Page 3 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester swiped angrily at her tears. “It is no business of yours, Sir,” she bit out.

The Duke of Lushton stood silhouetted against the garden torches, more mountain than man. Moonlight caught the thin scar bisecting his left cheek, making him look like a pirate who had stumbled into a ballroom. Or a terrifying creature that could sweep her away.

He took a deliberate step forward. “A lovely lady must not call herself foolish.”

“Are you appointing yourself my moral philosopher now?” She pushed herself up, ignoring the twinge in her ankle. She wondered what he was doing in the gardens and how he found her. “Perhaps you should return to the ballroom to find a lady to mock.”

Instead of retreating, he closed the distance until she could smell faint sandalwood from him. “Mockery wasn’t me intent.” He reached toward her tear-stained cheek with a handkerchief. “A lovely lady shouldnae be?—”

“Don’t call me that!” Hester recoiled as if scalded, batting his hand away. “I am not your lovely lady, nor any man’s pretty distraction! And if you possess a shred of that famed Scottish honor, you’ll leave me alone!” She gestured violently at her torn shawl snagged in the hedges.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Ye mistake practicality for pity, Lady Hester.”

She froze. “You know my name?”

“I know several names. Yer society whispers rather excessively. And loudly.”

A flush crept up her neck. If he knew her name, then Society must have told him that she was a wallflower running toward spinsterhood.

Hester took a deep breath to calm her soaring nerves. Then she yanked her shawl free with a vicious rip. “Do they whisper why you’re truly here? Or does ‘observing’ suffice as explanation for accosting distressed women?”

“Accosting?” His low chuckle held no warmth. “I offered a handkerchief. Ye declared war on the landscaping. Tell me—who reduced a woman who fights hedges to tears? His name.”

Hester’s chin lifted. “Why? Will you call him out? Demand satisfaction for my honor?” She infused the word with a humorless chuckle. “Spare me the performance. Men defend abstractions, not women.”

“Philosophical tonight, aren’t we?” He tilted his head. “Very well. If not honor, then curiosity. Who convinced ye tears are the only weapon left?”

She felt her eyes narrow. “Is that what you see? Not weakness? Not the ‘clumsy spinster’ the matrons decry?”

“I see thorns.” He nodded at the ripped fabric in her hand. “Ye tear yerself apart trying to prove ye’re not fragile. Who made ye believe ye had to?”

The unexpected insight struck a nerve. “A gentleman named Townstead,” she spat. “Though he proved himself less than gentle moments ago. He preferred his insults dressed in silk.”

“Ah.” Understanding glinted in his eyes. “The fellow with his nose turned up at the world. He trades in arrogance, doesn’t he?”

“And you trade in what, Your Grace? Brutal truths?” She wrapped the tattered shawl tighter. “Forgive me if I find neither currency trustworthy.”

“Truth requires no trust. Only recognition.” He stepped closer, invading her space, and Hester was tempted to retreat.

However, she held his gaze and held herself upright.

“Such as recognizing that ‘lovely’ wasn’t flattery but observation.

You are lovely. Especially when angry. Like a storm over the moors. ”

“Stop it!” Heat flooded her cheeks—fury, not pleasure. “Your observations are unwelcome, Your Grace! Lovely implies something soft, breakable, decorative . I am none of those things!”

“I agree.” The swift concession startled her. “Lovely isn’t soft. A dagger is lovely. Lightning is lovely. Wildfire is devastatingly lovely. Deny the power in that if ye can.”

Hester stared, momentarily speechless. His words were a trap, acknowledging her strength while refusing to relinquish the compliment she was reluctant to accept.

“Find another metaphor,” she finally retorted. “And another puzzle to solve. This one’s retiring from the field.”

As she turned to leave, his voice lashed through the darkness.

“Ye forgot something, Lady Hester.”

She turned to see him holding up a scrap of lace. Looking down at the shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she realized a third of it had been claimed by the bushes.

How dare he witness my humiliation twice in one evening?

She snatched the fabric, fingers brushing his. A spark leaped between them—or perhaps just the night’s chill. “Satisfied, Your Grace? You’ve now cataloged both my tears and my wardrobe deficiencies.”

His beard shadowed a smile. “A gentleman returns what’s lost. Where’s me thanks?”

“Thank you,” she gritted out, her fingers clenching around the lace. “For ensuring I’ll remember this disaster every time I see this shawl.”

“Och, such gratitude warms me heart.” He pressed a hand to his chest, painting a picture of wounded gallantry. But his eyes held a glint that unsettled her. “Ye fascinate me, Lady Hester. Truly.”

She froze mid-turn, frowning. “Fascinate? Did Lady Montague’s punch finally reach your wits? I’m the woman who trips and collides with dukes.”

“Aye. While other lasses simper behind fans, ye rage at hedges. When insulted, ye quote philosophy instead of swooning.” He stepped closer, sandalwood and night air enveloping her. “Do ye know how rare that is in this gilded cage ye call society?”

Her pulse hammered against her ribs. No one had ever called her rare. Unmarriageable, certainly. Clumsy, absolutely. But fascinating ? “If you seek entertainment, hire a tumbler. I assure you they’re far more coordinated.”

He laughed—a rich, warm sound that seemed to vibrate in her bones. “What I seek,” he said, closing the distance until his breath stirred the hair at her temple, “is an English bride.”

Her thoughts scattered like startled birds. “How… practical. Shall I fetch the nearest debutante? Miss Pembrooke adores tartan.”

He tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up. “I want ye, My Lady.”

There was silence, and even the crickets seemed to respect it. “Have you gone mad?” she whispered at last. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough. Ye’re four-and-twenty, almost a spinster?—”

“How dare you say that?”

“I am not a man who conceals truths. Ye’ve grown weary of this marriage market, and ye place yer faith in undeserving men.”

Hester’s thoughts further scrambled. He was indeed correct, but his gall infuriated her, and she pulled her chin from his hold, but she did not step back, so he wouldn’t assume she was frightened. She was, but Hester would rather bite her tongue than allow him see it.

Voices drifted from the terrace, giggling and searching. “Oh, we must find the Duke! Where did he go?”

Lushton held her eyes. “Marry me.”

The world tilted beneath her. “I beg your pardon? That’s not a proposal!”

“Consider it, then.” He leaned ever so slightly. “I cannae promise hearts and poetry. But this I vow—” His gaze pinned hers in the moonlight, “—I’ll never make ye weep.”

The voices and footsteps drew closer.

He stepped backward into the rose shadows, creating a silhouette both striking and terrifying. “Daenae overthink it, My Lady.”