Page 22 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)
Noah’s pale blue eyes remained fixed on Hester.
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his thumb from his mouth.
“Thank you,” he murmured, the words clear and soft.
Then, with a trust that stole Hester’s breath, his small hand reached out and grasped a fold of her skirts, clinging gently as if anchoring himself to her kindness.
The nursemaid dashed tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Why, at this rate, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice thick, “you’ll have the boy chattering like a magpie before Michaelmas!” She moved towards Noah, her movements cautious but hopeful.
Tentatively, she reached for his free hand.
He allowed her touch, his fingers resting passively in hers though his other hand still clutched Hester’s skirt.
“He wouldn’t have let me near him like this before,” the nursemaid breathed, wonder widening her eyes.
She looked back at Hester, her expression raw with gratitude.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Whatever you did… it’s opened a door for him. ”
Hester’s own eyes stung. She shook her head, a faint, humble smile touching her lips.
She gently disengaged Noah’s grip on her skirt, giving his small hand a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
“My, I hardly did a thing,” she demurred, her voice catching slightly.
“Just offered a smile and a blanket.” The profound simplicity of the connection—safety offered, safety accepted—resonated deep within her.
The nursemaid, her hand still holding Noah’s, gently guided him towards a group of younger children cautiously watching.
Hester watched him go, a swell of fierce protectiveness warming her chest as he didn’t resist, his small frame holding both blankets tight.
He stood slightly apart, but his gaze now flickered with wary interest towards the others, no longer utterly detached.
“Mrs. Danes,” Hester called, her voice firmer now.
The headmistress hurried over, her eyes still damp.
Hester kept her gaze on Noah, her posture straightening with purpose.
“Have the physician examine Noah again. Immediately. I wish to know his precise condition —his health, his mind, everything. Whatever treatment, care, or specialist he requires…”
She finally met Mrs. Danes’ tear-filled eyes, her own gaze steady and resolute. “…it is to be provided. Without delay. Send all accounts directly to me.” The unspoken command was absolute: Spare no expense.
Mrs. Danes clasped her hands together, a fresh wave of emotion washing over her face. She opened her mouth, seemingly overwhelmed, then simply sank into another deep, heartfelt curtsy, her shoulders trembling slightly with suppressed gratitude.
Hester turned back towards the window where Noah now stood watching the other children play.
A profound ache, both sweet and sorrowful, bloomed beneath her ribs.
She couldn’t explain the fierce pull this silent, wounded child had on her, a connection deeper than any she’d felt before.
She yearned fiercely for his healing, for the day a true, carefree smile might light his face.
Suddenly, piercingly, she imagined chasing a tawny-haired toddler across the sunlit lawn of Lushton Castle, hearing peals of laughter, snuggling a small, warm body close under a shared blanket.
The intensity of the vision was a physical blow.
She swallowed hard, the sudden lump in her throat almost painful, and turned quickly towards the door, needing air.
The crisp autumn breeze greeted her as she stepped outside, Miss Holt and Mrs. Smith following. As they approached the waiting carriage, Mrs. Smith, usually as impassive as stone, cleared her throat.
“You’re impressive with children, Your Grace,” she said, her voice unusually soft.
Hester glanced at her, surprised. The faintest hint of moisture glistened in the corners of Mrs. Smith’s eyes, and an expression Hester had never seen there before—perhaps deep respect and admiration—softened her usually stern features.
As Mrs. Danes had earlier exclaimed, it was indeed a day full of miracles.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Slater bowed upon their return to the castle. “A message arrived for you in your absence.” He gestured at a footman bearing a large, flat box of polished wood. “His Grace desired it be presented immediately upon your return.”
Hester’s brows rose slightly. “From the Duke?” She stepped closer, her fingertips brushing the smooth wood of the box. “Thank you, Slater. Please, have it sent up to my sitting room.”
“At once.” He bowed. Even his expression had softened. Something was certainly shifting in her world, and it filled her with anticipation.
It propelled her upstairs, and minutes later, alone in her sunlit sitting room, Hester stood before the box on the settee.
She lifted the lid, the faint scent of sandalwood drifting out.
Nestled within were folds of rich, gleaming fabric.
Carefully, almost reverently, she took it out and held it up.
It was a dress of olive green satin that seemed to shift like a forest canopy; delicate ivory lace, intricate as frost, edged the neckline and sleeves. The cut was exquisite, both fashionably elegant and subtly regal.
Hester held her breath, for this was a silent acknowledgement of the evening to come from her husband and a gift that felt like far more than mere fabric.