Page 29 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

W hy has Thomas said nothing to me?

Hester watched the fire burn down to coals, her mind as brittle and ash choked as the grate. The logs sputtered; the last one caught and collapsed, sending up a bitter hiss. She prodded it with the poker then sank back into the settee, drawing her knees up beneath her nightdress.

A knock came at the door, and her breath snared in her throat. She did not move.

Another knock—firmer, impatient—followed.

She stared at the door, calculating. If she did not answer, he would surely go away. Unless he was in a mood that paid no mind to doors or the wishes of a recalcitrant wife. She swallowed and drew her robe tighter, refusing to be the first to speak.

The door opened anyway, and Thomas filled the frame. Not just in stature, though he was more than large enough for that, but in the way his gaze surveyed the room as though everything in it belonged to him—especially her. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind with a quiet thud.

He paused, further taking stock: her, the settee, the half-eaten tray on the center table…

He did not speak, but she felt the power of his attention settle on her, and she pulled herself upright and fixed her eyes on the flames.

Thomas crossed to the fire, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he looked down at her and tilted his head.

“I expected ye for dinner,” he said.

“I preferred to dine alone this evening.” She kept her voice even as she spoke though her hands had started to tremble again.

He shot a glance at the tray. “Ye’ve made a habit of it. I have it on good authority that ye’ve dined here alone since I left for Norwood.”

Hester fought to keep her expression impassive. “I’ve been occupied with the castle. There are matters which cannot be ignored simply because the Duke is absent.”

“And when he returns?”

She lifted her chin. “I did not expect you tonight.”

“Evidently not,” he said, his gaze moving to the untouched roast and then back to her. “Is all well, Hester?”

“Perfectly,” she said.

It was a lie, and they both knew it.

He let the silence stretch, as if daring her to fill it. When she did not, he sat on the adjacent settee but so that his knees nearly brushed hers. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs and hands clasped.

She could not meet his gaze. Instead, she stared at his boots. “I have the sense,” he said at last, “that ye wish to avoid me.”

“Why would you think that?”

He gave a low laugh. “Because I have eyes, Hester. And because ye’re the most direct person I’ve ever met—until now. So. Out with it.”

Her stomach twisted. She darted a glance at him, but the fire cast his eyes in shadow.

“Did you see her?” she asked, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.

He frowned, as if caught off guard. “See who?”

She searched his face for any sign but saw only confusion and—worse—concern. “The girl. The one who arrived while you were gone.” His brows drew together, and she continued, her voice wavering. “She—she looks like you.”

He stared at her, the lines between his brows deepening. “I beg yer pardon?”

Hester drew a slow breath, trying to anchor herself. “There is a child in this house, Thomas. A girl. Five or six years old by my guess.” She forced herself to say the rest: “She was left on the doorstep with nothing but a satchel, a woolen blanket, and a letter. The note claimed she is yours.”

He went utterly still.

It would have been a relief—his silence, his obvious bafflement—if she had not been so certain he was merely marshaling a defense.

She drew her knees up and hugged them. “You needn’t lie,” she said, “but you must tell me what you want me to do with her.”

“I have no child, Hester,” Thomas said, the words landing like stones.

“She’s in the blue guest room,” Hester pressed on, ignoring the pain in her chest. “I have fed her, arranged for the physician, and seen to her clothes. She’s as thin as a whippet. She will require?—”

“Hester,” he cut in, his voice iron flat, “I do not have a child.”

She flinched at the force of it, but the doubts had taken root. “How can you be so certain?” she said and immediately regretted it. “I mean—men often?—”

He laughed, the sound short and mirthless. “I think I’d know if I’d fathered a child.”

She shot him a look of pure incredulity. “That is not always the case,” she said, recalling a thousand drawing room rumors, the endless tales of noblemen shocked by the appearance of a sudden heir.

Thomas let out a sound between a sigh and a growl. “I have not.” He ran his hands through his hair. “How can ye be so adamant?”

She closed her eyes. “You cannot deny it. The hair, the eyes?—”

He waited a beat, then: “Bring me the letter.”

