Page 9 of Duke of Storme (Braving the Elements #4)

“ S teady now, Your Grace.” The coachman’s voice carried through the wind as the carriage rocked precariously along the rugged Scottish hillside. “The road’s a wee bit rough, but we’ll be there within the hour.”

Diana pressed her gloved hands deeper into her lap.

Through the rain-streaked window, she caught only jagged glimpses of her destination – dark stone emerging and disappearing in the mist like a half-remembered nightmare.

Each jolt of the wheels against stone sent her heart hammering harder against her ribs, though she couldn’t quite tell if it was from anticipation or dread.

There had been no letters during the week she’d waited in London.

No inquiries about her health or preferences.

Only a formal summons delivered by special messenger – crisp parchment bearing travel arrangements and the directive that she was to arrive at Storme Castle on this precise date like freight being delivered according to schedule.

“There it is, Your Grace – yer new home.”

Diana lifted her eyes to follow the coachman’s gesture, and the sight before her stole what little breath she had remaining.

Storme Castle rose from rolling landscape like a challenge, its ancient stones the color of storm clouds, its towers jutting toward the sky with uncompromising severity.

It seemed to sprout from the very bones of the Highland earth it rested upon, as though it had been carved by wind and rain, rather than built by human hands.

She had never felt smaller in her entire life.

The carriage wheels crunched over gravel as they approached the massive entrance, and Diana caught her first glimpse of Scotland’s version of a formal reception.

A lone footman emerged from the shadows.

His movements were efficient, but hesitant, as though he wasn’t entirely certain what to do with an arriving Duchess.

“Welcome to Storme Castle, Your Grace,” he said, his Scottish accent thick as Highland honey. He reached for her valise with hands that trembled slightly – whether from nerves or the startling cold, Diana couldn’t tell.

“Thank you,” she managed as she stepped down from the carriage on unsteady legs. The wind immediately caught her traveling cloak, whipping it around her like dark, foreboding wings, and she had to fight to maintain both her dignity and her balance as she approached the entrance.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the temperature plummeted even further.

The vast entrance hall stretched before her, all stone and shadow, with narrow windows that seemed designed to keep warmth out rather than letting light in.

Her footsteps echoed in hollow clicks against the flagstones, but each sound was swallowed by the oppressive silence.

“Mrs. Glenwright will see to yer needs, Your Grace,” the footman said, divesting her of her cloak with respectful haste. “She runs the household proper like.”

Diana nodded, though she noticed he avoided meeting her eyes directly. No smile. No offered welcome beyond the strictly necessary courtesies. She felt like an intruder in her own home – or rather, what was supposed to become her new home.

“If ye’ll follow me, Your Grace,” the footman continued, leading her toward a stone staircase that curved upward into darkness. “Yer chambers have been prepared.”

They climbed in silence. Diana’s hands trailed along the cold stone banister and her mind catalogued the stark differences between this place and any other home she had ever known.

Where the Brandon townhouse had been filled with warm wood and soft fabrics, Storme Castle was all hard edges and unforgiving surfaces.

Where London had been intimate and cozy, this place was vast and isolating and bone-chillingly cold.

The footman stopped before a heavy oak door and produced a single key from his pocket. “Yer chambers, Your Grace. Mrs. Glenwright will be along shortly to see if there’s anything ye require.”

The door opened to reveal a chamber that was undeniably beautiful in its own, stark way, but painfully cold.

Stone walls rose to a vaulted ceiling, broken only by two narrow windows that looked out over what she supposed must be the sea.

A large bed dominated one wall, draped in heavy fabrics that looked more suited to a tomb than a marriage chamber.

The hearth gaped at her – empty and dark, like a mouth waiting to be fed.

“Thank you,” Diana said quietly, and the footman withdrew with obvious relief.

Alone, she moved slowly through the space that was to be hers.

Her traveling dress rustled against the solid silence.

