Page 31 of Claiming His Lost Duchess (The Dukes of Sin #8)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

L ater that evening, long after the children had been settled in their temporary beds and the adult conversation had wound down into comfortable murmurs, neither Joan nor Graham seemed able to settle into the peaceful sleep that should have followed such a perfect day.

Joan found herself wandering the familiar corridors of their home, her mind restless and churning with thoughts that refused to be organized into any coherent pattern.

The house felt different at night – larger somehow, filled with shadows and whispers of sound that might have been settling wood or might have been the ghosts of conversations that had taken place within these walls over the centuries.

The portraits that lined the hallways seemed to watch her pass with knowing eyes, as though they understood secrets about belonging and family that she was only beginning to discover.

She was surprised to discover warm light spilling from beneath the library door when she reached the main floor, and even more surprised to find Graham there when she pushed the heavy oak door open with careful fingers.

“Joan,” he said immediately, rising from his chair by the fire with the quick grace that never failed to make her pulse quicken. The concern that filled his voice was so genuine, so immediate, that it made her chest tighten with emotion.

“What are ye doing awake at such a late hour? Are ye feeling unwell? Is something troubling you that I can help with?”

The sight of him in the firelight – his hair slightly mussed from running his fingers through it, his shirt open at the collar in a way that spoke of relaxation and comfort, his dark eyes immediately focused on her with complete attention – made her breath catch in her throat.

“I'm fine,” she assured him quickly, moving further into the room and closing the door behind her. “Just restless, I suppose. Too much excitement for one day. I hope your family wasn't too overwhelming for you?”

Graham's expression softened into a smile that seemed to glow in the firelight.

“I suppose I should be the one asking you that. They were overwhelming – they always are,” he agreed with a low chuckle that rumbled from deep in his chest, “But I could see ye liked it anyway.”

The warmth in his voice, the obvious pleasure he took in her enjoyment of his family, made Joan feel bold enough to be completely honest.

“I did like it,” she admitted, settling onto the settee that faced the fireplace. “Very much. Though I must admit, it was all quite chaotic.”

The familiar scent of old books and woodsmoke that always permeated the library wrapped around her like a comfort, and it felt even better when his voice addressed her once more.

“Aye, it was quite chaotic growing up with them,” Graham said fondly, settling beside her on the settee with careful attention to maintaining proper distance even as his eyes remained fixed on her face.

“There was never a quiet moment in our household. It was always rowdy with arguments, song, or just… casual conversations that seemingly could never be had in a low tone.”

The wistfulness in his tone, the obvious love for his boisterous family mixed with something that might have been longing, prompted Joan to speak without thinking about the implications of her words.

“I wished I could have experienced even a fraction of that wonderful rowdiness during my childhood,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a note of old sadness that she couldn't hide.

“It would have made me so much happier, I think. To have that sense of belonging, of being part of something larger than myself.”

The words seemed to strike Graham’s heart, and his expression immediately grew serious and concerned in a way that made Joan realize she had revealed more than she intended.

“Joan,” he said carefully, shifting slightly closer to her on the settee, “Would ye... would ye tell me more about your childhood? About how ye came to be at that inn where we first met all those years ago?”

Joan felt her throat close with old fear and newer uncertainty, her hands automatically clenching in her lap as memories she usually kept carefully buried began to surface.

But something in Graham's face – the patient kindness there, the genuine desire to understand her rather than judge her, the complete absence of the criticism or disgust she had thought to expect when she considered revealing her past – made her nod slowly.

The settee was positioned perfectly to catch the warmth from the low fire, and the soft light created an intimate atmosphere that seemed to encourage honesty and vulnerability.

Graham remained perfectly still beside her, his attention completely focused on her words as though nothing else in the world mattered.

“My father was a viscount,” she began quietly, her voice barely above a whisper as she stared into the glowing embers.

