Page 16 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)
Diana studied the portrait with newfound understanding. No wonder Finn had sealed this wing away – it contained proof of who he’d been before life had broken him.
“Morag,” she said carefully, “does anyone else know about… the bruises?”
The girl shook her head quickly. “Och, no, Your Grace. Mother made me swear never to speak of it. Said it wouldn’t do the young Duke any good to have such stories spread about.”
“You’ve done well to protect his privacy,” Diana assured her. “But thank you for trusting me with the truth.”
Morag smiled shyly. “Mother always said ye could judge a person’s character by how they treat those beneath their station. You’ve been nothin’ but kind to all of us, Your Grace.”
They continued exploring the room. Morag pointed out details her mother had shared – the music stand where Lady Catherine had kept her sheet music, the small writing desk where she’d penned letters to friends in Edinburgh, and the rocking chair where she’d planned to nurse her infant son.
“She had such grand dreams for him,” Morag said wistfully, touching the windowsill gently.
“Mother said she’d stand here, hands on her belly, talkin’ about all the wonderful things they’d do together.
She wanted him to see the world, to find joy in art and music and books.
She used to say that Highland men were taught to be hard, but that her son would be different. ”
“If only she’d lived to see those dreams fulfilled,” Diana murmured.
“Aye. But perhaps…” Morag glanced around nervously before continuing. “Perhaps His Grace still carries some of her dreams inside him. Mother used to say that before the drinkin’ got bad, he’d sit for hours and hours with charcoal and parchment, drawin’ everything his wee eyes could see.”
“He was an artist then?” Diana asked, her pulse quickening.
“Och, aye! Mother said it was like Lady Catherine’s love of beauty lived on in his wee hands.” Morag lowered her voice even more. “I found some of his old sketchbooks tucked away in his study last month. Probably from when he was older, before he left for the Navy. Beautiful works, they were!”
Diana blinked. “Sketchbooks?”
“Hidden beneath some old blankets in a trunk. Drawings of the castle, the moors, even portraits of the staff. He had such talent, Your Grace!”
Before Diana could respond, the sound of boots on stone echoed from the corridor. Morag went rigid with terror in an instant.
“Och, now!” she whispered. “That’ll be His Grace. He’ll have our heads for bein’ in here!”
Diana straightened her spine, moving to stand protectively in front of the younger woman. “I’ll handle this, Morag. You’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”
The footsteps grew closer, and Diana’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d been so careful to avoid confronting Finn directly, but perhaps this was for the best.
“Wife?” Finn’s voice called from the hallway, rough with something that might have been concern. “Are ye in there?”
Morag whimpered softly, but Diana squeezed her hand reassuringly before calling back. “Yes, I’m here.”
Finn appeared in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. His stormy eyes swept the room, taking in the disturbed dust, the opened portrait, and Morag cowering behind Diana’s skirts.
“What are ye doin’ in here?” His voice was carefully controlled, but Diana caught the underlying tension.
“Exploring my new home,” she said evenly, “as any Duchess should.”
His gaze fixed on the portrait, and for a fraction of a moment, his mask slipped. Diana saw pure agony flash across his features before he shuttered his expression again.
“This wing is off-limits,” he said curtly. “I thought I’d made that clear.”
“You made a number of things clear,” Diana replied, lifting her chin. “But that does not mean I understand them all.”
“Understanding isn’t required. Only obedience.”
The harsh words hit Diana squarely in the stomach. Behind her, Morag made a sound of distress.
“I see. So I am to be your duchess in title only, never permitted to truly know my own home or understand my husband?”
Finn went absolutely rigid, staring at them with a darkening, unreadable expression. Diana held her breath, not entirely sure what to expect. When he next spoke, his voice was deadly quiet.
“Leave. Both of ye. Now.”
But Diana didn’t move. Instead, she turned to Morag with a gentle smile. “Thank you for sharing your mother’s stories with me. They’ve helped me understand a great deal.”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and fled, leaving Diana alone with her husband and the ghosts of his past.
“That girl had no right to fill yer head with tales,” Finn said once Morag’s footsteps had faded away.
“She had every right to honor her mother’s memory,” Diana countered. “Just as you have every right to honor yours.”
“This is not honoring anyone. This is about respecting boundaries.”