Hester had not expected this. She had hidden the note in the drawer of her escritoire, uncertain whether to destroy it or preserve it as evidence. Now, she rose, her movements sharp, and crossed the room. She fished out the note and pressed it into his hand without ceremony.

He unfolded it, his face tight with concentration as he read. When he finished, he looked up. “Ye believe this?”

She did not answer directly. Instead, she said, “What else am I to believe?”

He let the paper fall to the table between them.

“That the late Duke was a beast who never cared for the consequences of his appetites. That the world is full of people who want a piece of Lushton, and some will use a child to get it.” He sat back, his arms folded. “That is the only thing to believe.”

Hester’s heart gave a queer little lurch. She had braced herself for anger, for outrage, for a confession if it came to that, but she had not prepared for logic.

She tried to gather her thoughts, but her mind was a pinwheel. “You truly think?—?”

“She’s not mine, Hester,” Thomas said, and there was a finality to it that she could not challenge. “But if she belongs to the late Duke, then I am responsible for her.”

The words should have been a relief. Yet something in her chest twisted, a strange blend of shame and—no, she would not name it.

“If you’re ready, I’d like to meet the girl.”

Hester swallowed. “Now?”

He shrugged. “No time like the present.”

She moved, her legs unsteady, and led him to the blue guest room. Inside, Arabella sat cross-legged on the bed, a book open on her lap. She looked up as they entered, her eyes wide and wary. The candle cast her shadow large on the wall behind her.

Thomas stepped forward, ducking his head to meet her gaze. “So, ye must be the brave little lass.”

Arabella looked at him then at Hester and back again, as if to ask who he was.

“Do you know who I am?” Thomas asked. She shook her head but said nothing. “I’m the Duke of Lushton.” He glanced at Hester. “The Duchess’ husband. And you are…?”

She pressed her lips together then whispered, “Bella.”

“Bella.” He repeated softly it with the same carefulness one would use for rare books or valuable things. “That’s a lovely name.” He squatted, so he was level with her. “Ye can stay here, Bella. This house is yers as much as it is mine. Do ye understand?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He stood, towering over both of them, and shot Hester a small, triumphant look as though he had just brokered a treaty.

Bella sneezed.

Hester smiled, the first real smile in days. “I will ask Mrs. Smith to bring some warm milk. And perhaps more honey.”

Thomas ruffled the girl’s hair then turned to Hester. “You see? No misunderstanding here.”

She looked away, her cheeks burning. Thomas’ warm hand circled her wrist then, and he leaned close. “I can see why ye were suspicious. She has our family’s hair and eyes.”

Hester looked from Arabella to Thomas then sighed and nodded.

As they left the room, Hester realized she was no longer afraid. Not of him or the girl or whatever the future might bring.

Only of what she might want from it.

Hester should have been asleep. The hour was late, the castle silent, and yet she sat on the edge of her bed staring at the garment laid out across the coverlet with horror and if she was honest, a little bit of fascination.

It was a night rail or rather, a confection of silk and lace that owed more to French scandal sheets than to English virtue. The hem was trimmed with a band of embroidered roses and—good lord—there were mother-of-pearl buttons along the bodice, each one smaller than the nail of her little finger.

She could see, even from a distance, that it would cling rather than drape. It was nothing like her usual nightwear, and she would never, not even in her wildest moments, have chosen it for herself.

Hester thought instantly of Anna, who had insisted, during the trousseau fittings, that no self-respecting Duchess wore “plain dresses.” Hester had argued for sensibility and comfort, but Anna had overruled her, winking at the modiste and muttering about how English husbands required “provocation, not propriety.”

At the time, Hester had rolled her eyes and allowed the purchase, fully intending to consign such extravagance to the bottom of a trunk, never to be seen again.

But here it was, spread out on her bed.

She glared at Miss Holt, who was arranging soft silk slippers at the foot of the bed.

“Why this one?” Hester asked.

Miss Holt set the slippers with excruciating care. “Your Grace, the laundry is behind. The rain kept the drying lines soaked these past two days, and I have gone through all your simpler night rails. Unless you wish to wear your robe to bed, this is the best option.”

