Page 27 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester pressed her fingers to her temple, kneading at the dull, insistent ache that had gnawed at her since the girl’s arrival. She had not slept. Not truly.

Her mind had remained taut as a bowstring, running loops around the letter’s brutal words. The rain had lashed the windowpanes all night, adding to her unrest.

At the breakfast table, she gazed down at her toast, the butter knife poised just above its surface.

Her hand shook, though whether from hunger or anxiety she could not say.

She made herself spread the butter with the most precise swathe and bring it to her lips.

She tasted nothing at all when she took a bite.

Then a small cough at the threshold broke her from her reverie.

“Your Grace,” said Mrs. Smith, standing just inside the doorway.

Hester drew herself up and took a breath. “Yes, Mrs. Smith?”

From behind the housekeeper’s sober brown skirts, the child appeared.

She wore a frock of faded rose, the hem hastily re-stitched, and thick wool stockings that puckered at her thin shins.

Her face—scrubbed but still chapped at the nose and cheeks—was framed by hair that, now dry and orderly, revealed itself to be not chestnut but a pale, tawny gold.

The effect, in combination with the blue of her eyes, was startling.

Hester’s hand flew to her mouth as she suppressed a gasp and disguised it as a cough.

She looks like him. Very much like him.

A cold, private panic threatened to send her from the room. Instead, she forced her hand to her lap, straightened her shoulders, and nodded.

“Come forward, my dear,” Hester said, wavering ever so slightly as she reached for the girl with her palm open.

The girl advanced one step, her gaze as sharp as a surgeon’s knife while it darted around the room. She seemed to be cautious of everything, and Hester wondered what sort of life she lived before coming here.

Mrs. Smith spoke, and her tone was softer than usual. “She has spoken, Your Grace. Only once and only to say she wished to see you.”

This news struck Hester as both disquieting and somehow flattering. Why me? She studied the girl, searching for any hint of motive or mischief, but she found only hunger and exhaustion worn deep into her bones.

“Would you like to join me for breakfast?” Hester offered, her smile as gentle as she could muster.

The girl nodded once then reached out and took Hester’s hand. The fingers were as cold as porcelain and far too thin. She guided the child to the chair beside her, and only when she was safely seated did Hester allow herself a small sigh of relief.

She poured tea into a cup then remembered herself and added sugar and milk until it was more suitable for a child. The girl did not thank her but wrapped both hands around the cup and drew it close. Hester watched her sip then offered her toast.

“Would you like some?” Hester asked.

The girl did not answer but took the toast, dipped it into the sweet tea, and ate. She consumed it in precisely three bites, every movement careful, as if she feared the meal would vanish if she faltered. Hester found herself hypnotized by the economy of it.

“Would you like another?” she asked, and when the girl nodded yet again, Hester slathered more butter onto the next slice and passed it over.

She noticed now, with a clarity that unsettled her, that the child’s hands were not only thin but flecked with a faint scattering of freckles, as though even the sun itself had left its mark upon her.

She prepared a small plate with a scone, split and spread with cream cheese and a dab of strawberry preserves. The girl eyed it warily then, as if unable to resist, devoured half in a single bite.

Hester smiled then attempted another polite nibble at her own toast, but it was as if she were chewing sawdust. She set it aside and filled her cup instead.

“May I ask your name?” she ventured.

The girl paused then set the scone down. “Arabella,” she whispered. Her voice was the barest scrape, but it was there. “She sometimes called me Bella… when she was not peeved at me.”

Hester’s breath caught, but she forced a smile. Was the girl referring to her mother?

“That is a lovely name,” Hester said. “Does it please you?”

The girl nodded though her eyes had dropped to the table. Hester noticed her thumb working at the edge of the napkin, as if she were unraveling a secret message from the thread.

“Would you like some more tea?” Hester asked.

A nod was the only response.

She topped off the cup, watching as the girl immediately cupped it again, as if the warmth were more precious than the taste itself. Hester sat very still. For a long while, no one spoke.

When the last crumb was gone, Hester said, “Shall we have a walk?”

The girl nodded, already rising to her feet and dusting the crumbs of her breakfast from her frock.

Hester reached for her hand, and together, they left the breakfast room, Mrs. Smith trailing behind at a discreet distance. They moved through the hallways.

