Page 19 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)

“ W e’ll begin with the most precarious moment,” Finn said, gesturing for Diana to take her place in the center of the ballroom’s polished marble floor. “Yer entrance.”

Pale morning light streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air between them. Diana stood where he’d indicated with her hands folded at her waist, waiting for instruction while exhibiting a particular stillness he’d begun to recognize as her way of listening.

“In London, ye enter a ballroom and disappear into the crowd,” he continued, beginning to pace around her like a naval instructor addressing new recruits.

The comparison wasn’t lost on him – he’d spent enough time drilling green sailors to recognize the focused attention of someone determined to master a new skill.

“Here, every eye will be on ye from the moment we cross the threshold. They’ll be cataloguing everythin’ – yer gown, yer posture, how ye hold my arm, whether ye seem nervous or confident. ”

“And I suppose nervous would be… inadvisable?” Diana asked carefully.

“Disastrous.” Finn stopped his pacing to face her directly. “Highland society respects strength, not vulnerability. Show them uncertainty, and they’ll pounce like wolves on a wounded deer.”

Diana’s chin lifted slightly. “Then I shall endeavor to not appear wounded.”

Something in her tone made him study her face more carefully. There was that new edge of steel beneath her careful composure. Good. She was going to need it.

“The key,” Finn said, moving to stand beside her, “is to make them come to ye. Don’t chase their approval – command their respect.

” He gestured toward the ballroom’s entrance, imagining it filled with peers, all eyes trained upon the new Duchess.

“When we enter, ye’ll be on my right arm.

Keep yer chin up, shoulders back – but not rigid. Ye’re no’ a soldier on parade.”

“How reassuring,” Diana murmured, but she adjusted her posture as instructed.

“Walk with me,” Finn commanded, offering his arm. As Diana placed her hand on his sleeve, he felt that familiar jolt of awareness. He told himself to focus sternly. This was pure instruction, nothing more.

“Now, the introductions,” Finn began as they moved in a slow, measured pace across the marble floor.

“Highland titles are different from English ones. There’s Laird MacPherson, who owns half the country and thinks the other half should be grateful for his benevolence.

His wife will be polite to yer face but sharp as a dirk behind yer back. ”

Diana nodded, her attention focused entirely on his words. “Should I expect her to test me directly?”

“Aye. She’ll ask seemingly innocent questions about estate management, about yer plans for the castle, about whether ye intend to spend yer time in London or here. Every answer will be weighed and found wantin’ if ye show the slightest uncertainty.”

“And what would the correct answers be?” Diana asked, her voice steady despite the challenge ahead.

“That depends on whether ye want to be accepted or respected,” Finn replied, surprised by his own honesty. “Acceptance comes from tellin’ them what they want to hear. Respect comes from tellin’ them what ye truly think.”

Diana was quiet for a moment, considering this. “And which would you prefer I choose, Your Grace?”

The question caught him off guard. Which did he prefer? The safe path of acceptance, or the more precarious route to respect? “I’d prefer ye choose what feels right to ye,” he said finally. “But know that once ye make that choice, there’s no changin’ their minds.”

Diana nodded quietly.

“Then there’s Old MacTavish – everyone calls him that, though he’s not yet fifty. He’s got the largest whisky distillery in the region and believes strong drink is the solution to most of life’s problems. He’ll test ye by offerin’ ye something that could strip the paint straight off a ship’s hull.”

“Good heavens! Should I accept?”

“A sip. No more. Show ye’re game, but no’ foolish.

” Finn found himself studying the graceful line of her neck as she nodded.

The morning light caught the chestnut highlights in her hair, and he had to force himself to concentrate on the lesson rather than the way she moved beside him.

“His daughter Margaret will be there – unmarried at twenty-six and bitter about it. She’s got a tongue that could flay a man at fifty paces. ”

“She sounds delightful,” Diana said dryly.

“She’s the one ye’ll need to win over the most,” Finn said seriously. “The other women all follow her lead for some reason. If Margaret accepts ye, the rest will fall in line.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then ye’ll spend the evenin’ surrounded by polite smiles and carefully veiled insults.” Finn’s jaw tightened at the thought. “But that won’t happen. Not if I have anythin’ to say about it.”

