Page 44 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
Joan nodded miserably.
Graham crouched down beside their blanket, bringing himself to eye level with Joan. “Listen to me very carefully. Our daughter belongs wherever she chooses to be. Not because she follows arbitrary rules about how ladies should behave, but because she is intelligent and kind and brave. Those qualities will serve her far better than perfect deportment. Qualities she has undoubtedly inherited from you, her wonderful, caring mama.”
“But what if – “
“What if she grows up thinking that her worth is determined by other people's approval?” Graham countered. “What if she learns to make herself small and quiet and invisible because that's safer than being unabashedly herself?”
Joan felt tears prick at her eyes as his words hit uncomfortably close to home.
“You're afraid she'll end up like you,” Graham said gently. “Always looking over her shoulder, always worried about the next criticism or judgment.”
“There's nothing wrong with being cautious,” Joan whispered.
“There's everything wrong with being so cautious that you forget how to live,” Graham replied. “Joan, you are remarkable. You are strong and brave and beautiful, and you deserve to exist as loudly as you wish in this world. And so does our daughter.”
Joan looked at Sophia, who was still waiting patiently for permission to play her father's game, and felt something inside her chest split open.
“You really think I'm afraid to lose?” she asked suddenly.
Graham blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. “What?”
Joan stood up, brushing grass from her skirts with new determination. “You said I was afraid to play because I was afraid to lose. Is that what you think?”
A slow smile spread across Graham's face. “Are you challenging me, Your Grace?”
“I'm saying that perhaps it's time I showed my daughter that ladies can be adventurous too,” Joan said, accepting the small branch Graham handed her.
What followed was perhaps the most ridiculous and wonderful hour of Joan's life. Graham patiently taught both her and Sophia the basics of caber toss, cheering enthusiastically when Sophia managed to flip her tiny branch end over end. Joan's first few attempts were disasters, but Graham's patient encouragement and Sophia's delighted laughter kept her trying.
By the time they moved on to a Scottish version of tag that involved a great deal of running and shrieking, Joan's carefully arranged hair was falling down in tendrils, her dress was grass-stained, and she was laughing harder than she had in years.
“Mama, you're so fast!” Sophia giggled as Joan chased her around the tree, both of them breathless with laughter.
“I used to be quite the runner when I was your age,” Joan panted, catching Sophia in a hug that sent them both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of skirts and giggles.
Graham stood watching them with an expression of such tender satisfaction that Joan felt her heart skip a beat. When their eyes met across the blanket, she saw something in his gaze that made her breath catch – not just desire, though that was certainly present, but something deeper. Something that looked dangerously deep and all-consuming.
For a moment, Joan allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to trust that look, to believe that this happiness could last. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.
Their peaceful moment was shattered by Sophia's sudden cry of pain.
“Ow!” she wailed, sitting up abruptly and clutching her knee.
Joan's maternal instincts kicked in immediately, and she scrambled over to where Sophia had fallen. A small scrape marred her daughter's knee, with just a few drops of blood welling up from the abraded skin.
But instead of moving to comfort Sophia, Joan found herself frozen in place, her mind immediately racing to the worst possible scenarios. What if the wound became infected? What if there was dirt in it? What if people saw Sophia's injury and blamed Joan for allowing her to play so roughly?
All of her old fears came rushing back at once, paralyzing her with their intensity.
It was Graham who reached Sophia first, scooping her up in his strong arms and examining her knee with gentle competence.
“There now,mo leannan,” he soothed, his voice calm and reassuring. “It's just a wee scrape. Nothing that can't be fixed with a bit of cleaning and perhaps a sweet from Cook when we get home.”
Sophia's tears began to subside as Graham carefully brushed the dirt away from her knee with his handkerchief. “Will it hurt very much, Papa?”
“I'm sure it might sting a bit,” Graham acknowledged, “But you're a brave lass, just like your mama. A little scratch like this is nothing to worry about.”
Joan watched this exchange with growing horror at her own paralysis. Why hadn't she been the one to comfort Sophia? Why had she frozen when her daughter needed her most?
