Page 27 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)
Sophia obediently began gathering her painting supplies, her small hands careful with the precious watercolor box that had been a gift from Graham.
As they approached the two women, Joan found herself suddenly conscious of her appearance – her simple dress, though clean and well–made, was hardly suitable for receiving guests of obvious importance.
Her hair, although brushed, was hanging loosely over her shoulders and down her back, and she was certain there were grass and dirt stains on the hem of her skirts from sitting on the ground.
Still, she approached her guests with as much dignity as she could conjure, her head held high with her daughter’s warm hand in hers.
“Good afternoon,” Joan said pleasantly, offering what she hoped was a graceful smile despite her informal attire. “Welcome to our home. I am Joan Lennox, Duchess of Rutledge.”
The younger woman's face immediately brightened with genuine delight, her features transforming with a warmth that was instantly appealing.
“Oh, how absolutely wonderful to finally meet you!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying the familiar accent that Joan had learned to associate with Graham's homeland. “We've been so eager to make your acquaintance! Graham has written of you, but seeing you in person is such a treat!”
The lady seemed younger than Joan, and her words seemed to dance with excitement and joy, making the duchess feel more at ease.
The older woman, however, remained silent, her sharp eyes taking in Joan's appearance with what appeared to be a strict assessment.
Joan felt suddenly awkward under that penetrating gaze, uncertain what to make of the distinctly mixed reception.
“Oh, I’m afraid we haven't been properly introduced,” Joan said carefully, glancing between the two women while trying to maintain her composure despite the older woman's obvious disapproval.
Before either visitor could respond, Graham's voice rang out behind her, carrying a note of surprise that immediately put Joan on alert. “Mother? Isobel? What are you both doing here?”
Joan felt her stomach plummet like a stone thrown into deep water as realization dawned with horrible clarity.
These were her in-laws – Graham's family had arrived completely unannounced, and here she was looking like a common wife rather than a duchess, because she had decided to laze about in the garden with her daughter.
The mortification was so complete that she felt heat flood her entire body from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.
“Graham!” The younger woman – Isobel – rushed forward to embrace her brother with obvious affection, her previous enthusiasm now directed toward Joan’s husband, who had made it to where they were standing with purposeful strides.
“I cannot believe you got married and did not invite any of us!
Though I must say, I'm genuinely surprised you got married at all. You never seemed the type to settle down with anyone.”
Graham returned his sister's embrace, though Joan could see the tension in his broad shoulders, the careful control in his movements. His dark eyes found Joan's over Isobel's shoulder, and she could see both apology and concern in their depths.
“Isobel, you know perfectly well that I—” he began, but was interrupted by his mother's voice, sharp with disapproval and hurt.
“I never needed a reason to visit my son before,” Mary Lennox said, her tone carrying clear disappointment that seemed to fill the space between them.
Her eyes flickered briefly over Joan and Sophia before returning to Graham, the dismissal as clear as if she had spoken it aloud. The message was unmistakable: Joan and her daughter were unwelcome obstacles in this reunion.
Joan’s cheeks burned with shame and embarrassment.
She began to take a step backward, intending to gather Sophia and retreat into the house to give Graham privacy with his family – and perhaps to hide her own mortification at being found so unprepared.
But Graham's hand suddenly caught hers, his fingers warm and utterly reassuring.
“Mother, Isobel,” he said firmly, his accent thickening slightly as it always did when emotion ran high, “I'd like ye to meet my wife, Joan, and my daughter, Sophia.”
Joan felt Sophia press closer to her side, the child's natural shyness asserting itself in the face of these intimidating strangers. The little girl's paint-stained fingers clutched at Joan's skirt, seeking comfort and protection from the sudden tension that seemed to settle in the air around them.
Graham continued after a glance down at Sophia, his voice containing a note of reproach that surprised Joan.
“You should have sent word ahead of your arrival. We could have prepared properly for your visit and ensured that you received the welcome you deserved.”
Isobel laughed, the sound bright and airy like a musical note, obviously happy enough with the sight of her brother to concern herself with any form of propriety.
“Oh, Graham, since when do we concern ourselves with such ceremony?
We're family! Besides, we wanted to surprise you – and to meet this mysterious wife who has captured your heart so completely!”
