Page 24 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“ T ell me more about this prince.”
Those seemed to be the exact words Sophia wished to hear, and she immediately opened up her book to regale her mother with tales of this valiant, noble prince who put the safety of his princess above all else.
Something about her daughter’s voice, the way the afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows of the drawing room, casting geometric patterns of light across the Persian carpet, filled Joan with a sense of contentedness.
Her embroidery sat by her side, forgotten as she focused her attention on her daughter, a smile on her face as she listened closely.
Days like these felt like a dream. The golden rays that made her daughter look so ethereal, the faint scent of lavender in the air – courtesy of the fresh flowers Mrs. Wintersdown ensured were placed in each room every four days – all of it attested to the good life that Joan had found.
One she only hoped would last.
Things with her husband were perfect, but the unease beneath her skin remained, gripping her whenever she watched him interact with their daughter. She still did not understand what her worth was to him, could not fathom the basis of their union, beyond a means for him to get close to Sophia.
“I told Papa he was like a prince, and he said I was his princess!” Sophia stated proudly.
Joan ignored the pang in her chest that stung, putting on a brave smile for the sake of her child, who had dreamed of a father for so long, who was deserving of all the good in the world.
“Is that so? Well, he is not wrong at all. You are my precious poppet princess. Even lovelier than any of the flowers in the gardens.”
Sophia blushed, so pleased she rushed to her mother’s side to cling to her arms.
“Papa also said you were his queen,” she told Joan with a grin.
Joan’s heart skipped a beat; this time, warmth spread through her veins.
“R–Really?”
“Yes!” Sophia nodded, looking for all the world like there was nothing better to her. “I told him I can’t be the princess because you are the princess. And he said you were his queen!”
Why did Graham insist on being like this? Why was it so important for him to be so kind and affectionate towards her? Especially since he already had Sophia hopelessly enamored with him?
“Wouldn’t… wouldn’t that make him a King then? If I am his queen and you are our beloved princess? Kings are quite noble too,” Joan pointed out when she found her voice.
Sophia gasped, as though the revelation had just shattered her perception of all she had known.
“It would!”
Joan giggled, her heart so full of love, despite the confusion that plagued her mind. She loved her daughter, and she hoped that Graham’s kindness would never cease.
The peaceful atmosphere was interrupted by the soft sound of Williams clearing his throat from the doorway. Joan looked up to see the butler's usually composed expression marked by uncertainty, his hands clasped behind his back as he straightened his posture even more.
“Your Grace,” he began, his voice carrying a tone that suggested something was amiss. “There is a gentleman here to see His Grace. A Mr. Thomas Hartwell, one of the tenants from the town. He seems quite... agitated.”
Joan cleared her throat, holding onto one of Sophia’s hands with one of hers, the other smoothing the fabric of her dress as she rose.
Through the window, she could see the empty circular path where only two of their own carriages sat beneath the oak trees.
Graham had departed over two hours ago for a meeting with his solicitor, and as more time passed, she suspected he would not return until evening.
“His Grace is not at home presently,” she said in a quiet tone, knowing that the butler was well aware of this. “Perhaps Mr. Hartwell could return tomorrow when my husband is available?”
Williams shifted again, and Joan could see the reluctance in his lined face.
“I did mention that possibility, Your Grace, but he insisted the matter was urgent.
He's traveled quite far – left at sunrise, he says – to speak with His Grace about some dispute regarding his land. The man seems genuinely distressed.”
Joan felt her stomach tighten with nervousness, a familiar flutter that had to do with her lingering uncertainty about her role in this grand house.
The weight of responsibility seemed to press against her shoulders like a physical burden, the heaviness making her feel a little winded.
She was still unfamiliar with her tasks as a duchess, still learning how to maintain the delicate balance between authority and humility that the position required.
The thought of handling estate matters without Graham's steady presence made her feel like a child playing at being an adult.
