Page 30 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester froze, her every muscle locked in place. They stared at each other for a beat, the world narrowing to the axis of that small flame and the impossible fact of his bare chest.

She opened her mouth to warn him, but he moved first—spinning toward the table and bumping it with his hip. The candle toppled, sending a thick glob of molten wax onto the wood.

“Candle!” she blurted, finally finding her voice.

He caught it before it rolled to the floor, but not before some wax splattered onto his hand.

Thomas groaned then muttered a string of words that would have made a sailor blush.

Hester darted forward, unable to help herself. “Oh for heaven’s sake, give it here,” she said, snatching the candle from his hand and righting it on the table. She grabbed the nearest cloth—his discarded shirt—and used it to mop up the wax.

When she turned back, he was staring at her, his brow raised in amusement and exasperation.

“Have ye come to join the midnight boxing, Duchess?” he said.

She blushed furiously then blushed more furiously at the awareness that she was, at this very moment, standing in a hallway in little but a scandalous night rail and a barely-tied robe.

“Absolutely not,” she replied, trying to gather herself. “But if I were, I’d hope to keep the fires in the hearth, not the floorboards.”

He grinned, flexing his burned hand. “If I’d known ye were so concerned for my safety, I’d have staged the accident earlier.”

She rolled her eyes, but he had already crossed the room, his presence looming and immediate.

“Ye know—” he began, then stopped, his head cocked as his eyes moved over her. “Well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a night rail quite like that.”

She looked down and realized her robes has fallen open. Hester yanked the outer robe tighter. “It is a travesty foisted upon me by Anna and a French modiste. I had no choice in the matter. And if you ever breathe a word?—”

He raised both hands. “Ye have my solemn word, Hester. Yer secrets are safe with me.”

She eyed the raw patch on his hand. “You’ll blister if you do not cool that. There is a wash basin in the hallway. Come, I’ll show you.”

He followed, and she led him to the marble-topped side table where a porcelain pitcher and bowl waited. She poured the cold water over his hand, careful and slow, and he watched her the entire time.

“Is it bad?” she asked.

Thomas shrugged. “I’ve had worse, Duchess, but thank ye.”

She let the silence stretch then said, “Why do you box at night? Could you not do it in the mornings when the rest of the world is sensible?”

He smiled crookedly. “Night’s quieter. No one to see if I lose.”

She snorted. “Is that likely?”

He looked at her, and for a moment, his expression softened. “Not likely. But I suppose ye understand something of wanting to be alone with your thoughts.”

She did. Too well. She dried his hand with a linen towel then set about wrapping it with a strip of clean muslin she found in the cabinet below the basin.

As she worked, he asked, “Was it my boxing that woke ye?”

Hester shook her head. “I could not sleep. Too many thoughts.” Then, after a moment, she added, “I did hear sounds… on my first night here. I thought at the time…”

He cocked a brow, and the corner of his mouth curved slyly. “Thought what, Hester?”

She looked away, mortified. “It is silly.”

“I expect to hear it, wife.”

“I…”

He waited.

Then she let out in a rush, “I thought perhaps you were a werewolf.”

He gaped at her then burst into laughter so loud it echoed down the empty hallway. She tried to silence him. “It is not funny! Nancy told me—well… she said there were rumors?—”

He wiped a tear from his eye, still laughing. “Let me see if I have this straight. First ye think I fathered a secret child, and now ye think me a wolfman?”

She groaned. “You are impossible.”

He grinned then sobered. “Ye know, I would not have minded if the rumors were true. It would be a sight easier than most of the things I am required to be.”

She looked at him, really looked, and saw a trace of sadness beneath the humor.

“I am sorry, Thomas. About the child. I should have trusted you.”

He shrugged. “Ye did what was right for the child. I respect that.” Then, more lightly, “And as for the wolf thing—I promise never to bite. Unless asked.”

She laughed, surprised by how much she meant it.

He leaned closer, his voice low. “You know ye’ve just broken your own rule, Hester.”

She blinked, puzzled.

“The no-visiting-after-dark rule,” he explained. “Ye’re the one who made it.”

She said, “Well, you’re the one who left the candle burning.”

He glanced down at her, then, in a move so swift she nearly missed it, braced one arm against the wall behind her, caging her in. She tensed, but he only smiled, his eyes gleaming in the half-light.

“Are ye afraid?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she lied.

He leaned in, so close she could see the tiny scars on his cheek, the way his beard softened at the edges, and the flecks of blue in his eyes. She was acutely aware of her own breathing and heartbeat.

“Ye look like you’re about to bolt, Duchess.”

She met his gaze, refusing to flinch. “I would if I thought it would help.”

He laughed then, softer than before, “Ye surprise me.”

“Why? Because I am not running away?”

“Because ye’re not nearly as cold as ye pretend to be.”

Thomas touched her cheek, and the contact lingered. He leaned ever closer until their faces were a few inches apart. It was not a kiss, but it could have been.

Hester shivered, and he seemed to sense it. His eyes drifted down and he grinned. “That night rail truly is remarkable, Hester.”

She blushed to the roots of her hair and pulled her robe over it. “I—I should go.”

