Page 25 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)

“The Duke, well–meaning as he may be,” Mr. Hartwell said, his voice growing bitter though his tone somehow remained respectful, “Doesn't seem to care much about our troubles beyond collecting his rents when they're due.

I've sent three letters about this matter, Your Grace.

Three letters, each one carefully written out by my eldest boy, who knows how to write his words better than I do.

But I've received no response, not so much as an acknowledgment that they were received.”

Joan felt heat rise in her cheeks, her hands clenching instinctively in her lap. The implied criticism of her husband hit as though she had been struck, the pain even more severe because she knew it was wrong, somehow, quite unlike the man she had come to know.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Hartwell,” she said, her voice surprisingly gaining an edge of strength and authority, “But I must respectfully disagree with that assessment.”

The farmer's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise at her firm tone, his weathered face registering shock that the soft–spoken duchess had such steel in her voice. “Your Grace?”

Joan sat up even straighter than she already was, her gaze determined as she set it upon her guest.

“My husband works tirelessly to ensure that all his tenants and members of his household are sufficiently cared for,” she stated, turning back to face Mr. Hartwell, her voice laced with conviction.

“He practically lives in his study, Mr. Hartwell.

I have found him there at all hours, consistently thinking of ways to improve everyone's way of life, poring over accounts and correspondence until his eyes are red with fatigue.”

She tightened the grip her hands had on each other, willing herself to continue.

“I have watched him work through dinner, seen him fall asleep over his ledgers because he was so absorbed in ensuring that every repair needed on tenant properties was completed, every concern addressed, every improvement carefully considered and implemented. Just last week, he spent an entire evening calculating the costs of new roofing for the cottages near Millbrook, determined that no family should suffer through another winter with leaking thatch.”

She paused, thinking of a few evenings when she had found Graham bent over his large desk in the study after their mandatory dinners, the room lit by multiple candles as he worked late into the night.

The sight had initially puzzled her – surely a duke of his wealth and standing could delegate such detailed work to others.

But she had come to understand that Graham took his responsibilities with the seriousness of a sacred trust, shouldering the burdens of those under him as though they were solely his to bear.

“If His Grace has not responded to your letters,” she continued, her voice softening slightly but losing none of its determination, “I can assure you with complete certainty that it is not from lack of caring, but perhaps because he has been overwhelmed with other pressing matters, or because the letters themselves never reached him. I shall speak with him this very evening about your situation, and I give you my word as his wife that this matter will be resolved promptly and fairly.”

Mr. Hartwell studied her face carefully for a long moment, and Joan could see him weighing her words. The silence stretched between them, filled only with the soft ticking of the mantel clock and the distant sound of birds singing in the garden.

“I appreciate that, Your Grace, I do,” he said finally, his voice gentler than before.

“But it would be easier to believe – easier for all of us in the village to believe – if His Grace were to visit us occasionally. Show his face, every now and then, and speak with us directly. That will assure us that he is well aware of our existence, beyond mere names in a rent book.”

Joan understood his plight greatly. From what she had learned about her husband, he certainly preferred to keep his public presence low, and she knew it was because of the rumors that surrounded his name.

Even her own cousin was certain no good would come out of their union, her conviction based on heresy about a man she had never personally exchanged words with.

But she could see Mr. Hartwell's point as well, and she understood the need his tenants had to see him as more than a landlord. They needed to feel as though their welfare mattered to the man responsible for their livelihoods.

“Mr. Hartwell,” she said slowly, an idea beginning to form in her mind, “I recently caught wind of a harvest festival to be held in Millfield next month. It sounds as though a good time is guaranteed, if the way the servants have excitedly whispered about it is any indication. Do you think such an occasion could provide an opportunity for His Grace to meet with his tenants in a more... informal setting?”

The farmer's eyes lit up with interest, his form looking lighter as his frustration was replaced by hope.

“Aye, Your Grace, it certainly would. 'Tis a grand celebration, bringing people together from miles around for games and dancing and other kinds of merriment.

There's music and food, friendly competitions for the children, and everyone feels like family at the end of the day.

The Duke's presence would be most welcome – more than welcome. It would be an honor.”

Joan felt her heart rise into her throat as she spoke, frightened and excited at the prospect of her proposal. “Then I shall ensure that His Grace, myself, and our daughter attend as a family. We can meet with tenants, address concerns, and celebrate alongside everyone else.”

Mr. Hartwell's aged and tired face broke into the first genuine smile she had seen from him, his features looking more open than they had been in the minutes he had been in her presence.

“That would be splendid, Your Grace. Truly. The people would be honored by your presence, and it would mean more than you know to see that His Grace cares enough to celebrate with us.”

After Mr. Hartwell took his leave, expressing his gratitude repeatedly and with obvious sincerity beforehand, Joan remained in the blue parlor, her thoughts wandering to her husband.

When they had first met at that inn five years ago, Graham had spoken of his father's passing with a hint of grief tinging his voice, but that was not what had stayed in her mind, untouched by time.

It was the way he had desperately hoped to be able to care for his family in the face of such a difficult loss.

. The man she had known then had walked with burdens on his shoulders, determined to honor his father's memory by protecting and providing for those left behind.

Now, looking around at the home he had provided her and their daughter, it was obvious he had excelled at his hopes.

He was caring for many families now, beyond his own blood relations, his generosity extending to the souls who worked and lived on his lands.

There was no basis to accuse him of neglecting his wife and child either, as they had been utterly spoiled since their first night in the estate, his thoughtfulness managing to steal her breath each time she thought about it.

Joan realized that Graham embodied perfection in many ways, and the clarity of the realization brought a twinge of worry. In the face of her own unworthiness and inadequacies, would he send her away? Would she disappoint him, irritating him as a burden with no use?

The thought sent cold fear racing through her veins, and she shook her head, willing such thoughts away.

No , she told herself determinedly. I will do all I can to be useful to him, so that he has fewer reasons to turn me away.