ‘calcified relics of a dying patriarchal order’ during our discussion at your sister’s wedding.”

“Did I?” Jane feigned mild surprise, though she remembered her exact words perfectly well. “How careless of me to be so imprecise. I believe I intended to say ‘ossified,’ not ‘calcified,’”

For a moment, just the briefest flash across his otherwise composed features had Jane thinking she detected something that might have been amusement in his expression. But it vanished so quickly that she could not be certain it existed at all.

“Regardless of the specific terminology,” he continued, “we find ourselves in a situation that demands resolution. Society expects certain consequences to follow last night’s … incident.”

“Society expects a great many things, Your Grace,” Jane replied. “I have never found that a compelling reason to comply with its demands.”

The Duke leaned forward slightly, his gaze darkening in a way that made her breath catch in her throat. “And yet you chose to put yourself in this position,” he noted. “You substituted yourself for your sister, knowing full well what consequences might follow.”

The observation—accurate though it was—stung more than Jane had anticipated.

“I did what was necessary to protect Diana,” She replied, her voice cooling. “Her temperament is ill-suited to weathering a scandal of this magnitude.”

“While yours is more… resilient?”

“I have never particularly valued the ton’s opinion.”

The Duke studied her for a long moment, his expression contemplative. “A luxury few can afford, Miss Brandon.”

“Not a luxury, Your Grace, but a choice.”

Something changed in his gaze then—a shift in his assessment, as though he were seeing her in a slightly different light.

“A choice that has led us to this moment,” he acknowledged. Then, with a deliberateness that seemed to alter the very air between them, he continued, “I have come to ask for your hand in marriage, Miss Brandon.”

Though she had been expecting those words since the grand reveal, hearing them spoken aloud in the Duke’s deep, measured voice affected Jane more powerfully than she had anticipated. She found herself momentarily speechless, her carefully prepared response suddenly deserting her.

In the silence, he said, “I understand this is not an arrangement either of us would have chosen under ordinary circumstances. However, I believe we might forge a union of mutual respect and compatible interests, despite our… philosophical differences.”

Jane found her voice at last, though it emerged softer than she had intended. “You speak of marriage as though it is but a simple business merger, Your Grace.”

“Is it not?” he countered, arching an eyebrow. “A combining of assets, abilities, and connections for mutual benefit and advancement?”

“You paint such a romantic picture,” Jane offered, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice, “I wonder how young ladies across London are not swooning at your feet.”

Again, that fleeting hint of something that might have been amusement crossed his features. “I have never claimed eloquence in matters of the heart, Miss Brandon. I offer honesty instead—a quality I believe you value, based on your limited acquaintance.”

Jane could hardly dispute his assessment. She had, indeed, always valued straightforward speech over pretty falsehoods. Yet, something in her rebelled against the clinical detachment with which the Duke approached their potential union.

“I appreciate your candor,” she acknowledged. “Though I find myself curious about what precisely you envision this ‘union of mutual respect’ to entail.”

His hazel eyes remained steady on hers. “I would expect fidelity, of course, and appropriate behavior in public. In private, I believe in allowing a certain latitude for individual pursuits and interests, provided they do not compromise the dignity of our respective positions.”

“How generous,” Jane murmured, though without the bite she had intended. “And what of affection, Your Grace? Does that factor into your calculations at all?”

Something flickered in his eyes—a brief vulnerability quickly masked. “Affection often develops with time and shared experience, Miss Brandon. I see no reason why we should prove an exception to this pattern.”

The response was reasonable—logical, even—and yet Jane found herself strangely disappointed by its pragmatism. “I see.”

“Do you?” he asked, studying her with renewed intensity. “You seem… dissatisfied with my answer.”

Jane hesitated, aware of her mother’s presence at the window, aware of the expectations pressing down on her shoulders.

This was not how she had imagined her future unfolding—tied to a man whose principles seemed antithetical to her own, whose approach to life appeared governed by duty, rather than passion.

And yet there had been those brief moments when something else had shown through the Duke’s carefully maintained facade—flashes of dry humor, of genuine engagement with her arguments rather than dismissal of them.

Perhaps beneath the rigid exterior he presented to Society, there was a man capable of growth, of change… and even of affection.