“He died when I was very young – perhaps six or seven – and I barely remember him. Just impressions of a kind voice and gentle hands, the scent of pipe tobacco that clung to his clothes.”

Graham nodded encouragingly, settling back against the cushions to listen, though she could see the tension building in his shoulders as he prepared himself for whatever painful revelations were to come.

“My mother had no choice but to ask for help from my father's brother, Benedict, when Papa died,” Joan continued, each word carefully chosen as she navigated the treacherous territory of her memories. “Uncle Benedict inherited father’s title and the estate, and he moved into our house with his daughter, Georgina. At the time, it seemed like salvation – a way for Mother and me to remain in our home, to maintain some semblance of the life we had known.”

She paused, her hands twisting in her lap as the memories grew more difficult to voice.

“But Benedict was...” Joan's voice grew smaller, more uncertain, as though speaking the truth aloud might somehow make it worse than it had already been.

“He was obsessed with my mother in a way that was frightening even to a child. Even when I was very young, I remember seeing him corner her in empty rooms, trying to touch her, speaking to her in ways that made her face go white with fear.”

Graham's jaw tightened visibly, but he remained silent, allowing her to tell her story at her own pace.

“My mother was clever about it,” Joan said, a note of pride creeping into her voice despite the darkness of the memories.

“She would use my presence to escape his advances – calling me to her side, pretending she needed to tend to me immediately, using my childish interruptions as a shield against his unwanted attention.”

Joan's throat constricted with guilt that had lived inside her for years, growing heavier with each passing season.

“As I grew older and began to understand what was really happening,” she continued, “I begged my mother to leave, to take me away from that house and Benedict's horrible attention. But she never would, and I knew – even as a child, I knew – that she was staying because of me.”

Graham made a soft sound of sympathy, his hand moving as though he wanted to reach for her before stopping himself, respecting her need to tell this story without interruption.

“She didn't want to risk me being on the streets, you see.

Didn't want me to live a life of struggle and deprivation when she could endure Benedict's advances to ensure I had food, shelter, and some semblance of security.” Joan's voice broke slightly as the old guilt threatened to overwhelm her.

“Eventually, she could no longer avoid him, and instead, she sacrificed herself for me, day after day, year after year.”

The fire crackled softly in the grate, the sound providing something for her to focus on, other than the cruel twist of pain in her heart.

“When I was fifteen, my mother died,” Joan said, the words coming out flat and emotionless, as though distance might somehow lessen their impact.

“She caught a fever that winter and never recovered. I was left completely alone with Benedict, and for a while, grief consumed him so entirely that he barely noticed I existed.”

Joan wrapped her arms around herself, unconsciously recreating the protective posture that had become second nature during those dark years.

“He grieved for nearly two years, locked away in his study or wandering the estate like a ghost. I thought... I hoped that perhaps I might be safe, that his obsession had died with her.” Joan's laugh was bitter, devoid of any real humor.

“But when I turned eighteen and began to look more like my mother, his interest shifted to me.”

“Bastard,” Graham said quietly, his voice tight with controlled fury that made the single word sound like a death sentence.

Joan nodded, finding odd comfort in his immediate and complete condemnation of her uncle's behavior.

“Uncle Benedict was quite a bastard,” she agreed with bitter humor. “At first, he was simply... kind to me. Attentive in ways he had never been before. He bought me new dresses, jewelry, books – things that seemed like genuine care but felt wrong somehow.”

She could see Graham's hands clenching into fists where they rested on his thighs, his knuckles white with the force of his restrained anger.

“This kindness made Georgina terribly jealous,” Joan continued.

“She couldn't understand why her father was suddenly showering attention on me when he had barely acknowledged my existence for years.

But she didn't know what was really happening behind closed doors.

Or perhaps she did know and simply didn't want to accept it. Perhaps it was easier for her to blame my mother and me rather than confront the truth about her father.”

Joan's voice grew steadier as she continued, drawing strength from Graham's unwavering attention and the absence of judgment in his dark eyes.