Page 62 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
Joan forced herself to take a deep breath, drawing in the familiar scents of leather and Graham's cologne that usually made the carriage feel like a mobile sanctuary. “I'm being foolish,” she said, more to herself than to him. “There's no rational reason for this level of anxiety. Sophia is safe at home with people who care about her. We're only going to be gone for a few hours, and nothing terrible is likely to happen in such a short period.”
“Sometimes our instincts know things our rational minds haven't figured out yet,” Graham replied thoughtfully. “If something feels wrong to ye, perhaps we should pay attention to that feeling rather than dismissing it as mere nervousness.”
His words should have been comforting, but instead they seemed to validate Joan's growing sense of impending disaster. By the time they arrived at Catherine's beautiful estate, with its manicured gardens and elegant manor house, Joan felt as though she might jump out of her skin at the slightest provocation.
The garden party itself was a masterpiece of careful planning, with perfectly arranged tables scattered across the lawn, a quartet providing gentle melodies, and an array of refreshments that spoke to both Catherine's excellent taste and her household's considerable skill. The other guests were exactly the sort of people Joan had expected – local gentry and minornobility, all perfectly pleasant and appropriately curious about Graham's new wife.
Catherine herself was the perfect hostess, guiding Joan through introductions with the kind of effortless grace that made social interaction seem like an art form. Her husband, Sampson Richards, Duke of Rosehall, proved to be a charming man with kind eyes and an easy manner that immediately put Joan at ease despite her underlying anxiety.
But despite the beauty of the setting and the warmth of the welcome she received, Joan found herself constantly distracted, her mind repeatedly returning to Sophia. Every few minutes, she found her gaze drifting toward the path at the front of the house, longing to return to her child.
Graham, as always, seemed attuned to her distress with an accuracy that was both comforting and slightly unnerving. He appeared at her side whenever her anxiety seemed to grow, engaging her in conversation or drawing her attention to some aspect of the gathering that might distract her from her worries.
“The gardens here are quite remarkable,” he said at one point, guiding her toward a particularly spectacular display of late–blooming roses. “Catherine has always had a gift for creating beauty wherever she goes.”
Joan tried to focus on the flowers, breathing in their rich fragrance and admiring the way the afternoon light caught the dewdrops that still clung to their petals despite the warmth of the day. But even surrounded by such beauty, she couldn't shakethe feeling that she needed to be somewhere else, that every moment spent away from Sophia was a moment when disaster might strike.
As the afternoon progressed and her anxiety continued to mount rather than subside, Graham made a decision that spoke to his understanding of her needs and his willingness to prioritize her comfort over social obligations.
“Come with me,” he said quietly during a brief lull in the social requirements, taking her hand and leading her away from the gathered guests with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he had a specific destination in mind.
He guided her through Catherine's house, past elegant reception rooms and up a gracefully curved staircase, until they reached a small, empty parlor on the second floor. The room was decorated in shades of blue and cream, with windows that looked out over the gardens they had just left, but it was blessedly quiet and private, removed from the social pressures that had been adding to Joan's already considerable stress.
The moment the door closed behind them, Graham pulled her into his arms with the kind of desperate tenderness that suggested his own control had been stretched nearly to its breaking point by watching her suffer.
“Joan,” he breathed against her hair, his voice rough with emotion and concern, “I can't bear to see ye in such distress. Tell me how to help ye, tell me what ye need from me.”
The comfort of his embrace, the familiar scent and warmth of him, the privacy that allowed her to drop her social mask entirely – it all combined to melt Joan's defenses completely. Before she knew what she was doing, she was kissing him with a desperation that surprised them both, her hands fisting in his jacket as she pressed herself against him with an urgency that spoke to needs she hadn't even acknowledged.
“Please,” she whispered against his lips, surprising herself with her boldness and the honesty of her desire. “I need to feel connected to you, I need to know that you're here with me. Whatever it takes.”
Graham hummed, kissing her again, his hands a grounding force against her body, their closeness making her yearn for even more of his warmth.
“I think I might have an idea on how I might be able to distract you completely. But I need you to trust me,” he whispered along the curve of her jaw.
“Yes,” Joan groaned, desperate for more than he had given her. “Yes, I trust you completely – do anything you want with me.”
Graham's eyes darkened with an intensity that made her breath catch, his hands tightening on her waist as he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching her face for any sign of doubt or reservation.
“Do ye truly trust me, mo ghràdh?” he asked, his voice rough with desire and something deeper that made her heart race. “Completely and without reservation?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation, the word coming from somewhere deep in her soul where fear had been replaced by absolute faith in this man who had protected and cherished her from their first meeting. “I trust you with everything – my body, my heart, my very life.”
“Then let me show ye pleasure beyond anything ye've ever imagined,” he murmured, his hands already working at the fastenings of her dress with skill. “Let me take care of ye in every way possible.”
What followed was a revelation of sensation and connection that surpassed even Joan's most hopeful expectations. Graham's hands and mouth moved over her body with reverent tenderness, building layers of pleasure that she had never known were possible. Every touch, every caress, every whispered endearment seemed designed to worship her, to convince her body and soul that she was cherished beyond measure.
He led her to settle down on a chaise, his lips and hands barely managing to leave her skin and mouth for longer than necessary as he parted her legs, kneeling between them on the carpet. Joan could scarcely breathe as he mouthed along the insides of her thighs, drawing back each time he got too close to the wet heat between her legs.
“G-Graham,” she moaned in complaint. “Please, love. Please touch me.”
Graham looked up at her, his eyes dark with need as he reached for his neck, undoing his cravat with deft fingers, before raising it to her face. Almost immediately, she understood what he meant to do, lean her head forward as her heart beat increased in speed.
When he bound her eyes with his cravat, the silk soft against her skin, Joan felt a momentary flutter of anxiety that was quickly overwhelmed by the intensification of her other senses. Every touch became electric, every whispered word a caress, every breath a promise of devotion.
“Ye're so beautiful like this,” Graham whispered against the sensitive skin of her throat, his voice rough with emotion and desire. “So perfect, so responsive, so completely mine.”
His lips were on her most secret center, and she could barely bring her hand to her lips fast enough to hold back the scream that meant to burst out of your mouth. Graham paid no mind to her dilemma, his tongue stroking her dutifully, as though he couldn’t fathom putting his attention elsewhere.