Hester eyed the garment with suspicion. “Are you certain there is nothing else? Perhaps one of the woolen shifts from the country box?”

Miss Holt shook her head. “I’ve checked twice. The rest are still damp, and you’ll catch a chill if you try to sleep in wet linen.”

Hester huffed, but she knew a lost battle when she saw one. “Very well. I suppose I shall be the most overdressed person asleep in the castle tonight.”

Miss Holt, perhaps sensing that sympathy was in order, gave her a conspiratorial smile. “It is quite beautiful, Your Grace.”

“I do not require beautiful,” Hester muttered. “I require warm and inconspicuous.”

She waited until Miss Holt had left then stripped down and donned the night rail.

It was as she feared: the fabric hugged her curves, the neckline was both alarmingly low and alarmingly well-designed to keep everything in place, and the thinness of the cloth left absolutely nothing to the imagination when caught in the light.

Hester wrapped the accompanying silk robe around herself then glanced at the door, thankful that Thomas would never see this. He might even laugh at her and think her a clown for wearing such silly things. Hester slipped beneath the covers and sighed.

Sleep did not come.

She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Her mind looped endlessly through the days’ events: the arrival of Arabella, the letter, Thomas’ bewildered denial, and the awkward moment in the blue guest room.

And then, always, the memory of Thomas’s hand as it brushed the child’s hair—that brief, careful touch.

The thoughts would not leave her!

She turned onto her side, then her stomach, then back again, but nothing helped. After an hour of tossing and resenting the tick of the clock, she threw off the covers and paced.

Hester found herself in front of her wardrobe, peering inside.

Anna’s work was evident here too: there were far more night rails and shifts than any one woman could ever use, and at least half of them were what Anna had called “conversation pieces”—as if a nightdress could ever be part of polite conversation.

She rifled through the collection, hoping to find something plain and serviceable. No luck. It was all silk, lace, or—heavens above—sleeveless stays that looked like they belonged in a Parisian brothel.

Hester made a mental note to write Anna a sharply worded letter at the first opportunity.

Still restless, Hester slipped on a thicker robe atop the silken one and wrapped it tightly around herself before she slipped into the hallway, moving by memory and moonlight.

She tiptoed down the hallway, intent on checking the blue guest room one more time.

There was no real need; Mrs. Smith had assured her that Arabella was comfortable and safe, but a strange urge compelled her.

She eased open the door and peered inside. The room was dim, but she could make out the shape of Arabella curled beneath the blanket, her hair spilling across the pillow like spilled gold.

Hester felt an emotion catch in her chest. She had not expected to feel so protective of the girl nor so invested in her comfort. It surprised her, this sudden surge of maternal impulse.

She stepped closer, just to adjust the edge of the blanket. Arabella stirred but did not wake.

“There, there,” Hester whispered. “You’re safe.”

She lingered a moment longer then slipped back into the hallway.

As she made her way to her own chambers, a faint light caught her attention from the far end of the hallway. At first, she thought it was an errant candle left by a careless servant, but as she drew nearer, she saw movement through the crack of a door left ajar.

Curiosity trumped caution. She tiptoed closer and peered inside.

The room was unfamiliar, but she recognized it at once as the gymnasium Mrs. Smith had pointed out during the tour. It was lined with fencing foils, boxing gloves, and heavy leather bags suspended from the beams. In the center, by the largest punching bag, stood Thomas.

He was shirtless, his skin slick with sweat, and he was toweling off his face with brisk, efficient movements. His hair was damp at the temples, and the muscles of his back bunched and flexed as he moved.

Hester’s first thought was that she had stumbled into some kind of mythic tableau—a Greek statue, rendered in flesh and sweat. Her second thought was that, if she was caught staring, she would never, ever recover from the humiliation.

She took a step back, intending to sneak away, but just then, she noticed the candle burning on the edge of a table behind him. It was dangerously close to being knocked over by his next pass.

Hester almost called out, but her voice caught.

He turned, perhaps sensing movement, and his gaze found her instantly.