Page 59 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
“But Benedict was...” Joan's voice grew smaller, more uncertain, as though speaking the truth aloud might somehow make it worse than it had already been. “He was obsessed with my mother in a way that was frightening even to a child. Even when I was very young, I remember seeing him corner her in empty rooms, trying to touch her, speaking to her in ways that made her face go white with fear.”
Graham's jaw tightened visibly, but he remained silent, allowing her to tell her story at her own pace.
“My mother was clever about it,” Joan said, a note of pride creeping into her voice despite the darkness of the memories. “She would use my presence to escape his advances – calling meto her side, pretending she needed to tend to me immediately, using my childish interruptions as a shield against his unwanted attention.”
Joan's throat constricted with guilt that had lived inside her for years, growing heavier with each passing season.
“As I grew older and began to understand what was really happening,” she continued, “I begged my mother to leave, to take me away from that house and Benedict's horrible attention. But she never would, and I knew – even as a child, I knew – that she was staying because of me.”
Graham made a soft sound of sympathy, his hand moving as though he wanted to reach for her before stopping himself, respecting her need to tell this story without interruption.
“She didn't want to risk me being on the streets, you see. Didn't want me to live a life of struggle and deprivation when she could endure Benedict's advances to ensure I had food, shelter, and some semblance of security.” Joan's voice broke slightly as the old guilt threatened to overwhelm her. “Eventually, she could no longer avoid him, and instead, she sacrificed herself for me, day after day, year after year.”
The fire crackled softly in the grate, the sound providing something for her to focus on, other than the cruel twist of pain in her heart.
“When I was fifteen, my mother died,” Joan said, the words coming out flat and emotionless, as though distance mightsomehow lessen their impact. “She caught a fever that winter and never recovered. I was left completely alone with Benedict, and for a while, grief consumed him so entirely that he barely noticed I existed.”
Joan wrapped her arms around herself, unconsciously recreating the protective posture that had become second nature during those dark years.
“He grieved for nearly two years, locked away in his study or wandering the estate like a ghost. I thought... I hoped that perhaps I might be safe, that his obsession had died with her.” Joan's laugh was bitter, devoid of any real humor. “But when I turned eighteen and began to look more like my mother, his interest shifted to me.”
“Bastard,” Graham said quietly, his voice tight with controlled fury that made the single word sound like a death sentence.
Joan nodded, finding odd comfort in his immediate and complete condemnation of her uncle's behavior.
“Uncle Benedict was quite a bastard,” she agreed with bitter humor. “At first, he was simply... kind to me. Attentive in ways he had never been before. He bought me new dresses, jewelry, books – things that seemed like genuine care but felt wrong somehow.”
She could see Graham's hands clenching into fists where they rested on his thighs, his knuckles white with the force of his restrained anger.
“This kindness made Georgina terribly jealous,” Joan continued. “She couldn't understand why her father was suddenly showering attention on me when he had barely acknowledged my existence for years. But she didn't know what was really happening behind closed doors. Or perhaps she did know and simply didn't want to accept it. Perhaps it was easier for her to blame my mother and me rather than confront the truth about her father.”
Joan's voice grew steadier as she continued, drawing strength from Graham's unwavering attention and the absence of judgment in his dark eyes.
“With time, his advances became more obvious, more persistent, and I knew I had to escape. I tried the first time and failed. He caught me before I even reached the estate's boundary, and afterward, he had me locked in the house like a prisoner. All the doors were kept locked, all the windows on the lower floors were barred, and there was always someone watching me.”
Graham's breathing had grown audibly harsh, but he remained silent, allowing her to continue at her own pace.
“But being locked up only made me more determined,” Joan said, a note of pride creeping into her voice. “I knew that if I didn't escape soon, I would never have another chance. So I planned more carefully the second time. I studied the guards' routines, found a window on the second floor that they had forgotten to bar, and gathered supplies slowly over several weeks.”
She turned to look directly at Graham, needing to see his reaction to the most crucial part of her story.
“That's how I ended up at the inn where we met,” she said simply. “I had been traveling for two days, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Benedict's house. I was exhausted, terrified, and completely alone in the world.”
Graham was silent for a long moment, his jaw working as though he were struggling to control his response. When he finally spoke, his voice was deadly quiet, filled with a rage so controlled it was almost more frightening than open fury would have been.
“If that bastard were still alive,” he said with absolute conviction, “I would kill him myself. Slowly and painfully, and I would take great pleasure in watching him suffer for every moment of fear he caused you.”
Joan looked up at him, seeing the sincerity burning in his dark eyes, and felt something warm unfurl in her chest. The protective fury in his voice, the immediate and complete condemnation of Benedict's actions, was unlike anything she had ever experienced.
“Benedict is no longer going to be a problem for anyone,” she said quietly. “According to Georgina, he died several months ago, though she was rather vague about the circumstances.”
They sat in comfortable silence for several minutes, the dying fire casting shifting shadows across the book–lined walls.Finally, Graham asked the question Joan had been dreading, his voice gentle but filled with curiosity.
“Joan,” he said carefully, “Why did ye sleep with me that night? I've wondered about it for five years – even more so after we were wed, but I never wanted to press ye for answers you might not be ready to give.”
Joan felt her cheeks burn with a heavy mix of embarrassment and something deeper, more complex. She forced herself to meet his eyes, needing him to see the truth in her face.
“I had always hated being touched,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire. “By anyone, for any reason, as a result of my uncle’s advances. The very thought of physical contact made my skin crawl, made me feel sick and trapped and desperate to escape.”
