Page 13 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester straightened and peered out the window as the carriage rolled down the winding road toward Lushton castle. It was a rather charming edifice with flowering vines crawling up the stone walls.

“Thoughts?”

She turned from the window to regard Thomas, who was leaning back in his seat as though nothing could ever trouble him. Her nerves had been in knots since the events of the night before, and she thought it unfair that he was unperturbed by it.

“I shall voice them after assessing the castle in its entirety,” she replied.

When the carriage stopped, he alighted first and held out his hand to her without ceremony.

Hester was grateful for the barrier of their gloves, and she took satisfaction in the distraction the castle provided her.

It truly was remarkable with its tall turrets reaching toward the sky and intricate stonework that was only visible up close.

“Come.” Thomas placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her up marble steps to the open front door.

Servants lined up in the grand foyer, bowing and curtsying the instant they walked in.

“Allow me to present the Duchess of Lushton,” Thomas said to them, then turned to Hester and gestured toward a reserved woman with silvering dark hair, gray eyes, and a rigid posture.

“This is Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper, and Mr. Slater the butler.” Mr. Slater bowed again in greeting, but his expression was stony.

“It is indeed a pleasure to welcome a duchess back to these halls, Your Grace,” Mrs. Smith said.

Her head inclined just enough to acknowledge Hester, yet her expression remained as cold and unyielding as the stone walls surrounding them.

A wave of disappointment washed over Hester, mingling with anger at the lackluster reception.

She scanned the faces of the other servants, each one as stoic as the next.

“Mrs. Smith shall assist ye in all matters pertainin’ to Lushton Castle. Ye will find her most capable,” Thomas declared, releasing her hand.

Hester’s heart plummeted. But I did not wed Mrs. Smith , she nearly protested, her lips parting to voice her frustration.

Yet before she could speak, the housekeeper glided forward, her arm sweeping in a gesture of command.

“Right this way, Your Grace. I believe you would wish to see your chambers now.”

Hester cast a glance at Thomas, but he had already turned away, issuing rapid instructions to Mr. Slater.

With a resigned sigh and a simmering disappointment, Hester followed Mrs. Smith through the grand hallways of the castle, a sense of abandonment settling over her like a heavy cloak.

She had hoped that he would show her the castle.

She paused mid-step and frowned. Why did she feel disappointed? This marriage was only a convenient arrangement and nothing more.

The castle was magnificent, and as they ascended the sweeping staircase, Hester caught glimpses of ornate tapestries that depicted heroic tales and landscapes.

She realized at that moment that she knew nothing about the man she married, and she had been so occupied with the notion of avoiding love that she never bothered to learn anything.

Upon reaching her chambers, her belongings were swiftly brought up, and her lady’s maid, Miss Sarah Holt, bustled about, unpacking her dresses and arranging her toiletries with meticulous care.

Hester looked about the room, decorated in tones of deep blue and mahogany—hardly colors fit for a lady, much less a duchess. A shiver ran down her spine. How was she to make this place her home?

“You shall look splendid for dinner, Your Grace,” Miss Holt said as she inserted tiny pearls into Hester’s hair, some enthusiasm breaking through the otherwise stifling atmosphere.

“Thank you, I hope to make a good impression,” Hester replied, smoothing the delicate pale green fabric of a dress between her fingers though the thought felt hollow. She did not feel welcome here, and a part of her wished to dine alone.

Downstairs, she paused at the foot of the stairs, bracing herself for either an awkward dinner with her husband or an unexpectedly enjoyable one. Movement from her left caught her eyes, and she turned to see Slater coming forward and bowing.

“Your Grace, the Duke has asked me to inform you that he shan’t be joining you this evening.”

Predictable. Hester nodded, but before Hester could inquire further, he bowed and departed, leaving her standing alone at the foot of the stairs, bewildered. What manner of servants were these who had no regard for their duchess? And why would Thomas leave her with them like this?

Straightening her shoulders, Heater took a deep, steadying breath and found the dining room. It was a vast and cold space with a round table instead of a rectangular one, and a place had been set for one.

Hester took her seat and eyed the dishes; a first course of creamy soup, a main of roast beef and vegetables, and blancmange for dessert. Then she looked up at the only company she was to have tonight. A footman.

