Page 3 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“Oh, your aunt? Is that the one ye're waitin' fer?” the man enquired.
Joan nodded, and he exhaled.
“Och, that's a shame. I'd still have much preferred tae earn a reward, rather than jist get the answer—'cause that does me nae good. Still, I'll take what I've learned aboot ye as a guid enough prize for noo, at least. So, what's yer name, miss?”
Hesitation sank into her like a needle, and she considered refusing him at once. Except… she did not want to. This man had been extremely kind to her, thus far.
“Joan,” she said quietly.
She had expected him not to hear her, considering how softly she had spoken, but he stared at her, mouthing the name silently at first.
“Joan. A name name that fits a brave, bonnie wumman like yersel’.”
Joan wasn't used to receiving such compliments that didn't make her feel uneasy. All that surrounded this man was… warmth. There was no danger coming from him, and Joan couldn't help but relax under his gaze.
“Will you tell me your name?” she asked, leaning forward.
Her companion scoffed playfully and shook his head, looking offended.
“Haud on, hen, a gentleman doesnae reveal his secrets. How am I tae keep ye on yer toes if I gie away too much o' masel'?”
Joan couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up in her throat.
“Is that something you usually prioritize? How mysterious you are?”
He gave her a quizzical look.
“Aye, that's right. Hoo else am I supposed tae leave a mark on ye? How can I be sae sure ye'll no' forget a' aboot me the minute we part ways?”
There was no underlying intention beneath his words, and for once, Joan couldn't sense any hidden meanings. The barely concealed mirth in his voice was also reflected in his eyes, and Joan couldn't help but wonder how a man could look so handsome.
Most of the men she had met before had such ugly characters that manifested on the surface as well. But this man… he seemed so different from all the others she had crossed paths with.
Most of them had no qualms with reaching for her, no matter how she disliked it, but he hadn’t tried to touch her. Not once.
Despite his teasing, he was cordial and respectful, clearly trying not to burden her with any expectations. It had not been long since they met, but she already appreciated his presence greatly. But there was something more that tugged at her attention, claiming her gaze each time she glanced at him, causing her eyes to linger on his form in a bid to learn a little more about him with each look.
His hands were big, much more than hers and the difference was clear in the way he lifted his cup of ale with a singular hand and no care in the world, where as she had to hold hers up with both hands. His hair looked like red hot coals in a certain light, and it seemed the length bothered him with the way he continuously brushed it back, away from his forehead.
Joan considered that the reason those men had scurried away quickly was likely because of his imposing form, thanks to the broad shoulders that gave him a daunting appearance, even though all he was doing was simply having a drink while seated.
“I suppose we'll just hae tae wait an' see. Have ye lived in London a' yer life afore noo?”
Joan paused, wondering if it was all right to be truthful, just this once.
“I suppose you could say that,” she let herself say.
“An' the idea o' leavin' disnae scare ye a wee bit? I understand ye're only headin' tae bide wi' yer folk, but I can see that's no' a simple task for a young lady,” he reasoned.
He was not wrong. It had been a difficult decision to make, even more so to execute. But she had not been left any other choice, not with how things had become in her home.
Her mother’s passing had been hard enough, with her feeling as though she had lost the only direct family she had left. The griefhad nearly consumed her whole, but her dear cousin Georgina had provided her a reprieve, and for what felt like the first time, Joan was gland that her cousin and uncle – Benedict Brook – had moved into their house, following the passing of Joan’s father.
She had not been the only one mourning her mother, Priscilla, though. Uncle Benedict had been utterly distraught by Priscilla’s passing, to the extent that he had hidden away to grieve for two years. When he felt ready to face the world again, he emerged and things went downhill from there.
Joan’s uncle had started to look at her strangely, as though he was tracing familiar lines across the panes of her face. She did not understand the dangerous implications of that until he began to seize the opportunity to touch her inappropriately, whispering things about how much Joan looked like her late mother.
The idea of it all disgusted her, especially when she realized what this meant concerning her mother’s relationship with her uncle before she died. No matter how much she begged, her uncle refused to relent, pushing closer and crossing even more boundaries. Until she could take it no more.
