Page 23 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

T homas knocked twice, and when he heard a voice answer from within, he pushed open the door and walked to Hester’s sitting room.

He crossed it to the bedchamber where voices floated from.

Hester stood before the tall pier glass, lamplight bathing her in a soft, golden aura. The olive silk dress he’d commissioned clung and flowed over her figure in a perfect echo of her grace. Her lady’s maid fussed with a final pin near her shoulder as he crossed the thick rug.

She turned at his approach, and that smile lighting her hazel eyes struck him with an almost physical force, tightening something deep in his chest. A reckless, unbidden wish surged: to capture this precise moment, the curve of her lips, the way the silk shimmered, the quiet contentment in her gaze, and hold it safe.

He silenced the cautious voice in his mind and stepped closer.

Her hands, bare and cool, lay in his larger ones.

He raised them, pressing his lips firmly to her knuckles, holding the contact a beat longer than necessary.

The faint, clean scent of roses rose from her skin.

“Ye look radiant tonight, Hester,” he murmured, his thumb finding the delicate ridge of her wrist bone, tracing it unconsciously.

He saw Miss Holt’s swift curtsy in his periphery before she slipped silently from the room, closing the door with a soft click.

“The dress is lovely,” Hester breathed, that captivating flush blooming upwards from her neck, painting her cheeks a delicate rose.

“Ye are lovely,” he corrected, his voice dropping lower, rougher.

He turned her palms upwards, pressing a lighter, deliberate kiss into the center of each.

The blush deepened satisfyingly beneath his touch; the flutter of her pulse against his fingertips was a language he understood well.

“The dress doesn’t wear ye, Hester. Ye give it life. ”

A small, breathless laugh escaped her. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Thomas.”

His gaze locked with hers with a spark of challenge—and something warmer, more intimate—igniting. A faint, knowing curve touched his lips. “Everywhere with ye?” he returned.

“Everywhere within reason,” she replied, correcting him at once. Her arms crossed as she narrowed her gaze, her expression betraying the sharp suspicion that had begun to stir. He saw it, and yet, he found himself smiling.

He leaned slightly, as though confiding a great disappointment. “Now that’s a sorry boundary to impose on a man,” he said. “Ye’ve gone and ruined all my grand plans.”

A sound broke from her; a half laugh, half scoff as she shook her head. “You will try anything.”

“I do not flatter,” he said. His eyes were on hers, steady now. “Not without cause.”

Her amusement faded for a beat, replaced by something unreadable. She said nothing. He meant every word, and more still, but he knew better than to press that truth just yet.

She recovered quickly. “Keep that up, and it just might get you somewhere.”

He let out a short breath, the beginnings of a grin already forming. “Everywhere?”

Her lips parted in mock outrage. “ Somewhere ,” she corrected, a hand rising to point at him. “Do not push your luck, Duke.”

He laughed—deep and warm—as he reached into his coat, drawing the slim velvet box that had weighed down his pocket since breakfast.

“I’ve something for ye,” he said, holding it out. “A finishing touch.”

Her gaze fell to the box with immediate suspicion, her brows drawing together. But curiosity quickly overran it, and her fingers reached, tentative but steady.

She cracked it open.

The little gasp that left her lips gripped something deep in his chest.

Emerald and diamond—no ornament in the shop windows could match it for the way it gleamed against her surprise. She blinked then looked up at him as though unsure what to do next.

“May I?” he asked, already lifting the necklace from its cushioned bed.

She gave the smallest of nods and then turned, her back now to him, her shoulders bare where her dress dipped modestly low. She stood before the mirror, her eyes on his reflection. Thomas stepped behind her and bent slightly, lifting the chain and guiding it about her neck.

The clasp was finicky, but his fingers were steady. He fastened it with care though he allowed them to linger—just briefly—against the warm skin at the nape of her neck. She didn’t flinch. Nor did she move. He saw her swallow in the mirror.

When she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before. “It is beautiful.”

He did not answer. He only watched her hand lift to the emerald drop now resting against her collarbone, her fingers brushing lightly over the stones as if to confirm it was real.

His own hand had yet to fall.

Before he could think better of it, his head dipped low, and he pressed a kiss to the very place his fingers had just touched.

