Page 52 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
The words surprised her even as she spoke them, revealing desires she hadn't fully acknowledged to herself. When had she begun looking forward to public outings with Graham? When did the idea of being seen together as a family become appealing rather than terrifying? When had she started thinking of their little unit as something precious worth displaying to the world?
But she could see the immediate effect her words had on Graham. A pleased warmth filled his dark gaze as he studied her face with a slight smile.
“You were looking forward to it?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying a note of wonder and perhaps… hope?
Joan felt heat rise in her cheeks as her heart skipped a beat, and she nodded firmly. “Yes. I think... I think it would be pleasant. To be together like that, to be seen as the family we are.”
The smile that spread across Graham's features was absolutely radiant, transforming his entire face with joy. “Then we shall certainly attend,” he said firmly, reaching for her and pulling her into his strong arms. “All of us, as a family. Just as you wish.”
As he held her close, Joan felt a strange lightness in her chest, as though some invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps it truly was easier than she had thought, being married to this remarkable man. Perhaps if she continued to prove useful to him, if she fulfilled her duties as his wife and duchess with competence and grace, she might be allowed to remain by his side indefinitely.
The thought both thrilled and terrified her in equal measure, but for the first time since their marriage began, she felt the stirring of something that might, eventually, become hope.
“Do you think baby birds can sing as well, Mama?”
Joan looked up from her book and hummed thoughtfully. The air was crisp with the promise of autumn, but the warmth spoke of summer doing what it could to linger for as long as possible. The atmosphere felt peaceful, and it made Joan glad she had chosen to spend the morning outdoors with Sophia as the child eagerly decided to work on her watercolor paintings in the garden.
“I do not believe so, poppet. Perhaps they learn while they are young, just as you learned to speak when you were but a little bundle in my arms,” Joan responded with a smile.
They had settled on a blanket beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak tree, its leaves and branches swaying in the wind. There was a batch of fresh cookies and lemonade with them – graciously provided by the cook who adored Sophia and the duchess with every fiber of his being, it seemed – and it was all they needed to engage in the makings of a beautiful day.
Sophia sat cross–legged on the blanket, her small easel positioned to catch the best light, her watercolor box open beside her like a treasure chest. Her auburn hair caught the early afternoon sun, creating a halo effect that made Joan's heart swell with maternal pride and love. The child's tongue poked out slightly in concentration as she carefully loaded her brush with paint, her small face contorted with determination.
“Look, Mama!” Sophia exclaimed suddenly, holding up her small canvas with pride that radiated from every line of her small body. “I painted a bird in Papa’s study!”
Joan leaned closer to examine the artwork, breathing in the sweet scent of her daughter's hair mixed with the earthy smell of the garden around them. The painting was wonderfully abstract – purple walls that seemed to glow with inner light, an orange desk that looked strong like a throne, windows rendered in brilliant yellow that suggested sunshine and warmth. Right in the middle of it all was a streak of blue that looked like a bird – if she squinted hard enough. The colors bore little resemblance to reality, but the love and care behind the effort were unmistakable, as clear as if they had been painted in letters across the sky.
“It's absolutely beautiful, darling,” Joan said with complete sincerity, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Sophia's ear. “Your father will be so pleased when he sees it. He'll probably want to hang it in his study immediately.”
Sophia beamed with radiant joy and returned to her painting with renewed enthusiasm, adding touches of green and blue to what appeared to be flowers on the imaginary desk.
“I am glad Papa said I'm his princess,” she announced happily as she dabbed more paint onto her brush, the words accompanied by a little bounce of excitement that made Joan smile. “He doesn’t slay any dragons, but I don’t mind. He cares for us enough.”
“You are absolutely right. Your father's capabilities are quite impressive,” Joan agreed as she recalled the numerous ways Graham had indeed proven himself to be something very much like a fairy tale prince – rescuing them, protecting them, surrounding them with love and security.
“He's the best papa in the whole world,” Sophia declared with the absolute certainty, her brush pausing in mid–air as she made this solemn pronouncement. “He also said you're the most beautiful queen he's ever seen, and that he's the luckiest king in all the kingdoms because he gets to take care of both of us.”
“Sophia!” Joan laughed, reaching to cup her daughter’s cheeks tenderly, her heart so full of love and gratitude that it felt as though it might burst. “Where do you hear all these wonderful things?”
“Papa tells me everything,” Sophia giggled. “He says it's very important for a man to make sure his darlings know how special they are, so they never forget their worth or doubt how much they're loved.”
They were still giggling together, their laughter seemingly harmonizing with the songs of birds above them in the trees. Joan was about to say that perhaps Graham shouldn’t be saying such silly things when the unmistakable sound of an approaching carriage drew her attention. Joan looked up, shading her eyes against the sun, just in time to see the carriage stop at the front of the house.
Moments later, women disembarked with the help of a footman, one significantly older than the other, both dressed in traveling clothes of obvious quality and expense. The older woman moved with the self-assuredness brought by age, while the younger one seemed visibly excited.
“Come along, darling,” Joan said softly to Sophia, rising and brushing grass and small leaves from her skirts. “We have visitors, and we should greet them properly.”
Sophia obediently began gathering her painting supplies, her small hands careful with the precious watercolor box that had been a gift from Graham. As they approached the two women, Joan found herself suddenly conscious of her appearance – her simple dress, though clean and well–made, was hardly suitable for receiving guests of obvious importance. Her hair, although brushed, was hanging loosely over her shoulders and down her back, and she was certain there were grass and dirt stains on the hem of her skirts from sitting on the ground.
Still, she approached her guests with as much dignity as she could conjure, her head held high with her daughter’s warm hand in hers.
“Good afternoon,” Joan said pleasantly, offering what she hoped was a graceful smile despite her informal attire. “Welcome to our home. I am Joan Lennox, Duchess of Rutledge.”
The younger woman's face immediately brightened with genuine delight, her features transforming with a warmth that was instantly appealing.
“Oh, how absolutely wonderful to finally meet you!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying the familiar accent that Joan had learned to associate with Graham's homeland. “We've been so eager to make your acquaintance! Graham has written of you, but seeing you in person is such a treat!”
The lady seemed younger than Joan, and her words seemed to dance with excitement and joy, making the duchess feel more at ease. The older woman, however, remained silent, her sharp eyes taking in Joan's appearance with what appeared to be a strict assessment. Joan felt suddenly awkward under that penetrating gaze, uncertain what to make of the distinctly mixed reception.
