Page 58 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“I am so very sorry,” she said, her voice thick with embarrassment and genuine distress. “Her behavior was inexcusable. I'm afraid I've ruined what should have been a perfect afternoon for all of us.”
Catherine was the first to respond, her laughter bubbling up suddenly.
“Oh, my dear,” she said warmly, her eyes sparkling with mirth rather than offense, “We've endured far worse than one disapproving cousin, I can assure you. Though I do hope you don't feel burdened by being associated with such a wild and undisciplined family as ours.”
The gentle teasing in Catherine's voice, combined with the obvious affection in her manner, made Joan's heart swell with gratitude and something that felt remarkably like belonging.
“I am honored,” Joan said immediately, the words flowing from somewhere deep in her heart without conscious thought, “To be welcomed by such a loving, warm, and genuine family. More honored than you could possibly know.”
The radiant smiles that greeted her declaration seemed to light up the entire garden, and Joan felt something fundamental shift in her chest – a sense of belonging and acceptance that she had never experienced before, a feeling that she might deserve the happiness that had been so unexpectedly offered to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Later that evening, long after the children had been settled in their temporary beds and the adult conversation had wound down into comfortable murmurs, neither Joan nor Graham seemed able to settle into the peaceful sleep that should have followed such a perfect day. Joan found herself wandering the familiar corridors of their home, her mind restless and churning with thoughts that refused to be organized into any coherent pattern.
The house felt different at night – larger somehow, filled with shadows and whispers of sound that might have been settling wood or might have been the ghosts of conversations that had taken place within these walls over the centuries. The portraits that lined the hallways seemed to watch her pass with knowing eyes, as though they understood secrets about belonging and family that she was only beginning to discover.
She was surprised to discover warm light spilling from beneath the library door when she reached the main floor, and even moresurprised to find Graham there when she pushed the heavy oak door open with careful fingers.
“Joan,” he said immediately, rising from his chair by the fire with the quick grace that never failed to make her pulse quicken. The concern that filled his voice was so genuine, so immediate, that it made her chest tighten with emotion.
“What are ye doing awake at such a late hour? Are ye feeling unwell? Is something troubling you that I can help with?”
The sight of him in the firelight – his hair slightly mussed from running his fingers through it, his shirt open at the collar in a way that spoke of relaxation and comfort, his dark eyes immediately focused on her with complete attention – made her breath catch in her throat.
“I'm fine,” she assured him quickly, moving further into the room and closing the door behind her. “Just restless, I suppose. Too much excitement for one day. I hope your family wasn't too overwhelming for you?”
Graham's expression softened into a smile that seemed to glow in the firelight.
“I suppose I should be the one asking you that. They were overwhelming – they always are,” he agreed with a low chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest, “But I could see ye liked it anyway.”
The warmth in his voice, the obvious pleasure he took in her enjoyment of his family, made Joan feel bold enough to be completely honest.
“I did like it,” she admitted, settling onto the settee that faced the fireplace. “Very much. Though I must admit, it was all quite chaotic.”
The familiar scent of old books and woodsmoke that always permeated the library wrapped around her like a comfort, and it felt even better when his voice addressed her once more.
“Aye, it was quite chaotic growing up with them,” Graham said fondly, settling beside her on the settee with careful attention to maintaining proper distance even as his eyes remained fixed on her face. “There was never a quiet moment in our household. It was always rowdy with arguments, song, or just… casual conversations that seemingly could never be had in a low tone.”
The wistfulness in his tone, the obvious love for his boisterous family mixed with something that might have been longing, prompted Joan to speak without thinking about the implications of her words.
“I wished I could have experienced even a fraction of that wonderful rowdiness during my childhood,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a note of old sadness that she couldn't hide. “It would have made me so much happier, I think. To have that sense of belonging, of being part of something larger than myself.”
The words seemed to strike Graham’s heart, and his expression immediately grew serious and concerned in a way that made Joan realize she had revealed more than she intended.
“Joan,” he said carefully, shifting slightly closer to her on the settee, “Would ye... would ye tell me more about your childhood? About how ye came to be at that inn where we first met all those years ago?”
Joan felt her throat close with old fear and newer uncertainty, her hands automatically clenching in her lap as memories she usually kept carefully buried began to surface. But something in Graham's face – the patient kindness there, the genuine desire to understand her rather than judge her, the complete absence of the criticism or disgust she had thought to expect when she considered revealing her past – made her nod slowly.
The settee was positioned perfectly to catch the warmth from the low fire, and the soft light created an intimate atmosphere that seemed to encourage honesty and vulnerability. Graham remained perfectly still beside her, his attention completely focused on her words as though nothing else in the world mattered.
“My father was a viscount,” she began quietly, her voice barely above a whisper as she stared into the glowing embers. “He died when I was very young – perhaps six or seven – and I barely remember him. Just impressions of a kind voice and gentle hands, the scent of pipe tobacco that clung to his clothes.”
Graham nodded encouragingly, settling back against the cushions to listen, though she could see the tension building in his shoulders as he prepared himself for whatever painful revelations were to come.
“My mother had no choice but to ask for help from my father's brother, Benedict, when Papa died,” Joan continued, each word carefully chosen as she navigated the treacherous territory of her memories. “Uncle Benedict inherited father’s title and the estate, and he moved into our house with his daughter, Georgina. At the time, it seemed like salvation – a way for Mother and me to remain in our home, to maintain some semblance of the life we had known.”
She paused, her hands twisting in her lap as the memories grew more difficult to voice.
