Page 82 of Duke of Myste
“Only half?” Jane feigned disappointment. “How terribly exclusive of us. I was aiming for at least three-quarters.”
“The other quarter is probably too intimidated by your guest list,” Elias observed dryly, nodding toward the imposing figure of the Prime Minister, who was deep in conversation with several other Cabinet members near the refreshments table. “When did you become so politically connected, Jane?”
“When I married a duke with strong opinions about parliamentary reform,” Jane replied, shooting her husband a fond look. “Apparently, hosting dinner parties for influential gentlemen is part of my new duties. Though I confess I find the conversations far more stimulating than I had anticipated.”
From across the ballroom, Marian and Nicholas made their way through the crowd.
“Marian!” Jane called, waving them over. “You look absolutely radiant. Marriage agrees with you.”
“As it does you,” Marian replied warmly, kissing her sister’s cheek before nodding respectfully to Richard. “Your Grace, you’ve outdone yourself this evening. Everything looks spectacular.”
“All credit belongs to my dear wife,” Richard declared with the easy gallantry that had become second nature to him. “I merely provided the venue and attempted to stay out of her way during the preparations.”
“A wise strategy, old fellow,” Nicholas drawled, his experience with strong-willed wives evident in his tone. “I’ve learned that domestic harmony often depends on knowing when to defer to superior tactical planning.”
Diana suddenly appeared at Jane’s side with characteristic demureness, though Jane noticed there was something different about her sister—a newfound confidence. The shy girl who had once hidden behind books had slowly transformed into a young woman who moved through Society with quiet grace and elegance.
“Jane,” Diana asked softly, “have you noticed the gentleman by the terrace doors? The tall, dark-haired man who looks as though he’s calculating the square footage of the room?”
Jane followed her twin’s gaze and immediately spotted the man in question. He stood apart from all the other guests, his bearing suggesting military training despite his immaculate evening attire. His dark hair was swept back from sharp features, and his expression carried the particular brand of controlled intensity that could make any young lady swoon.
“Ah,” Richard spoke up, looking in his direction, “that would be Finn Hurriton, the Duke of Storme. Recently returned from Scotland after inheriting his title. He’s no doubt been the subject of considerable curiosity among the matchmaking mamas this evening.”
“He certainly looks the part of a brooding Scottish duke,” Lydia observed with clear interest. “Very romantic and mysterious, Diana. You should ask our hosts to introduce you.”
Diana’s eyes widened in horror, the confidence Jane had detected moments ago evaporating. “I most certainly should not! I was merely making an observation, Lydia, not expressing interest in making his acquaintance.”
“Of course not,” Jane said with the knowing smile of a twin who knew precisely how to read between the lines of her sister’s protests. “Though I must say, he does seem rather fascinating. Richard, you should invite him to dinner sometime. Purely for diplomatic reasons, of course.”
“Naturally,” Richard agreed, though his eyes danced with amusement. “Inter-ducal relations are important to maintain.”
The Duke of Storme chose that particular moment to glance in their direction, his dark gaze sweeping over their group with the methodical assessment of a man accustomed to cataloging potential threats or allies. When his eyes met Diana’s, she immediately looked away, a bright pink flush staining her cheeks that had absolutely nothing to do with the warmth of the ballroom.
“Diana, dearest,” Marian noted with poorly concealed amusement, “you seem rather flustered this evening. I do hope the ball isn’t proving too overwhelming.”
“Not at all,” Diana replied quickly, though her voice carried a breathless quality that contradicted her words. “I was simply… observing the decorations. Jane has done such a magnificent job with the arrangements.”
“Indeed,” Nicholas agreed dryly, following his wife’s lead with the practiced ease of a man accustomed to social intrigue. “Though I noticed that your observations seemed particularly focused on the area near the terrace doors.”
Before Diana could formulate a suitable response, a deep voice interrupted their conversation.
“Please forgive the intrusion,” came the unmistakably Scottish accent that had been the subject of considerable speculation among the ton since the Duke of Storme’s arrival in London. “Might I request an introduction?”
The group turned as one to find the Duke himself standing before them, his imposing figure even more striking up close.
He was taller than he had initially appeared, with the broad shoulders and confident bearing of a man accustomed to issuing commands. His dark hair caught the chandelier light overhead, and his eyes—a deep green that seemed to shift between stormy gray and brilliant emerald depending on the angle—were fixed with unwavering attention on Diana.
“Duke,” Richard greeted smoothly, stepping forward with ducal courtesy. “Allow me to present my family. My wife, the Duchess of Myste; her eldest sister and her husband, the Marchioness and Marquess of Stone, and their youngest sister, Miss Diana Brandon. .”
The Duke of Storme bowed with precise correctness to each introduction, but Jane noticed that his gaze strayed repeatedly to Diana, who seemed torn between curtsying and fleeing.
“Miss Brandon,” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that hadn’t been present during the formal introductions, “I hope ye won’t think me presumptuous, but I saw ye admiring the musicians earlier. I understand they’re performing several Scottish ballads tonight—pieces from my homeland that I rarely have the pleasure of hearing in London.”
Diana blinked, clearly startled by his conversation. “I … yes, the music is quite beautiful. I confess I am not familiar with Scottish compositions, but there’s something haunting about these melodies.”
“Perhaps ye would do me the honor of a dance?” the Duke asked, extending his hand with old-world gallantry. “I would be delighted to share something of my country’s musical heritage with someone who has such an ear for its beauty.”
For a moment, Jane thought Diana might refuse, her sister’s natural shyness warring with what appeared to be a genuine interest in both the music and the man offering to share it.
