Page 24 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)
Thomas cut across the floor, weaving through the gathering with more speed than was strictly gentlemanlike. The orchestra had struck up a waltz—thank God—and as he reached the group, he did not bother waiting for any natural pause.
He stepped in, offering Hester his hand. “If I may, Duchess.”
She turned, startled for half a second, before she placed her hand in his. The gentleman inclined his head politely which Thomas returned with a smile so tight, it could crack stone.
He said nothing else, simply guided Hester away with a decisive turn and took her into the waltz.
“Ye looked to be enjoying yerself immensely,” Thomas said as they moved, her hand warm in his, her other resting lightly atop his shoulder. “Laughin’ like a girl at her first fête.”
“Oh, Lord Paisley is rather amusing,” she replied with a soft laugh.
Thomas arched a brow. “So that’s his name.”
“Viscount Paisley, yes,” she nodded.
“Well,” Thomas muttered, turning them into a tighter spin, “I doubt his jests are half as clever as ye claim.”
“They are exactly that clever,” she said, her lips twitching. “If the Prince Regent seeks a royal jester, he need look no further.”
His mouth flattened. “Aye. The court’s in desperate need of another fool.”
Hester tilted her head, studying him a moment. Then her brows lifted. “If I did not know better, I’d think you sounded positively jealous, Thomas.”
“Jealous?” He scoffed. “Of the King’s jester? Don’t be absurd, Hester.”
“If you say so, Duke,” she said, smiling up at him. But her gaze held that glint, one that said she saw far more than he intended. The music swelled, and he pulled her just a fraction closer.
When the final note rang out, he bowed to her in the customary fashion and prepared to offer his arm again, but before he could so much as extend it, a familiar voice rang out.
“Your Grace, Might I be so bold as to claim the next dance?”
Lord Alderton, sprightly despite his years, stood nearby, offering his hand with a gallant air and a grin as broad as his waistcoat.
“Oh yes, yes!” the Marchioness trilled from beside him. “You would honor us most delightfully, Duchess, if you would indulge our dear Alderton this small pleasure.”
Thomas watched Hester glance his way, hesitating.
She was going to say no.
He opened his mouth to confirm that fact—graciously, of course—but the older woman had already taken Hester’s elbow and turned her toward her husband.
The next thing he knew, his wife was smiling once more and floating off in Lord Alderton’s arms, skirts whispering, laughter trailing like ribbon behind her.
Thomas stood at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped behind his back, looking far more composed than he felt. His eyes tracked every step. The old man wasn’t even doing it properly—his rhythm was off, his turns too slow, and yet Hester looked thoroughly delighted.
She laughed again—louder this time. Her head tilted back with mirth.
Thomas felt something unpleasant stir in his chest.
When at last she returned to his side, cheeks flushed from exertion and laughter both, he gave her a look and said, “I see Lord Alderton rivals the King’s fool in humor.”
“Am I not permitted a bit of mirth this evening, Duke?” Hester asked, her lips curled in a smile that, frankly, he was beginning to find dangerous.
“Not with strangers, ye’re not,” Thomas replied, guiding her along the edge of the ballroom where the crowd thinned and the music softened.
Her laughter only deepened. “Strangers? Oh, but they’re hardly that.”
He looked at her sidelong, one brow arching. “Have ye known them for more than twelve hours?”
“No,” she admitted with the faintest air of challenge.
“Are ye married to them?”
She gave a light laugh. “Certainly not.”
“Then they’re strangers, Hester.”
And just like that, she laughed—truly laughed. Not the polite sort she had bestowed upon Viscount Paisley and the rest of the simpering gentry, but something unguarded, bright, and entirely hers. The sound rang like a bell, turning a few curious heads nearby. He didn’t care. Let them stare.
Her mirth stirred another unfamiliar and disorienting feeling in his chest. He didn’t know whether to bottle it, claim it, or chase it.
Thomas only knew he wanted it again.
The rest of the evening passed with a strange ease. He danced twice more with Hester and wished the evening would last a little while longer.
Later, when the candlelight had long dimmed and the clocks had struck two, Thomas found himself in his drawing room, wide awake while the rest of the household slept.
He stood before his canvas, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a piece of charcoal pressed between his fingers.
His mind, traitorous thing that it was, returned to the ballroom. To the way she had laughed at Lord Paisley’s remark. The way she had looked at Alderton—smiling as though the man had spun her right out of her slippers.
It shouldn’t have mattered, and yet…
He frowned then drew the first clean lines of a shoulder, an arm, the curve of a neck.
The shape came to life beneath his hand, and he had just begun to lose himself in the strokes when a knock tugged at his attention.
He stilled, his brows drawing together. Only one man in the household would dare disturb him at this hour.
“Enter.”
Slater stepped inside, holding a folded letter in one hand. “Forgive the hour, Your Grace,” he said, “but this arrived just now from your steward at Norwood.”
Thomas took the paper and scanned its contents in silence. By the end of the second paragraph, his jaw had set.
“They’ve had a flood,” he said flatly. “The river overran the boundary wall. Two tenant cottages were compromised, and one of the main bridges is gone.”
Slater shifted. “They require your presence?”
Thomas nodded once. “Aye.”
He remembered his commitment to host their friends the following night. A sigh escaped him, and he squeezed the bridge of his nose, knowing he could not be present into two places at once.