Hester led her to the library, as if by instinct. The walls were lined with row upon row of volumes, most of which Hester had never opened. It was, however, one of the places in the castle where she felt both authority and comfort.

She motioned for the girl to sit beside her on a low, tufted sofa near the fire. Then she selected a book from the shelf—an illustrated volume on British mountains—and sat down with it open on her lap.

“Would you like me to read to you?” she asked.

Again, the girl nodded.

So, Hester began to read, keeping her voice slow and careful with each word as she described the heights of Ben Nevis, the wild beauty of the Highlands, and the way the air grew thin and sharp as you climbed.

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, that the girl’s expression shifted from wariness to cautious interest.

She paused at the illustration of a craggy mountain shrouded in mist and showed Arabella.

“Do you like this one?” she asked.

Arabella nodded. “It looks cold,” she said, the words muffled as she wrapped her arms about herself.

Hester pulled the girl gently closer then reached for a small blanket at the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. Arabella made no objection but instead scooted until her hip was pressed against Hester’s thigh, as if drawing strength from contact.

Perhaps all the girl needed was affection she never had. Hester found her voice trembling as she resumed reading.

They remained thus for some time, the fire popping and settling as the light outside shifted from rainy pewter to the faintest suggestion of blue. At last, Hester closed the book and placed it on the table.

She took the girl’s hands in hers and studied them.

“You are very brave, Arabella,” she said quietly. “You have come a long way. You must be tired.”

The girl nodded though she did not pull her hands away.

“Will you tell me where you came from?”

The girl looked down then shook her head. “I do not want to go back.”

“I understand,” Hester said though she did not, not truly. “You are safe here. I promise.”

A small, uncertain smile surfaced on the girl’s lips then vanished. Hester stood and moved to the bellpull. She rang for Slater, and he appeared in seconds.

“Slater, will you send for the physician?” Hester asked. “Our guest has had a trying ordeal, and I should like her looked over. And bring another blanket if you please.”

He nodded once, and with a glance at the girl, he departed. As they waited, a footman arrived with the blanket. Hester took it and wrapped it tight around Arabella’s shoulders.

Slater returned with a letter on a silver tray, and Hester’s pulse quickened. “From the Duke?” she asked, reaching for it.

Slater’s eyes fell to the wax seal. “No, Your Grace. It is from Lady Alderton.”

Hester’s disappointment was sudden and illogical. She had not realized until that moment that she was holding her breath for a word from Thomas. She set the letter down beside her and smiled thinly.

“Thank you, Slater.” Rising, she said, “Please show us where the girl is staying.”

He led them up the stairs and down a long hallway to a small, pleasant chamber overlooking the east lawn. There, Hester helped the girl into bed and tucked her in.

“If you need anything, you are to ring the bell,” she said, pointing to the cord above the bed. “Mrs. Smith, Slater, or a maid will come at once.”

Arabella nodded and clung to the blanket, but her eyes had already begun to droop.

As Hester smoothed the hair from her brow, she felt again the pang—the uncanny echo of Thomas in the arch of the brow, the stubborn set of the mouth.

When she left the room, she was unsure whether she wanted answers or oblivion. Perhaps it was not even a question.

Later in the afternoon, Hester returned to her study. She sat at her escritoire, the letter from Lady Alderton still unopened, and her thoughts circling ever tighter.

What did it mean? That Thomas had a child—perhaps from some careless encounter? Or was it simply a cruel trick played by fate, this resemblance and the note’s phrasing designed to sow discord?

She let the letter rest on her lap, unopened, and turned instead to her embroidery. The work was rather absorbing and a way to banish stray thoughts. She stitched the outline of a butterfly, the gold silk thread shining in the sunlight streaming into the room.

She was interrupted by a gentle tap at the door. “Enter,” Hester called.

Mrs. Smith appeared, looking marginally less severe than usual.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. The physician has seen to Miss Arabella. He prescribes rest, warmth, and simple food which we shall provide.”

“Thank you,” Hester said. She waited for the housekeeper to retreat, but Mrs. Smith lingered at the threshold.

“Is there more?” Hester prompted.

“She asked for you,” Mrs. Smith said, almost awkwardly. “She refuses to rest unless she knows you are near.”

Hester rose and set her embroidery aside. “Of course. I will go at once.”