Page 19 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

G raham stood before his mirror, adjusting his cravat for the third time as his valet looked on with barely concealed impatience.

The reflection staring back at him was impeccably dressed – his evening coat was perfectly tailored, his shoes polished to a mirror shine, and his hair combed into fashionable waves.

He looked every inch the proper English duke the ton desired him to be.

But his thoughts were rather disorganized.

Tonight would be Joan's first appearance as the Duchess of Rutledge at a major social event.

The Pemberton ball was one of the most prestigious gatherings of the London season, attended by everyone who considered themselves important in society.

Graham had initially planned to avoid such events altogether, knowing how the ton viewed him, but marriage had changed his priorities.

Joan deserved to take her rightful place in society. She deserved to be recognized and respected as his duchess, regardless of what the gossips might whisper about her mysterious past or his Scottish origins.

“Will that be all, Your Grace?” his valet asked pointedly.

Graham nodded, dismissing the man with a wave.

He needed a moment to collect himself before facing what was certain to be an evening of scrutiny and barely veiled hostility from London's social elite.

He did not care for their ridicule, but he knew he might have to stand between Joan and some people, a decision he would make in a heartbeat without hesitation.

A soft knock at his door interrupted his brooding. “Come,” he called.

The door opened to reveal Joan, and Graham felt his breath catch in his throat.

The sapphire blue gown that Madame Dubois had created for her was nothing short of perfection.

The silk hugged her curves in all the right places, while the neckline was modest enough to be respectable yet low enough to hint at the treasures beneath.

Her dark blonde hair was swept up in an elegant updo, with a few artfully arranged curls framing her face.

She looked like a goddess.

“You're staring,” Joan said softly, her cheeks flushing pink under his intense gaze.

“I'm appreciating,” Graham corrected, moving toward her. “You look absolutely breathtaking, mo chridhe .”

Joan's blush deepened. “Thank you. Though I must say, I feel rather like I'm wearing a costume. I keep expecting someone to point out that I don't belong.”

“You belong wherever I am,” Graham said firmly, offering her his arm. “And tonight, you're going to remind every person in that ballroom exactly why I chose you above all others.”

The carriage ride to the Pemberton estate was filled with comfortable silence, though Graham could sense Joan's nervousness in the way she fidgeted with her gloves.

He wanted to reassure her, to promise that he would shield her from any unpleasantness, but he knew she needed to find her own strength.

The Pemberton ballroom was ablaze with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off the gilded mirrors and crystal chandeliers that adorned the walls. The cream of London society was in attendance, the ladies resplendent in their finest gowns, the gentlemen elegant in their evening wear.

Graham felt the familiar weight of hostile stares as they were announced. Conversations paused, fans snapped open to hide whispered comments, and more than one person turned to get a better look at the Scottish duke and his mysterious bride.

“Breathe,” Graham murmured to Joan as they descended the stairs.

“I am breathing,” she whispered back, though her grip on his arm tightened noticeably.

They made their way through the receiving line, Graham introducing Joan to their hosts with practiced ease. Lord and Lady Pemberton were gracious enough, though Graham caught the calculating look in Lady Pemberton's eyes as she assessed Joan's appearance and bearing.

“What a lovely gown, Your Grace,” Lady Pemberton said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Such an unusual color choice. Very... bold.”

“His Grace chose the color himself,” Joan replied smoothly. “He has excellent taste in all things.”

Graham felt a surge of pride at her diplomatic response. She was handling the veiled slight with grace and composure.

The evening proceeded much as Graham had expected.

He and Joan moved through the ballroom, making polite conversation with various members of the ton.

Some were genuinely welcoming, curious about the new duchess, and willing to give her a chance.

Others were less kind, their comments carefully crafted to sound complimentary while carrying barbs of criticism.

Graham found himself growing increasingly tense as the evening wore on.

Every slight against Joan, no matter how subtle, made his jaw clench with suppressed anger.

When Lord Whitmore made a comment about how refreshing it was to meet a duchess who had “risen so far above her original station”, Graham's hand moved instinctively to Joan's back, a possessive gesture that he hoped conveyed his support.

“Perhaps we should – “ he began, thinking to suggest they take some air on the terrace.

“Joan! There you are!”

Graham turned to see a young woman approaching them with what appeared to be enthusiasm, though something in her expression made him instantly wary.

He recalled seeing her at their wedding, seated alongside Sophia, and the likeness between her and his wife in terms of their blonde hair and blue eyes spoke of a familial bond.

But there was a hardness around her mouth that spoke of a cruel nature.

“Georgina,” Joan said, her voice carefully neutral. “How lovely to see you.”

Georgina Brooks. This was the cousin who had hosted Joan after her return to London. The same one who refused to send for a daughter when Sophia was sick, Graham realized to his ire.

“I simply had to come and congratulate you on your marriage properly, since I was unable to do so on the day of,” Georgina said, her voice sickeningly sweet.

“Though I must say, I am quite surprised to see you both making a public appearance so soon.

I would have thought you would take a little more time to adjust to your new title, in order to avoid the likelihood of making a mistake.

After all, it wasn't so long ago that you were living in such... modest circumstances.”

Graham felt his muscles tense at the obvious insult, but Joan's hand on his arm warned him to stay silent.

“Yes, well,” Joan replied evenly, “My husband thought it would be rude to turn down an invitation offered to us so graciously by our hosts. It is proper manners to accept, after all.”

“Indeed, it is,” Georgina agreed without seeming like she meant to, her eyes moving to Graham with barely concealed disdain.

“And Your Grace, how romantic that you should choose to marry so quickly after meeting dear Joan. Some might call it impulsive, but I suppose when one has been... unlucky in love for so long, one might be inclined to act hastily when an opportunity presents itself.”

