Page 44 of The Duke's Goddess

“Yes…Joan…”

The way her name rolled off of his lips sent a trickle of pleasure down her spine.

“Your sisters’ names are obscure.”

“That’s true. But at least the names are all significant and fierce.”

“Quite fierce, I would agree. It’s a good thing your parents’ eccentricities weren’t simply oddities. They could have named you after the months of the year.”

“Augusta wouldn’t be so bad,” Joan said with a smile.

“March?”

She laughed and scrunched her nose. “I have to admit that wouldn’t be ideal. But December has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

And she expected him to just agree. The soft sounds in the name would make a pretty girl’s name. But instead of responding, he sat dumbfounded, giving her the most peculiar look.

“You’re not joking, are you?” he asked dubiously.

“I’m not, actually. December. It has a nice sound. I could do it. Can you see me hugging my little December?”

James scowled at her.

“That’s uncalled for. A mother hugs her daughter no matter her name. Even if you don’t like the name, I do.” She crossed her arms across her chest. “I’m sure your mother gave you countless hugs, with a nice, likable name such as James.”

The weight in the air increased, shifting the energy from playful to somber. She wasn’t sure what she said, but there was no denying his heavy reply even though he tried to hide it with levity.

“Let me count how many hugs I received from my mother…”

The sentence hung in the air, and Joan waited thinking he would make another joke. He was always the one teasing and joking around with others. This was the most vulnerable she had seen him, and she wanted more of it. Her heart was soaking up everything about him, even his silence was revealing. So, when he continued to say nothing, no number at all, she acknowledged the pain he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, placing a hand on his chest. The thumping in his chest resonated through her palm. His heart beat to its own rhythm, yet she knew how to read it. Each beat called to her, telling her of the boy he once was and of the man he had become in spite of his childhood.

“It’s nothing. You don’t know what you don’t have. You can’t miss something you never knew.”

And since he was confessing, she decided to open up as well. She knew something about pain, and even though her experiencewith abandonment was entirely different, she could relate. And she wanted to. She wanted her heart to be closer to him. “I’ll never know what it’s like to have my mother at my wedding. Or hold my children. I miss that, even though I never had it.”

“That’s different. Your mother sounds loving.”

“I’m sure your mother—”

“And before you say you’re sure my mother loved me. Let me tell you something. She gave meThe Art of Waras a gift for my eighteenth birthday.”

“It’s a good book. My favorite in fact—”

“It’s the only gift she ever gave me.” His words were spoken mechanically. Not passionately. Not woefully. Just stated.

“I’m sorry,” Joan repeated, feeling helpless. How could a mother never show affection for her son? And how had this man grown into a protective, carefree, loyal human being despite such neglect?

Joan pushed herself up on her elbow and stared down at his face. He was so handsome. Yet he hid so much pain. He was so kind, yet he harbored so much bitterness. And he was full of passion, despite being raised with none.

His deep ocean blue eyes. Depths unfathomable. Clear at times. So clear that she could read him easily and communicate effortlessly. As though they had known each other their whole lives. Deep blue eyes that could darken to a squall. Reflective of the inner torment that could easily flood him. He battled himself and the storm, attempting to keep the waters calm.

“You’re…incredible,” she whispered. It was trite. It expressed next to nothing of all that was overflowing in her heart. But shehad to say something. She had to tell him…someone had to tell him…and she recklessly wanted it to be her. He called that out of her, her recklessness. It was unfathomable how he managed to do that without pressuring her in any way. He was incredible.

“You’re the only one that thinks—”

She pressed her fingers to his lips. Her heart ached for his pain, and she wanted to give him some strength to hold onto in addition to the resiliency he already possessed. “I’m not the only one that thinks this, James. You have friends that think the world of you. And even if your family never saw it, that doesn’t mean it’s not there. I’m sorry they were terrible to you. I’m sorry you grew up feeling unloved.” And as Joan expressed her empathy for him, her heart broke for the little boy that was never hugged by his mother. The little boy that had taught himself not to love. The little boy that had given up on love altogether. She could see the man that he was—the one he hid so carefully when everything else he did with recklessness. She could see the capacity of his heart. If only he could see it too. Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

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