Page 21 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)

“ Y e look...”

Diana stood perfectly still in the drawing room doorway, watching Finn’s words die on his lips as his gray-blue eyes swept over her. The Highland tartan sash – his family colors – draped across her shoulder had been the final touch, a gesture that Diana thought significant.

“Appropriate.” He finished finally, but his voice had gone rough around the edges.

“And you, Your Grace, are ever so poetic,” Diana replied, allowing the faintest of smiles to curve her lips.

She had chosen this gown not to please him, not to meet Highland expectations, but to feel powerful. The dark midnight blue silk caught the candlelight and moved like water when she walked, and for the first time in her life, Diana Brandon – Diana Hurriton – felt like someone worth looking at.

Finn’s gaze lingered on the tartan sash longer than was strictly necessary. The Storme colors looked natural against her shoulder, as though she were born to wear them. She could see him wondering when she had chosen this.

“Where did ye find that?” he asked quietly.

“Mrs. MacAlpin assisted me,” she said softly. “I thought it appropriate. Was I mistaken?”

“No,” he managed. “It’s… fitting.”

The carriage ride passed in silence, broken only by the clatter of wheels and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves over stone.

Diana kept her gloved hands folded in her lap, acutely aware of Finn’s presence beside her in the confined space of the carriage.

She took a deep breath. He smelled of sandalwood and Highland wind, and she found herself stealing glances at his profile when he wasn’t looking, noting the tightness around his eyes that suggested his own nerves about the evening that lay ahead.

“Diana.”

She turned to find him watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. “Yes?”

“Remember what we practiced. Hold yer chin up. Let them come to ye.”

“I remember.”

“And if Margaret MacTavish starts her usual poison–”

“I smile sweetly and compliment her gown,” Diana finished. “Regardless of what you might think, I do pay attention when you instruct me, Your Grace.”

Something flickered in his eyes, there and gone before she could put her finger on it. “Aye. So, it seems.”

The words carried more weight than mere acknowledgement, and Diana felt something shift between them in the intimate space. It wasn’t quite approval, but it wasn’t indifference either.

Their carriage rolled to a stop before Inverthistle Hall. Its windows blazed with golden light. Diana took a steadying breath as a footman rushed to open their door.

“Ready?” Finn’s voice was quieter now, almost gentle.

“As I’ll ever be.”

He stepped down first, then turned to hand her out of the carriage. The moment her gloved fingers touched his Diana felt that familiar flutter in her stomach. It was meant to be pretense, this public display of matrimonial harmony. So why did his touch feel so achingly real?

“Remember,” he murmured as they approached the entrance. “Ye’re no’ just Diana Brandon anymore. Ye’re the Duchess of Storme. Act like it.”

Diana straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I won’t disappoint you, Your Grace.”

“I know ye won’t.”

The words sent warmth spiraling through her chest as they stepped into the blazing ballroom together.

The ballroom at Inverthistle Hall was exactly as he remembered – golden candlelight reflecting off gilded mirrors, Highland gentry in their finest attire, and the air thick with whisky fumes and gossip. Every eye turned toward them as they were announced.

“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Storme.”

Finn felt Diana’s hand tighten almost imperceptibly on his arm, but when he glanced down at her, her expression was as serene as a Highland loch on a windless day. Good. She was learning to wear the mask.

But more than that, she was making the mask her own. There was something different about her tonight – a composure that went deeper than mere pretention.

“Hurriton!” Old MacTavish appeared before them like a hurricane; his cheeks flushed with his own whisky. “And this must be yer sassenach Duchess. My, she’s a bonnie one, isn’t she?”

“Indeed, she is,” Finn replied, surprised by the protective edge in his own voice. “May I present, my wife, the Duchess of Storme.”

Diana curtseyed with perfect grace. “Mr. MacTavish. His Grace has told me so much about your distillery. I understand you produce the finest whisky in the Highlands.”

MacTavish beamed. “Did he now? Well, she’s got good sense, this one. Ye chose well, Hurriton.”

Did he? Finn found himself watching Diana work her way through introduction after introduction, her confidence growing with each exchange.

He had chosen Diana for practical reasons – her quiet nature, her willingness to fade into the background, and her lack of troublesome opinions.