Hester did not so much mind her husband’s absence as she did the castle’s lack of warmth—literal and figurative.

“Is the fireplace usually kept this low at mealtimes?” she asked the footman.

“I…” He glanced at the fireplace which appeared to be banked. “I do not know, Your Grace.”

Hester’s eyes widened slightly, but she did not say anything more as she picked up her spoon and began with the soup. After her solitary meal, she considered retiring to her chambers. However, exploring her new home appeared to be a better idea.

She found Slater in the grand foyer, standing stiffly by a longcase clock. “I would like to see the castle.”

A subtle rise of his eyebrows was the butler’s initial response before he asked, “At this hour, Your Grace?” His tone implied a challenge, and Hester’s confidence immediately deflated.

“I… There is illumination in the castle, is there not?”

“I am afraid Mrs. Smith’s eyesight is especially poor at night.”

“I—I did not ask for Mrs. Smith to show me the castle; I asked you.”

Slater bowed. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I must remain at this post for when His Grace returns.”

Hester felt as though she had crossed an invisible boundary by requesting something at an unreasonable hour. “Of course,” she murmured, more to herself, and turned on her heel.

If they wouldn’t show her Lushton Castle, she would discover it for herself. She ventured into the west wing hallway. It was dim with only a candelabra illuminating the space.

“Is this household averse to lighting?” she mused as she picked up the candelabra.

Armed with her beacon, she moved forward. The hallway was a gallery of judgment with stern-faced ancestors staring down from their gilded frames, their painted eyes seeming to follow her every move.

A shiver ran down her back, and her breath shook. Nancy’s words swam in her thoughts: tales of the Scottish Duke turning into a raging, howling wolf at night.

“Ridiculous.” Hester shook her head and straightened her spine.

She raised the candles as she came upon the portrait of a bewigged gentleman in crimson velvet looking particularly disdainful, his lips curled as if smelling something unpleasant.

She met his gaze defiantly and lifted her chin.

“Find me lacking, do you?” she murmured to the portrait, the candlelight making his painted jewels glint coldly. “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”

Passing him, she pushed open imposing oak doors to reveal a drawing room. It was grand, formal, and icy—all pale blue silk damask and stiff, uncomfortable-looking chairs arranged with geometric precision.

Across the hall, another door led to a smaller, marginally warmer drawing room dominated by a massive stone fireplace. Paintings of dark forests and hunting scenes adorned the walls.

At the far end of the drawing room, an arched doorway led not to another room but into a humid embrace of greenery. A conservatory. Although the air was dense with the scent of damp earth and citrus, Heater still did not feel welcome.

Eyeing French doors that led out into the gardens, she set down the candles on a small, ornate wrought-iron table. Drawn by the promise of cool night air and escape, she moved toward the doors.

“You should not venture out at this hour.”

The voice was low, dry, and utterly unexpected. Hester gasped and whirled around, her hand flying to her throat where her pulse hammered against her skin.

Mrs. Smith stood barely three feet away, like a specter summoned from Hester’s fears. Her breath refused to come easily. She stared, wide-eyed, at the housekeeper, unable to form any words. The serene garden beyond the glass suddenly felt miles away, and the conservatory a gilded cage.

“I-I am…” Hester blinked, unsure what to say.

The violation of her moment of peace and the sheer presence of the housekeeper was all too much for her.

Spinning on her heel, Hester swept past the housekeeper, wondering how she was to spend her first night here—in a territory fiercely guarded where she was an intruder under watch.

A headache pulsed behind Hester’s temples as she descended the grand staircase the next morning. It was the result of tossing and turning in a cold and dark bedchamber. Slater materialized in the cavernous front hall like a particularly stern statue.

He bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Slater,” she began, her voice raspy. “The breakfast room… Where is it?”

“West wing, Your Grace,” he intoned, gesturing vaguely towards the hallway to her left.

Hester suppressed a sigh. “Yes, but… where in the west wing?” Left? Right? After the hideous vase? Before the tapestry of the griffin eating something unfortunate? she was tempted to add.