She considered standing her ground, but she recalled what Mrs. Wintersdown had said about how important it was to maintain good relationships with their tenants on the duke’s behalf.
It seemed that there was no way around this, not if she wished to remain valuable to Graham.
“Very well,” she said, straightening her shoulders in a gesture she hoped would portray confidence. “Please show him to the blue parlor. I shall speak with him directly.”
The butler bowed and left to carry out her directive. Joan let out a breath she did not realize she was holding, shifting her attention to Sophia, who had been waiting quietly.
Gently, she spoke to her, stroking her hair.
“Mama has to tend to a task for Papa. Will you be a good girl and wait with Penelope for a while?”
Sophia nodded, and Joan smiled down at her, proud of how obedient her child was.
Penelope was waiting outside the drawing room, and the maid happily took the little lady away. Joan watched them until they were out of sight, inhaling deeply before she turned around to walk in the opposite direction.
The blue parlor was one of Joan's favorite rooms in the house, with its walls painted in a soft shade that reminded her of summer skies.
From the delicate porcelain figurines adorned on the mantelpiece, to the fresh flowers from the garden, and even the polish the maids used to give the furniture a neat shine.
Everything within the walls of the room often brought Joan a sense of comfort that lingered within her, even after she left the room.
Today, however, the room's beauty seemed to highlight tell-tale signs of her own inexperience.
She felt keenly aware of every detail about the space and herself, the way her shoes curved over her feet and the soft rustle of her skirts as she settled into a settee, hoping she at least looked as reliable as the guest needed.
Moments later, Williams came in with Mr Hartwell.
The tenant appeared to be a man who had spent the better part of his life being shaped by years of outdoor labor, his face weathered to the color of old leather by sun and wind.
As he took off his cap respectfully, Joan couldn’t help but notice his hands, riddled with calluses, his nails stained to the color of dirt.
His appearance was tidy, but his clothes were clearly well-worn, and Joan was enthralled by how he carried an air of dignity, regardless of his obvious discomfort in the elegant surroundings.
“Your Grace,” he said, offering a respectful bow even though his tone bore a hint of agitation. “I'm grateful that you decided to see me, although I'd hoped to speak with His Grace directly about this matter.”
Joan gestured to the chair across from her, noting sadly how he perched on its edge as though afraid his work clothes might somehow damage the fine upholstery.
“I understand completely, Mr. Hartwell,” she replied, folding her hands in her lap in a gesture she hoped projected calm authority despite the nervous flutter in her chest. “However, my husband is attending to business in London today and will not return until quite late. Perhaps I might be of assistance? I should very much like to help resolve whatever troubles have brought you such a long way.”
The farmer's jaw tightened visibly, and Joan could see the frustration simmering beneath his respectful posture. His knuckles were white where he gripped his cap, and a muscle in his cheek twitched as he seemingly struggled to find the right words.
“I would rather not bother you, or anyone would with this matter, Your Grace, but it seems the perpetrator and I have failed to reach an agreement on our own. It concerns the plot of land I purchased last spring,” he began, his voice carrying the rough accent of the countryside, his slow drawl hinting that he was trying to speak carefully.
“The one on the eastern boundary of my property, near the old stone wall that marks the creek. I paid good money for twelve acres – counted out every shilling myself, I did – but when I finally had it properly surveyed last month, it measured barely eight.”
Joan frowned, leaning forward slightly in her chair.
The discrepancy seemed enormous, the kind of difference that could mean the difference between prosperity and poverty for a farming family.
“That is quite a significant discrepancy, Mr. Hartwell. Surely there must be some mistake in the measurements?”
“That's what I thought at first, Your Grace. Had it surveyed twice, by two different men, just to be certain. Both came up with the same numbers.” His voice grew more strained, and Joan could see the toll this worry had taken on him in the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight.
“But that's not the worst of it, if you'll pardon my saying so.”
Joan felt a chill run down her spine despite the warmth of the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. “Please, continue.”