Page 54 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“It's quite unconventional, of course,” she remarked at one point while delicately cutting her roasted lamb with perhaps more force than necessary, “Taking on a widow with a child. Though I suppose Graham always was given to... impulsive decisions, even as a boy.”
Joan felt her grip on her utensils weaken at the clear implications of her mother-in-law’s words. According to her, Graham had been foolish and had somehow been trapped or manipulated into marriage; that Sophia was an unwanted burden he had been saddled with rather than the beloved daughter he adored.
Before Joan could find words that would be both truthful and diplomatic, Graham's fork clattered against his plate with a sound that cut through the air.
“That's enough,” he said quietly, but his voice was deadly calm as it reflected his worn patience. “This is my house, Mother, and if ye wish to remain as my guest, ye will show proper respect to my wife and daughter.”
Mary's eyebrows shot upward in genuine shock, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish. She had never expected her son to challenge her so directly, especially not in front of strangers.
“Graham! I was merely—” she began, but he cut her off with a gesture that brooked no argument.
“Ye were being rude and unkind,” he interrupted, his accent thick now with barely restrained anger. “And I'll not have it at my table, not directed at the people I love most in this world.”
The silence that followed was deafening, as Mary's mouth opened and closed several more times before she seemed to gather herself, her spine straightening with offended dignity.
“Is the child yours?” she asked bluntly, abandoning any pretense of subtlety or tact.
Graham's response was immediate and unwavering. “She is my daughter in every way that matters,” he said steadily, reaching over to ruffle Sophia's auburn hair with infinite gentleness. The little girl had been following the adult conversation with wide, uncertain eyes, clearly sensing the tension but not understanding the reason. “And I would very much appreciate it if ye did not make her feel otherwise.”
Mary said nothing more for the remainder of the meal, though Joan could feel the weight of her scrutiny throughout the rest of the evening. Every bite she took, every word she spoke, every gesture she made seemed to be noted and judged by those sharp, unforgiving eyes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Good night, Mama,” Sophia whispered to her mother tiredly.
Joan smiled, amazed at how just a look at her daughter managed to render her free from her worries.
It had taken a lot, but when Joan finally excused herself to retire after dinner, pleading fatigue from the long day on Sophia’s behalf, she hoped desperately that there would be no argument. Thankfully, Graham simply beckoned them closer, pressing a kiss to Sophia’s forehead and whispering to her something that made her smile.
To Joan, he took her hand and raised it to his lips, whispering against her skin, “Good night, darling.”
Joan felt her heart flutter in her chest, suddenly lighter after all the stress the evening had brought, her lips parting to return the sentiment softly. As she left the dining hall after bidding theguests a good night as well, she hoped desperately that she might find some peace in the solitude of her chamber.
After she had seen to Sophia’s preparations for bed, she retired as well, eager to put the day behind her.
“Sweet dreams, my love,” Joan bid her daughter, pressing a kiss to both of her cheeks, before finally resting her lips on her daughter’s forehead.
After ensuring that Sophia had been tucked in beneath the covers securely, she retired to her room, finally.
She had barely begun brushing out her hair, the familiar ritual usually so soothing after a difficult day, when a soft knock came at her door. The sound was hesitant, almost apologetic, so different from Graham's usual confident rap that Joan knew immediately it was not her husband seeking entrance.
Expecting perhaps one of the maids with some household matter, she was genuinely surprised to find Mary Lennox standing in the hallway. The older woman's earlier coldness seemed to have melted away like frost in morning sun, replaced by something akin to uncertainty, or perhaps even regret.
“Might I come in?” Mary asked quietly, her voice carrying none of the edge that had characterized her dinner conversation. “I'd like to speak with you, if you're willing to listen to what I have to say.”
Joan stepped aside wordlessly, gesturing for her mother-in-law to enter. Mary moved to the window that overlooked the moonlit grounds, her silhouette elegant against the silver light that streamed through the glass. For a long moment, she simply stood there gazing out at the gardens, and Joan could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands trembled slightly where they rested on the windowsill.
“I owe ye a sincere apology,” Mary said finally, her voice softer than Joan had heard it all day, weighed by genuine remorse. “My behavior at dinner was inexcusable, and I'm ashamed of myself for allowing my own... concerns to manifest in such unkindness toward you and your daughter.”
Joan remained silent, uncertain how to respond to this unexpected change in her mother-in-law's demeanor. She moved to the small settee near the fireplace and waited for Mary to continue.
Mary turned from the window, her eyes meeting Joan's across the room, and Joan could see the grief that had carved lines around her eyes, the sorrow that seemed to live permanently in the set of her shoulders.
“Would ye... would ye mind if I told ye about my husband?” Mary asked hesitantly, her voice carrying a vulnerability that hadn't been present before. “About Fergus, and what his loss did to our family?”
Joan gestured to the space beside her on the settee, her heart softening despite the evening's tensions. “Please, tell me abouthim. I should very much like to know about the man who raised Graham to be the extraordinary person he is.”
Mary settled beside Joan with visible relief, her hands smoothing her skirts in a nervous gesture that reminded Joan painfully of a similar habit she and Sophia shared, executed when they were uncertain.
