Page 40 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
A soft knock at his door interrupted his brooding. “Come,” he called.
The door opened to reveal Joan, and Graham felt his breath catch in his throat. The sapphire blue gown that Madame Dubois had created for her was nothing short of perfection. The silk hugged her curves in all the right places, while the neckline was modest enough to be respectable yet low enough to hint at the treasures beneath. Her dark blonde hair was swept up in an elegant updo, with a few artfully arranged curls framing her face.
She looked like a goddess.
“You're staring,” Joan said softly, her cheeks flushing pink under his intense gaze.
“I'm appreciating,” Graham corrected, moving toward her. “You look absolutely breathtaking,mo chridhe.”
Joan's blush deepened. “Thank you. Though I must say, I feel rather like I'm wearing a costume. I keep expecting someone to point out that I don't belong.”
“You belong wherever I am,” Graham said firmly, offering her his arm. “And tonight, you're going to remind every person in that ballroom exactly why I chose you above all others.”
The carriage ride to the Pemberton estate was filled with comfortable silence, though Graham could sense Joan's nervousness in the way she fidgeted with her gloves. He wanted to reassure her, to promise that he would shield her from any unpleasantness, but he knew she needed to find her own strength.
The Pemberton ballroom was ablaze with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off the gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers that adorned the walls. The cream of London society was in attendance, the ladies resplendent in their finest gowns, the gentlemen elegant in their evening wear.
Graham felt the familiar weight of hostile stares as they were announced. Conversations paused, fans snapped open to hide whispered comments, and more than one person turned to get a better look at the Scottish duke and his mysterious bride.
“Breathe,” Graham murmured to Joan as they descended the stairs.
“I am breathing,” she whispered back, though her grip on his arm tightened noticeably.
They made their way through the receiving line, Graham introducing Joan to their hosts with practiced ease. Lord and Lady Pemberton were gracious enough, though Graham caught the calculating look in Lady Pemberton's eyes as she assessed Joan's appearance and bearing.
“What a lovely gown, Your Grace,” Lady Pemberton said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Such an unusual color choice. Very... bold.”
“His Grace chose the color himself,” Joan replied smoothly. “He has excellent taste in all things.”
Graham felt a surge of pride at her diplomatic response. She was handling the veiled slight with grace and composure.
The evening proceeded much as Graham had expected. He and Joan moved through the ballroom, making polite conversation with various members of the ton. Some were genuinely welcoming, curious about the new duchess, and willing to give her a chance. Others were less kind, their comments carefully crafted to sound complimentary while carrying barbs of criticism.
Graham found himself growing increasingly tense as the evening wore on. Every slight against Joan, no matter how subtle, made his jaw clench with suppressed anger. When Lord Whitmore made a comment about how refreshing it was to meet a duchess who had “risen so far above her original station”, Graham's hand moved instinctively to Joan's back, a possessive gesture that he hoped conveyed his support.
“Perhaps we should – “ he began, thinking to suggest they take some air on the terrace.
“Joan! There you are!”
Graham turned to see a young woman approaching them with what appeared to be enthusiasm, though something in her expression made him instantly wary. He recalled seeing her at their wedding, seated alongside Sophia, and the likeness between her and his wife in terms of their blonde hair and blue eyes spoke of a familial bond. But there was a hardness around her mouth that spoke of a cruel nature.
“Georgina,” Joan said, her voice carefully neutral. “How lovely to see you.”
Georgina Brooks. This was the cousin who had hosted Joan after her return to London. The same one who refused to send for a daughter when Sophia was sick, Graham realized to his ire.
“I simply had to come and congratulate you on your marriage properly, since I was unable to do so on the day of,” Georgina said, her voice sickeningly sweet. “Though I must say, I am quite surprised to see you both making a public appearance so soon. I would have thought you would take a little more time to adjust to your new title, in order to avoid the likelihood of making a mistake. After all, it wasn't so long ago that you were living in such... modest circumstances.”
Graham felt his muscles tense at the obvious insult, but Joan's hand on his arm warned him to stay silent.
“Yes, well,” Joan replied evenly, “My husband thought it would be rude to turn down an invitation offered to us so graciously by our hosts. It is proper manners to accept, after all.”
“Indeed, it is,” Georgina agreed without seeming like she meant to, her eyes moving to Graham with barely concealed disdain. “And Your Grace, how romantic that you should choose to marry so quickly after meeting dear Joan. Some might call it impulsive, but I suppose when one has been... unlucky in love for so long, one might be inclined to act hastily when an opportunity presents itself.”
The implication was clear: Graham had settled for Joan out of desperation rather than genuine affection. Graham's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but before he could respond, Georgina continued her assault.
“Of course, it must be quite an adjustment for you both. Dear Joan, despite her... shall we say unconventional upbringing, now finds herself in such elevated company. And Your Grace must be pleased to have found someone willing to overlook certain... disadvantages of birth and breeding.”
Graham had heard enough. “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice deadly quiet, “but I believe you've mistaken my wife for someone who requires your pity or condescension.”