But watching her now, moving through Highland society with increasing assurance, he wondered if perhaps she had been making choices of her own all along.

Where was the shy, uncertain woman who’d arrived at his castle mere weeks ago?

“Your Grace.”

Finn turned to find Margaret MacTavish approaching, her sharp eyes already cataloging every detail of Diana’s appearance.

“Miss MacTavish,” he replied carefully. “Allow me to present–”

“Your new bride, the Duchess of Storme, of course.” Margaret’s smile was all teeth. “How grand to finally meet the woman who’s captured our elusive Duke’s heart.”

Diana’s hand remained steady on his arm. “The pleasure is mine, Miss MacTavish. What a beautiful gown you’re wearing. That shade of green is absolutely stunning on you.”

Margaret blinked, clearly caught off-guard by the genuine warmth in Diana’s voice. “Why… thank ye, Your Grace. Though I must say that tartan sash is a lovely touch. Very appropriate for a Highland Duchess.”

“Mrs. MacAlpin was kind enough to assist me with it,” Diana replied smoothly. “I wanted to ensure I would feel more at home in my new clan.”

My new clan .

The words sent something hot and possessive spiraling through Finn’s chest. When had she started thinking of herself as truly belonging? And why did hearing her claim his heritage as her own make something constrict in his throat?

“How thoughtful of ye,” Margaret said, and for the first time in years, she sounded genuinely pleased, rather than calculating.

As the evening wore on, Finn found himself watching Diana more than the other guests. She moved through Highland society like she’d been born into it, listening more than she spoke, asking thoughtful questions, remembering names and connections flawlessly. She was… simply wonderful.

But it was more than her social performance that held his attention. There was a presence he’d never noticed before. Or perhaps it had always been there, hidden beneath layers of careful propriety and silk, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

Finn was simply enchanted.

What is happenin’ to me?

The answer came when the musicians struck up the first dance, and he found himself offering her his hand without conscious thought.

“We’re expected to lead,” he murmured, though that wasn’t entirely true. He simply wanted – needed – to touch her.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Diana replied, placing her gloved hand in his.

They stepped onto the dance floor together, and Finn felt the weight of every gaze in the ballroom. But for once, he didn’t care what Highland society thought. All that mattered was the woman in his arms.

The music began, and Diana let Finn guide her into the opening steps of the reel.

They had practiced this, rehearsed it until the movements were as natural as breathing.

But standing here now, with his hand warm at her waist and his gray-blue eyes focused entirely on her, it felt nothing like practice. It felt real.

The ballroom seemed to fade at the edges, leaving only the music, the warmth of each other, and the way he was looking at her as though seeing her for the first time.

“Ye’re doing well,” he murmured as they turned through the steps. “Better than well.”

“Only because I had an excellent teacher,” Diana replied.

Something shifted in his expression as they moved together. The formal distance between them somehow shrunk without either of them being conscious of it. His hand pressed more firmly against her back, and Diana felt heat spiral through her despite the layers of her gown.

This wasn’t the careful, measured performance they’d rehearsed at Storme Castle. This was something else entirely – something that made her pulse race and her skin feel too warm against the silk.

“Ye’re no’ what I expected,” Finn said quietly, his Scottish accent thickening with some emotion that he couldn’t quite mask.

Diana met his gaze directly. “Is that a compliment, Your Grace?”

“I’m no’ sure,” he admitted, his voice rough. “But ye disarm me.”

The sudden honesty stole her breath entirely. This wasn’t part of their performance or part of the careful charade they’d planned. This was real, this was echanting.

Around them, other couples moved through the same steps, but Diana felt as if she and Finn existed in their own little universe, connected by something that had nothing to do with their arrangement and everything to do with the way he was touching and looking at her.

“Good,” she whispered, emboldened by something she didn’t recognize in herself. “You frighten me far less when you’re off balance.”

Finn’s grip tightened, and Diana thought she heard him make a sound that washalf laugh, half groan.

The music swelled around them, but all Diana could focus on was the way his thumb traced along her spine through the silk of her gown – a touch so subtle that anyone watching would think it accidental.

But Diana knew better. There was nothing accidental about any of this – the way he was holding her, or the way his eyes never left her face.

“Ye should be careful, Duchess.” His voice was so low only she could hear it. “I’m no’ a kind man.”