They practiced the entrance several more times. Finn adjusted her pace, the way she held his arm, and the angle of her chin. Each time, she improved as her natural grace became more confident andcommanding.

“Better,” he said after their fourth attempt. “But ye’re still thinkin’ too much about what they might be thinkin’. Focus on what ye know to be true – ye’re the Duchess of Storme. This is yer domain, and they are yer guests.”

“Even though it’s Lady MacPherson’s ball?”

“Especially then. Ye represent somethin’ they’ve never seen before – an English Duchess who chose to stay in Scotland, who’s takin’ effort to learn their ways instead of dismissin’ them. That makes ye either very brave or very foolish, and they haven’t decided which yet.”

Diana straightened her shoulders. “Then I suppose I must convince them it’s the former.”

“Now,” Finn said simply, “dancing.”

Diana went very still. “I… I confess I am not familiar with Highland reels.”

“That’s why we’re here.” He moved to stand before her, extending his hands. “The basic step is simple enough. Like this.”

He demonstrated the fundamental movements of a Scottish reel – the quick, precise footwork that required both elegance and energy. Diana watched intently, then attempted to mirror his steps.

“You make it look effortless,” she said, slightly breathless from the attempt. “But I feel as though I’m about to trip over my own feet!”

“Ye’re not used to movin’ with such purpose,” Finn observed, watching her careful, measured steps. “In London ballrooms, the dancin’ is about grace and conversation. Here, it’s about celebration and community. Feel the difference.”

Diana nodded and tried her best to attempt the steps again, but her movement remained stiff and cautious. She was counting beats under her breath. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to master the peculiar rhythm.

“No, no,” Finn said, moving closer. “Ye’re thinkin’ too much. Just feel the rhythm.”

Without realizing what he was doing, he placed his hands at her waist, guiding her through the movement. The warmth of her body beneath his palms sent a familiar jolt through him.

Diana’s sharp intake of breath told him she felt it too – this strange awareness that crackled between them.

“Like this,” he said softly. “Let the music carry ye.”

Diana’s breath caught as his hands steadied her, and Finn was suddenly acutely aware of how close they stood. Her hands came up instinctively to rest on his shoulders, and for a moment they swayed together in the empty ballroom, without music, save the rhythm of their own heartbeats.

“I… I think I understand,” Diana said quietly, but she didn’t step away from his touch.

Neither did he.

For a moment, they stood there, frozen while the lesson was forgotten. The morning light painted her skin with warm gold, and Finn found himself thinking that she looked like something precious – something worth protecting.

The thought should have terrified him – not the protection itself, but the tenderness behind it, the way his chest tightened at the sight of her vulnerability. Caring this much was not something he could afford.

He dropped his hands and stepped back, clearing his throat. “Aye. Well. That’s enough for now.”

Diana blinked, as though coming back to herself. “Of course. Thank you for the instruction, Your Grace. It was most… enlightening.”

The formality of the address stung more than it should have. They’d simply been Finn and Diana in that tiny moment of unexpected intimacy, but now they were Duke and Duchess once more, separated by titles and propriety.

“We should stop here for now. Mrs. MacAlpin will be here shortly.”

“Mrs. MacAlpin?”

“The seamstress. She’s... particular about her work. And her opinions.” Finn moved toward the door, needing distance and fresh air. “She’ll no doubt have thoughts about what ye should wear. Don’t let her force ye into something that isn’t … ye.”

He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe. “Diana?”

She looked up at him, hope flickering in her eyes. “Yes?”

“Ye’re goin’ to be flawless,” he said quietly. “Don’t let anyone – includin’ yerself – convince ye otherwise.”

He left before Diana could respond because his heart was hammering like it had during his first sea battle.

What on earth was happening to him?

But even as the question drifted through his mind, Finn knew the answer. This was the moment Diana had stopped being an arrangement and started becoming something far more substantial – someone he didn’t want to lose.

He just didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that this was the moment he’d begun to care about his wife and see her as more than just a mere social necessity.

And that, he knew, was going to complicate things profoundly.

“Hold still, lass, or I’ll never get these pins where they belong.”

Diana stood on the small platform in her morning room, studying her own reflection with the critical eye of an artist examining a canvas. Mrs. MacAlpin circled her with measuring tape, the seamstress’s sharp Highland brogue filling the air as they discussed necklines and draping.