He grinned, letting his hand drop, and stepped away. Hester wrapped her robe tighter and brushed past him, her heart pounding as she escaped.

Thomas slept, if it could be called that, in brief and haunted snatches. More often, he lay on his back, his jaw locked and eyes fixed on the blackness above. Sleep, when it did come, arrived as a shallow, perfunctory thing—no shelter at all.

He woke again just after three, the house stone-dead silent, his mind still clawing at the image of Hester in her night rail. He muttered a curse and sat up, rubbing the heel of his palm across his face until the grain of his beard bit back.

Lying here was a fool’s errand. It only invited memories he couldn’t afford.

He reached for his banyan and shrugged it on then padded barefoot through the hallway, down to the drawing room that served as his private retreat. He poured a finger of whisky—too early, too late, what did it matter—and settled behind the battered easel near the window.

He was halfway through a charcoal sketch already, and he pressed a thumb to the paper, smudged a shadow into the hollow of the throat, and then, without any conscious intent, drew the line of a jaw he knew too well.

Then the soft, squared shape of a chin, the downward cast of an eyelid.

He caught himself and hesitated, the charcoal pausing midair.

It was her of course. Again. Always.

This was not good. He should not care this much. He certainly should not indulge it. Let the Duchess be mysterious, let her flit through the house as she wished, so long as she left him enough space to manage his business, that was all that mattered.

“You asked to see me, Your Grace?” Bailey asked the following day. Thomas was convening with him in the east wing.

“Aye. The Duchess is to have a proper workroom here on the second floor.” Thomas walked as he spoke, and Bailey matched his stride. “I want the north-facing windows uncovered, the floors refinished, and a new table—something sturdy, not a toy for a lady’s embroidery.”

Bailey raised a brow but wisely kept any comment to himself. “Very good, Sir. Shall I ask after the artisans in the village or have some brought up from Town?”

“Best workers ye can find here, but I want it finished in two or three days. Tell them it’s a royal commission if ye must.” He stopped and turned on Bailey. “No expense spared, mind. Whatever is needed, you get it.”

Bailey blinked then nodded once, as quick as a soldier. “It will be done, Sir. The Duchess is… to use the room for her needlework?”

“Among other things,” Thomas replied, not quite willing to admit he had no earthly idea what else she did with her days. “She’s of a mind to keep herself occupied. We’ll not have her bored.”

The steward smiled then stood straighter. “I meant to say, Your Grace, I heard some talk in the village about her work at St. Brigid’s.”

“Go on.”

Bailey’s eyes darted up the stairwell then back.

“A boy, Your Grace. Noah, they call him. He’s an orphan, and mute since…

well, since before anyone remembers. Never spoke a word until two weeks ago.

The Duchess, they say, coaxed it out of him.

She’s been going down there herself, seeing to the children. ”

Thomas’s heart gave a strange, unfamiliar stutter and then settled. She never mentioned it to me.

Bailey grinned. “The village has never seen anything like it, Your Grace. The boy wouldn’t let anyone else near him before, but he is now more forthcoming.”

He tried to imagine Hester kneeling in the dirt, coaxing words from a silent child, and found the image unbearably bright.

He clapped Bailey on the shoulder, harder than he intended. “Ye’ll see to the studio then. And ensure that the villagers double their efforts with the children. If they’re cold, feed them. If they’re hungry, same. Duchess’ orders take priority, always.”

Bailey grinned, his respect plain. “Understood, Sir.”

Thomas dismissed him with a nod then turned down the hall toward the service wing. He found Mrs. Smith in the larder, interrogating a maid about the morning’s bread.

The housekeeper straightened as he entered then she curtsied. “Your Grace.”

“I’ll not keep ye long, Mrs. Smith. I wanted to ask how the Duchess is faring under yer care.”

Mrs. Smith’s face softened a fraction which was a rare sight. “She’s well enough, Your Grace. She spent ample time in the gardens, but today she is with the new charge. Miss Arabella is as happy in her company as the children from St. Brigid’s. She’s made quite a difference if I may say.”

Thomas allowed himself a brief exhale. “Good. She’ll need more supplies and a workroom and any help of her own choosing.”

Mrs. Smith’s brows rose, but she said only, “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He paused then added, “There’s to be a studio built in the east wing for the Duchess. You’re to keep her from it until I give word.”

A shadow of a smile crossed the woman’s face, but it was gone in an instant, so much so that he though he’d imagined it. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He left the larder feeling oddly lighter.

Thomas was halfway up the main staircase when he encountered Slater, standing at rigid attention with the morning post on a tray.

“Messages from Town, Your Grace,” Slater announced, presenting the silver.

Thomas plucked through them: a thick missive from the Marquess of Alderton—probably to gloat about the ball—another from Isaac and Colin, and near the bottom, a pale blue missive bearing the Hightower crest.

The letter was likely from her brother, and he tried to picture Hester’s face when she received it. Would she smile, or would it deepen the ache of homesickness she hid so well? The idea unsettled him.

He took the letter, deciding to deliver it himself.

The season was still ongoing, and perhaps she would prefer to return to London. To be closer to the world she was familiar with. Yet the prospect of an empty castle, and of her somewhere he could not see her, twisted his gut in a way that was both unfamiliar and unpleasant.