The windows drew her like a moth to a flame, and she pressed her face against the glass, watching as rain began to fall, quickly intensifying until it lashed against the panes with the fury of something alive and angry.

Beyond that, she could make out the rolling hills of the Highlands.

The landscape was beautiful in its wildness but utterly foreign to her.

The minutes ticked by in oppressive silence.

Diana sat at the edge of her bed for a moment, her hands folded in her lap out of old habit.

But as the silence stretched, something inside her rebelled.

Had she not already decided she would no longer be managed like a convenient package?

She was the Duchess of Storme now, and duchesses did not sit in empty rooms waiting for permission to exist in their own homes.

Just as she began to wonder if the Duke intended to see her at all, came a single, brief knock before the door creaked open.

There he was, standing in the doorway, taller than her memory had painted him.

His presence filled the space like a gathering storm.

Gone was the formal attire of their London meetings.

Instead, he wore a simple dark waistcoat with no cravat and his white shirt was open at the throat.

His dark hair looked damp from the rain, and there was something about his stance – more relaxed than it had been in London, yet somehow more intense, more authentically him – that made her pulse skip.

“Ye arrived early,” he said, stepping into the room with that measured grace she remembered. His voice carried the same practical tone he might have used to discuss cargo deliveries.

“I followed your instructions explicitly, Your Grace,” Diana replied. Her own voice sounded steadier than she had expected. She rose from the bed and smoothed her skirts with a hand that only shook slightly.

A pause stretched between them. The silence was filled with the sound of rain against stone and the distant howling of Highland wind. His gray-blue eyes moved over her faces as though cataloging changes or perhaps searching for signs of displeasure with her newfound circumstances.

“If there’s anythin’ ye need,” he said finally, nodding toward the empty grate, “feel free to speak to Mrs. Glenwright. She runs the household with more efficiency than most generals run their armies.”

Diana glanced around at the bare stone walls, the empty hearth, and the lack of any personal warmth that might make this space feel less like a prison.

“A fire perhaps?” she suggested, her voice carrying just enough edge to suggest this was not entirely a request, and most certainly not one that could wait on the housekeeper.

Without comment, he moved to the hearth and knelt before it.

His movements were practiced and sure. She watched as he rearranged kindling with the efficiency of a man accustomed to practical necessities.

His large hands were surprisingly gentle with the delicate work.

When the first flames caught, they cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the concentration in his expression.

The fire blazed to life, sending warmth creeping into the corners of the room like a living thing.

Diana found herself instinctively stepping closer, drawn not just by the heat, but by his unexpected display of consideration.

He could have summoned a servant and ordered the fire lit through proper channels. Instead, he had attended to it himself.

“You didn’t write,” she said. The words tumbled from her cold, numb, lips before she could stop them.

The Duke stood, brushing his hands against his waistcoat. “I’m no’ a man of letters.”

The casual dismissal almost made her wince, but she straightened her spine. “And I am not a piece of furniture, Your Grace,” she replied before her better judgment could intervene.

His head tilted slightly and those eyes focused on her with new attention. Something shifted in his expression – not anger, exactly, but a kind of wary assessment.

“Ye’ll find the entire north wing is yers to command,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “My wing is the west. Meals are taken at yer discretion. I don’t require yer company.”

Diana felt her lips press into a hard line. The message was clear: they would live as strangers under the same roof. Their marriage would be a legal formality that required no actual interaction or investment. “And if I require yours?”

His eyes met hers then – really met them for the first time since their wedding day. The intensity of his gaze made her stomach flutter with a curious cocktail of fear and anticipation.

“Then I suggest we both adjust our expectations,” he said quietly.

He was gone before she could think of a reply. The door closed behind him with soft finality that somehow felt more devastating than if he had slammed it.

Diana stood alone in the flickering firelight, listening to his footsteps fade down the corridor, feeling like a woman who had been uprooted by hundreds of miles only to live in elegant isolation.