The implication was clear: Graham had settled for Joan out of desperation rather than genuine affection. Graham's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but before he could respond, Georgina continued her assault.

“Of course, it must be quite an adjustment for you both. Dear Joan, despite her... shall we say unconventional upbringing, now finds herself in such elevated company. And Your Grace must be pleased to have found someone willing to overlook certain... disadvantages of birth and breeding.”

Graham had heard enough. “I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice deadly quiet, “but I believe you've mistaken my wife for someone who requires your pity or condescension.”

Georgina's eyes widened with false innocence. “Oh! I meant no offense, Your Grace. I was merely observing how fortunate – “

“How fortunate I am,” Graham interrupted, “To have married the most remarkable woman in England. A woman whose intelligence, grace, and beauty put every other lady in this room to shame. A woman who chose to honor me with her hand in marriage despite having every reason to refuse.”

Georgina's mouth fell open at his direct contradiction of her implications.

“Now,” Graham continued, his tone becoming even more dangerously polite, “I suggest you keep your opinions about my wife to yourself. Unless, of course, you enjoy being cut from respectable society entirely. You might not think much of me, but my title is no joke either.”

The threat was unmistakable. As a duke, Graham had the social power to make Georgina's life very difficult if he chose to do so.

“I... of course, Your Grace,” Georgina stammered, backing away. “I meant no harm...”

She fled into the crowd without another word, leaving Joan staring up at Graham with something that looked like wonder.

“You didn't have to defend me,” she said quietly.

“Yes, I did,” Graham replied. “You're my wife. No one speaks to you that way in my presence.”

Before Joan could respond, the orchestra began playing the opening strains of a waltz. Graham turned to her with a formal bow.

“Your Grace,” he said, his tone shifting to something lighter, “Would you honor me with this dance?”

Joan's smile was radiant as she placed her hand in his. “It would be my pleasure, Your Grace.”

Graham led her onto the dance floor, acutely aware of the eyes following their every movement. Let them stare. Let them whisper. Joan was his wife, and after waiting for so long to have her, he was proud to claim her before all the world.

As they moved together in perfect synchronization, Graham found himself leaning closer to speak quietly in her ear. “You realize every man in this room is envying me tonight?”

Joan's cheeks flushed prettily. “I hardly think – “

“They are,” Graham insisted, spinning her gracefully. “They're all wondering how a rough Scottish barbarian managed to win the hand of such an exquisite creature.”

“Graham,” Joan warned, but her voice was breathless with suppressed laughter.

“Do you know what I'm thinking about?” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear.

“I'm almost afraid to ask,” Joan murmured.

“I'm thinking about how beautiful you look in that gown,” Graham said, his mouth brushing against her ear. “But I'm also thinking about how much more beautiful you'll look when I take it off you tonight.”

Joan stumbled slightly, her face flaming with embarrassment. “Graham!”

“I'm thinking about kissing every inch of skin that's hidden beneath all that sapphire silk,” he continued relentlessly. “I'm thinking about making you cry out my name so loudly that the servants will have no doubt about how thoroughly their duke satisfies his duchess.”

“You cannot say such things while we're dancing,” Joan hissed, though her eyes had darkened with unmistakable desire.

“Why not?” Graham asked innocently. “We're married. It's perfectly natural for a husband to desire his wife.”

“But not to speak of it so... explicitly. Especially not in public,” Joan protested.

“I could speak of it much more explicitly,” Graham assured her with a wicked grin. “I could tell you exactly what I plan to do to you the moment we're alone. How I plan to worship every curve of your body until you're begging me for release.”

Joan's breath caught audibly, and Graham felt a surge of masculine satisfaction at her reaction.

“I could tell you how I've been aching to be inside you again, after so many years,” he continued, his voice growing rougher. “How I lie awake at night thinking about the sounds you make when I touch you. How I want to watch your face when you come apart beneath me.”

“Graham, please,” Joan whispered, and he wasn't sure if she was begging him to stop or to continue.

“I want to taste you again,” he murmured against her ear. “I want to make you forget everything except the feeling of my mouth on your skin. I want to make you mine in every possible way.”

Joan's grip on his shoulder tightened convulsively, and Graham could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to maintain her composure.

The waltz came to an end far too soon, and Graham was forced to step back and bow formally. Joan curtsied in return, but he could see the dazed look in her eyes, the way her lips were parted as though she was having trouble breathing.

“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace,” he said with perfect propriety, though his eyes conveyed a very different message.

“The pleasure was mine,” Joan managed, her voice slightly hoarse.

As they walked back toward the edge of the ballroom, Joan seemed to be struggling to regain her balance. Graham watched with satisfaction as she discreetly fanned herself, clearly affected by their intimate conversation.

“Are you quite well, mo chridhe ?” he asked innocently.

Joan shot him a look that was equal parts frustrated and aroused. “You know perfectly well that I am not.”

Graham chuckled, offering her his arm. “Perhaps some refreshment would help?”

But as they made their way toward the refreshment table, Graham couldn't help but notice that Joan's eyes kept drifting to him with a hunger that matched his own.

The desire between them was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore, and Graham found himself hoping that the evening would end sooner rather than later.

He wanted his wife in his bed, wanted to make good on every promise his whispered words had implied. And judging by the way Joan kept glancing at him when she thought he wasn't looking, she wanted the same thing.

The thought of what awaited them at home made the remainder of the evening feel interminable. But Graham forced himself to be patient. Joan was beginning to trust him, beginning to let down her guard. Tonight, perhaps, she would finally allow herself to admit what they both knew to be true.

Her feelings for him were growing.

And God help him, he was already completely, irrevocably lost to her.