Page 4 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)
“Most young ladies are taught to accept their fate without question, you mean.” Finn sat.
The weight of the approaching dinner pressed down on him.
“Christ, Whitmore, what kind of man does that make me? Binding myself to a woman who might well prefer to remain unmarried rather than exile herself to Scotland with a husband she doesn’t know? ”
“A practical man making the best of an imperfect world?” Whitmore suggested gently.
“Your Grace, if I may… Miss Brandon could have refused the match, despite her reserved nature. Young ladies of her standing are afforded some measure of say in these matters, particularly when the family is as progressive as the Brandons seem to be.”
Finn grunted wryly. That was not exactly a ringing endorsement of his prospects as a husband.
A knock at the study door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter,” he called.
Thomas, a footman, appeared with a silver salver bearing a single letter. “This arrived by special messenger, Your Grace. From Storme Castle.”
Finn’s chest tightened as he recognized the handwriting. Mrs. Glenwright, his housekeeper, wrote to him weekly with updates, but she rarely used special messengers unless something was seriously wrong.
He broke the seal without ceremony and read quickly. His expression grew grimmer with each line.
“Trouble, Your Grace?” Whitmore inquired.
“The north tower needs immediate repairs before winter, three tenant families require assistance after the last storm damage, and Mrs. Glenwright is asking when to expect the new Duchess so she can prepare appropriate quarters.” Finn set the letter aside with more force than necessary.
“Meanwhile, I’m playin’ at being civilized while my responsibilities pile up in Scotland. ”
“Perhaps marriage to Miss Brandon will resolve some of these difficulties,” Whitmore suggested. “A Duchess can shoulder many of the domestic and social burdens that currently fall to you alone.”
Finn considered this. It was true that managing an estate the size of Storme required more than one person’s attention.
A competent Duchess could handle tenant relations, household management and the endless social obligations that came with his title.
Miss Brandon had been raised to manage large households.
Presumably, she could adapt admirably to Highland requirements.
“Assuming she survives the transition from English drawing rooms to Scottish castle halls,” he muttered, his voice thick with worry.
“Your Grace seems determined to assume the worst about this arrangement.”
“I’m being realistic. Miss Brandon has lived her entire life in comfort and refinement,” he said, the slight softening in his vowels betraying his concern.
“Storme Castle is beautiful, but it’s no’ gentle.
The wind off the loch can cut a man in half, the nearest neighbor is half a day’s ride away, and the social season consists of harvest festivals and Highland games.
She’ll be isolated, probably lonely, and certainly bored. ”
“Or perhaps she’ll find the Highland way of life refreshing after the artificiality of the ton ,” Whitmore countered. “You mentioned that she showed genuine interest in Scottish culture during your previous conversation?”
Finn remembered the way Diana’s eyes had lit up when he described the traditional ballads. And, she had asked several thoughtful questions about Highland customs. Perhaps there was more to her than mere politeness.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said, standing and straightening his waistcoat. His voice softened with resignation. “I should begin preparing for this… performance.”
“Performance, Your Grace?”
“Aye. Playing the role of devoted bridegroom for the Brandons benefit. Convincing them I’m worthy of their daughter’s hand and their trust,” Finn replied, his accent sharp with self-mockery. “Let’s hope my actin’ abilities have improved since my last attempt at civilized behavior.”
Two hours later, Finn stood before his mirror adjusting his cravat for the third time.
His evening attire was impeccable – black coat crafted by London’s finest tailor, pristine white shirt, and perfectly arranged cravat.
He looked every inch the proper English Duke, which was precisely the problem.
The reflection staring back at him was a stranger. Where were the sun lines from squinting across ocean horizons? Where were the calluses from handling rigging? He even missed the comfortable weight of his naval uniform, which represented honor earned, rather than privilege inherited.
“Ye look like a bloody peacock,” he muttered to his reflection.
But this was what would be expected – a gentleman polished enough to escort Miss Brandon to London’s finest drawing rooms, refined enough to represent her in Society, and civilized enough to be worthy of her gentle nature.
The carriage ride to Drownshire House passed in a blur of London evening traffic.
Finn found himself rehearsing conversations in his head, wondering what Diana might be thinking about their approaching marriage.
Would she see straight through his carefully constructed facade of ducal refinement?
Her sisters’ husbands – men who had clearly earned not just their wives’ love, but their respect – would be watching him closely.
The Duke of Myste’s reputation for keen observation was well-known, and the Marquess of Stone had the protective instincts of a man devoted to his wife’s family.
Finn wanted their approval not because the marriage required it, but because Diana deserved to have a husband her family could trust.
How did one explain that comfort and happiness were a luxury he never had experienced, or learned to provide – even for himself?
All too soon, the carriage drew to a halt before Lord Brandon’s residence. Light spilled from the windows, warm and welcoming, and Finn could see figures moving within. The family was preparing to receive the man who had come to take their youngest daughter away from everything she had ever known.
The thought made his chest tight with something that could have been either guilt, anxiety, or simple dread.
In a few short hours, his engagement to Miss Diana Brandon would be formally announced. After tonight, there would be no turning back for either of them.
He stepped down from the carriage and straightened his shoulders, calling on every ounce of military discipline he possessed. Tonight, he would play the role of devoted bridegroom. Tomorrow, he could return to worrying about whether he was making the biggest mistake of his life.