Diana moved closer to the portrait, studying the face of the woman who’d given Finn life. “She was breathtakingly beautiful. I can see where you inherited your eyes.”
“Diana.” His voice carried a warning.
“And this room,” she continued, gesturing around the space. “She prepared it with such love; such hope for the child she never even got to hold.”
“Yes. Now come away from there.”
But Diana remained fixed in place as something stubborn rose in her chest. “I heard you used to draw, even as a small child.”
Finn’s jaw clenched. “The staff talk too much.”
“Do you still sketch?”
“I don’t have time for childish pursuits.”
“Is beauty childish?” Diana asked, turning to face him fully. “Is finding joy in creation somehow beneath your station?”
“Beauty is a luxury I can’t afford,” he replied, the words coming out harsh and clipped.”
“What if I told you that I believe beauty to be not a luxury, but a necessity?” She took a step towards him. “That without it, we become as cold and decrepit as these sealed rooms?”
“Then I’d say ye’re na?ve. Life destroys all beautiful things, Diana. Better to be strong than pretty.”
“Or--” Diana countered, “perhaps broken things can still hold beauty. Perhaps the cracks are where the light gets in.”
They simply stared at each other across the dusty chamber, the portrait of Lady Catherine bearing silent witness to their standoff. Finally, Finn’s shoulders sagged slightly.
“Why are ye so determined to pry open doors that should remain closed?”
“Because,” Diana said softly, “I think you’ve confused protection with prison. And I think your mother would have wanted more for you than this desolate fortress you’ve built around your heart.”
Finn’s eyes flashed. “Don’t dare presume to know what my mother would have wanted.”
“You’re right,” Diana admitted. “I never knew her. But I know her son. And despite all your efforts to convince me otherwise, I see glimpses of the dreams she had for you. The love she planned to give, even if she never got the chance.”
“All of that died with her,” Finn said flatly.
“Did it? Or are those dreams simply buried beneath years of pain that you were expected to carry alone?”
Before Finn could respond, Diana moved toward the door.
“I shall respect your wishes about this wing. If you truly wish it, I will never visit or mention it again.” She said quietly, “But I want you to know – the dreams your mother had for you? They deserve better than to be forgotten. And so do you, Your Grace.”
She paused in the doorway, looking back at her husband standing alone among the remnants of his mother’s hopes.
Diana left him there, surrounded by dust and memories and the painted image of a woman who’d loved him deeply, fiercely, before he’d even drawn breath.
As she walked back through the castle’s main corridors, her mind churned with everything she had uncovered.
The sketchbooks. Morag had mentioned finding Finn’s old sketchbooks – drawings that showed the artistic soul he’d been forced to bury beneath years of pain.
Diana paused on the main staircase, guilt warring with determination. She had promised to respect his privacy, but this felt different. This wasn’t about going against his wishes – this was about honoring the dreams his mother had held for him. And showing him that she truly saw who he was.
She thought of the portrait and of her mother-in-law’s hands cradling her unborn child with such tender hope. That woman had dreamed of raising a son who would find joy in creation and wouldn’t be hardened by life’s brutality.
Perhaps those sketchbooks were proof that Lady Catherine’s dreams had indeed taken root, however briefly. Perhaps they deserved to be preserved, protected, and honored.
Diana’s artistic heart began racing as the plan crystallized.
She could ask Agnes to show her where the sketchbooks were kept.
She could carefully preserve them, create a proper binding, and arrange them in a beautiful presentation – perhaps along with one or two small things that had belonged to his mother, or to Finn as a baby…
not to pry, or invade his privacy, but to show her husband that his gifts mattered.
That his mother’s hopes for him hadn’t been foolish.
It would be a gift. A gesture of understanding. A way to say without words that she saw the man he truly was beneath all that self-assembled armor – and that that man was worth celebrating.
As Diana lifted her skirts and began climbing the stairs toward her chambers, her heart hammered with newfound purpose.
She would need fine paper, ribbons, and leather for binding.
She would need to keep this little project under wraps.
She would need to choose her words carefully for the letter she intended to include.
But most of all, she would need courage. Because giving such a gift would reveal her own heart just as surely as it honored his.
But perhaps it was time to stop hiding behind safe distances. Perhaps it was time to show the Duke of Storme that there existed someone who believed in the dreams his mother had carried for him – and was willing to fight for them.