“Proceed down the west hallway, Your Grace. Pass the blue drawing room. The breakfast room is the third door on the left, directly opposite the portrait of the fifth Duchess.”

How very specific. “Thank you, Slater.”

The breakfast room was empty when she found it. Sunlight streamed through tall windows onto a small round table laden with food, but only one place was set. Hester sank into the chair and reached for the toast rack, the butter knife feeling heavy in her hand.

As she took her first bite, voices came from the hallway just outside the open door. Thomas’ voice, deep and brisk.

“…then tell Roberts the drainage in the south field is a priority. I want it sorted before the next rain.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” a voice replied.

Hester sat straighter in her seat and glanced at the door, slightly holding her breath.

“Good. See it’s done.” Thomas’s footsteps echoed away down the hall, fading quickly.

He hadn’t even glanced into the room. Annoyance flared, hot and sharp, cutting through her headache. Disrespected. Ignored. In the place that was supposed to be her home. She ate the toast quickly, the taste like ashes.

Fueled by irritation, Hester went in search of Mrs. Smith after breakfast. She found the housekeeper near the bustling kitchens, supervising the arrival of crates.

“Mrs. Smith,” Hester began, injecting as much authority as she could muster, “please bring the household accounts to the blue drawing room. I wish to review them.”

There was a barely perceptible tightening around Mrs. Smith’s mouth. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

The blue drawing room lived up to its name—and its temperature. Hester shivered, rubbing her arms as she waited. When Mrs. Smith arrived, ledger in hand, the chill seemed to deepen.

“It’s rather cold in here, Mrs. Smith,” Hester remarked, trying for insouciance, but her teeth threatened to chatter.

“His Grace never remarked upon the temperature, Your Grace,” Mrs. Smith replied, placing the ledger on a table in front of Hester. “He finds a cool head conducive to clear thought.”

The man looks like a mountain capable of warming himself.

Hester took a breath. “Well, I… that is… my head finds it rather… distracting. Uncomfortably so.” She gestured vaguely. “The cold. It makes it difficult to… focus.” She fumbled, hating the weakness in her voice.

Mrs. Smith blinked slowly as she regarded her. “Distracting, Your Grace? Perhaps a shawl? I can fetch one.”

“No!” Hester snapped then forced calm. “No, thank you, Mrs. Smith. I require the room to be warmer. Not tomorrow. Now. While I work.” She met the housekeeper’s gaze directly. “I mind the cold. His Grace’s preferences are noted, but I am occupying this room now.”

There was a beat of silence then a curt nod. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall have a footman attend to the fire immediately.” Mrs. Smith moved toward the bellpull.

Hester turned her attention to the ledger, opening it and flipping the pages. The accounts were meticulous with nothing to critique and no mismanagement to uncover.

“The fire, Your Grace,” Mrs. Smith announced as a footman finished coaxing the flames in the hearth. “Will that suffice?”

“It’s a start,” Hester sighed, closing the ledger with a soft thud. “Mrs. Smith, please ensure all rooms I frequent are kept adequately warm. Not just today. Until the summer truly takes hold. I know it approaches, but until then, warmth is required.”

Mrs. Smith inclined her head. “As you wish, Your Grace.” There was no warmth in the words, but the concession felt like a tiny, hard-won victory.

As Mrs. Smith departed, the sound of male voices drifted through the open window. Curious, Hester crossed the room and peered out.

Below, in the gardens, stood Thomas. Four men, likely estate workers, surrounded him, and he was gesturing emphatically toward a section of rose bushes, his stance authoritative.

She watched him, from his tawny hair glinting in the sunlight to his massive shoulders and strong arms. He looked nothing like a duke with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his coat discarded, yet he bore the authority of an emperor.

Then, as if sensing her gaze, Thomas turned. His eyes scanned the castle facade, moving unerringly towards the window where Hester stood. Panic seized her, and she jerked back, pressing herself flat against the wall beside the window, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Hesitantly, after a few frantic breaths, she inched forward again, hoping he had not seen her the first time.

Thomas was still looking up. Directly at the window. Directly at her.

Their eyes locked across the distance, his sharp, perceptive blue eyes holding her startled ones captive, then one corner of his mouth curved upward.