Mary Lennox's expression remained unchanged as she added. “I suppose we should have expected you might have... obligations now.”
The way the word 'obligations' had been uttered made it sound like something distasteful, something that had tainted the simple family reunion.
It was abundantly clear that Graham's mother's view of his wife and child was not as positive as Joan feared that she might not be able to rectify the issue somehow.
Throughout the dinner that followed, the tension only increased, settling over the dining room like a heavy blanket.
Isobel proved to be absolutely delightful company, her conversation sparkling with wit and genuine warmth.
She regaled them with amusing stories of their childhood in Scotland, painting vivid pictures of Graham as a serious young boy who took his responsibilities far too seriously, always trying to protect his sister – both elder and younger – from their adventurous impulses.
But he was just as mischievous, she pointed out, grinning as she mentioned moments of his competitiveness against their eldest sister Margaret.
Her genuine interest in getting to know both Joan and Sophia was evident in every question she asked, every story she encouraged them to share.
But Mary's disapproval hung over the table like a storm cloud, her comments growing progressively more barbed as the evening progressed.
At first, she was unhappy with the state in which she had found them.
“A child should be properly trained with tutors, not encouraged to waste time by playing in the garden. Not to mention she was not looked after close enough, because she greeted us in such an untidy state.”
“She is a child, Mother. We were all entitled to grow at a proper pace, so we could make healthy memories. I am not going to stuff her in a room with a strict tutor who doesn’t know anything about her.
Let her paint and play around as much as she wishes.
She can be taught things later,” Graham stated, the smile on his lips never leaving as he carefully dabbed at the smear of gravy on Sophia’s cheek.
Later, it was more about Joan’s qualifications as a duchess.
“Who is your father?”
Joan cleared her throat, taking a sip of wine before she stated, “Was. He was the Viscount of Farhampton. He passed when I was a child.”
“I see,” Mary said after a moment of silence. “Do you have any other noteworthy relatives?”
“Mother, these are not proper subjects to discuss at dinner,” Graham snapped in irritation.
Though Mary relented then, she later picked up her investigations. Each carefully worded criticism was like a small blade, designed to cut without being overtly rude, maintaining the facade of civility while making her feelings abundantly clear.
“It's quite unconventional, of course,” she remarked at one point while delicately cutting her roasted lamb with perhaps more force than necessary, “Taking on a widow with a child. Though I suppose Graham always was given to... impulsive decisions, even as a boy.”
Joan felt her grip on her utensils weaken at the clear implications of her mother-in-law’s words.
According to her, Graham had been foolish and had somehow been trapped or manipulated into marriage; that Sophia was an unwanted burden he had been saddled with rather than the beloved daughter he adored.
Before Joan could find words that would be both truthful and diplomatic, Graham's fork clattered against his plate with a sound that cut through the air.
“That's enough,” he said quietly, but his voice was deadly calm as it reflected his worn patience. “This is my house, Mother, and if ye wish to remain as my guest, ye will show proper respect to my wife and daughter.”
Mary's eyebrows shot upward in genuine shock, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a fish. She had never expected her son to challenge her so directly, especially not in front of strangers.
“Graham! I was merely—” she began, but he cut her off with a gesture that brooked no argument.
“Ye were being rude and unkind,” he interrupted, his accent thick now with barely restrained anger. “And I'll not have it at my table, not directed at the people I love most in this world.”
The silence that followed was deafening, as Mary's mouth opened and closed several more times before she seemed to gather herself, her spine straightening with offended dignity.
“Is the child yours?” she asked bluntly, abandoning any pretense of subtlety or tact.
Graham's response was immediate and unwavering.
“She is my daughter in every way that matters,” he said steadily, reaching over to ruffle Sophia's auburn hair with infinite gentleness.
The little girl had been following the adult conversation with wide, uncertain eyes, clearly sensing the tension but not understanding the reason.
“And I would very much appreciate it if ye did not make her feel otherwise.”
Mary said nothing more for the remainder of the meal, though Joan could feel the weight of her scrutiny throughout the rest of the evening. Every bite she took, every word she spoke, every gesture she made seemed to be noted and judged by those sharp, unforgiving eyes.