Her breath caught. Just a little. A quiet intake that sent a heat through him so swift, so fierce, he had to draw back at once.

He straightened, fixed his cuffs, and cleared his throat.

“The carriage awaits,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

The ballroom of Alderton House glittered when they arrived. Thomas had barely crossed the threshold before a voice as cheery as spring bells rang out to greet them.

“Oh, I have been looking forward to this ball solely to meet society’s newest couple,” declared the Marchioness of Alderton, making her way toward them with enough enthusiasm to light the entire chandelier above them. “You two make a splendid pair.”

Thomas inclined his head, barely concealing his amusement. The Marchioness was easily twenty years older than Hester, yet she held her arm with all the intimacy of a lifelong friend and all the determination of a general.

“Indeed,” came a slower, raspier voice—her husband, the Marquess, approaching behind her with the aid of a cane though his steps had lost none of their energy.

“All she’s spoken of these past days is how fervently she hoped the Duke and Duchess of Lushton might grace our little affair.

Given the novelty of your union and your, shall we say, recent retreat from the eyes of the ton … ”

Thomas gave the older man a slight incline of his head, his lips twitching. “We wouldn’t have missed it. Ye’ve our gratitude for the invitation.”

The Marchioness beamed. “And we are so honored you chose our event for your first public appearance. It is rather thrilling for us.”

Before he could reply, she turned toward Hester with sudden purpose. “Come, dear. I must introduce you to the others. A duchess must take her rightful place among the circle.”

With that, she deftly looped her arm through Hester’s. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” she added over her shoulder to Thomas, barely slowing her pace. “But I am going to steal your wife for just a bit. You shan’t mind, I trust.”

Thomas chuckled under his breath. “I suppose I haven’t much choice in the matter.”

But Hester was already glancing back with a faint smile, the candlelight catching in her hair as she allowed herself to be swept into the crowd.

“Wives,” the Marquess said beside him with a knowing shake of his head. “We spend decades understanding them, and they still manage to outpace us.”

Thomas allowed a smile. “Aye. That they do.”

He made polite conversation, nodded at the appropriate moments, and even managed a few observations about the architecture of the ballroom which truly was fine. But his gaze kept sliding elsewhere. Always to the same place.

Across the room, Hester stood in a semicircle of ladies, a duchess now by right and title, but never more regal than in this moment when she was not trying at all. She moved with elegance, reserved yet never uncertain, laughing softly at something the Marchioness whispered in her ear.

Her hands were perfectly gloved, her posture impeccable. And her smile—genuine, if a touch shy—seemed to strike something curious in him. Something warm.

This world had always been hers. The cut-glass charm of society, the silk and sparkle. She belonged here in a way that made him forget she had ever doubted it.

And now she was his . His duchess. That thought, oddly enough, made his chest expand.

She looked at ease now in Anna and Fiona’s company. With them, her movements grew looser and her face more animated.

She touched Fiona’s arm in greeting, laughed at something Anna said, her head tipping back ever so slightly. Her eyes glittered like glass beads beneath the chandeliers.

Thomas found himself smiling, slow and stupid. She hadn’t noticed him watching. Oddly, he didn’t mind that she hadn’t. That was until a gentleman arrived.

It began innocently enough—just a figure moving through the crowd, introduced by the Marchioness. He bowed, and Hester inclined her head.

Then the man took her hand, brought it to his lips, and placed a kiss on her glove.

She smiled.

Thomas’ jaw set.

A flicker of something unfamiliar settled low in his throat. Tight. Irritating. The Marquess said something beside him, perhaps about politics, or hounds, but Thomas didn’t catch it.

His gaze remained on that smile and the foolish dandy who had earned it.

Thomas’ jaw worked, silent and tight, as he watched them. He found he didn’t much care for propriety at the moment. Especially not when his wife smiled like that in response to whatever drivel the man had just uttered.

The gentleman leaned forward slightly, said something with a self-satisfied air, and Hester laughed.

That was quite enough.

Thomas turned back to the Marquess, who was midway through some anecdote about a foxhound with a limp. “Forgive me, My Lord,” he said, already stepping away. “I must claim my wife for a dance before another man does.”

The Marquess chuckled heartily. “Quite right. They don’t remain without dance partners for long, these young duchesses.”