Page 32 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

A dull thump sounded. Then the sudden staccato of hammering, followed by the nasal drone of Bailey’s voice.

It was meant to be a perfectly ordinary morning which was why, as Hester swept through the long passage of the east wing with a sheaf of letters in hand, she very nearly missed the sounds of controlled chaos leaking from one of the rooms down the hall.

She halted at the threshold of the little-used salon and stared. A strange lattice of wooden beams, dust sheets, and what might have been the collapsed remains of a pianoforte had replaced her vague memory of stiff settees and French cabinets.

Bailey was waving his ledger at a pair of red-faced laborers . One of the footmen was struggling to maneuver a crate twice his width across the marble.

She blinked, certain this was some dream or perhaps the aftershock of an unwise second cup of chocolate. “Mr. Bailey?” she called, hovering just inside the door. “What exactly is happening?”

Bailey looked up, caught mid-cough, and offered a smile so tight it threatened to crush the pencil behind his ear. “Nothing at all, Your Grace! Merely the annual… er… review of the furniture.”

The laborers exchanged a glance that said they would rather die than conduct annual reviews of anything, ever.

Hester stepped closer. The air reeked of sawdust, fresh paint, and a faint, cloying sweetness she couldn’t identify. “That is not the scent of French polish,” she said.

“No, Your Grace,” Bailey said, “it is… essence of citrus. To mask the turpentine.”

“Turpentine?” she repeated.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

Hester started and looked behind her to find Mrs. Smith.

“I trust you slept well,” the housekeeper said.

She fixed her sharp eyes on the chaos for precisely one-half second before turning her attention back to Hester.

“Forgive the interruption,” Mrs. Smith added, “but you are required in the kitchens at once.”

Hester, still staring at the shattered pianoforte, replied, “What is happening, Mrs. Smith?”

Mrs. Smith’s lips thinned. “Cook requires your input on tonight’s dinner menu. It is an urgent matter of sauce selection.”

That was not my question. Hester studied the housekeeper then the room. Bailey and the laborers were suddenly more interested in their own shoes than in her presence.

“Is it not a little early to debate sauces?” Hester tried, but Mrs. Smith only widened her eyes fractionally—a clear warning that further questions would earn her nothing other than more cryptic answers.

“Very well,” Hester said, and she permitted Mrs. Smith to steer her from the wreckage of the salon. As she turned to leave, the laborers immediately resumed hammering, as if her presence had imposed a momentary ceasefire.

Mrs. Smith marched briskly ahead so that Hester had to quicken her pace to keep up. “Is something being repaired in there?” Hester asked, pitching her voice low.

“Only the previous owner’s lack of taste,” Mrs. Smith replied, a dry note in her otherwise respectful monotone.

“And it requires such hammering?”

“The Duke wished it expedited,” Mrs. Smith said. “He finds the present arrangement inadequate.”

“He finds it inadequate?” Hester echoed. “And does he plan to replace it with something much more inviting?”

Mrs. Smith’s gaze slid sideways. “I would not dare to predict His Grace’s decorative choices. Now, Your Grace, Cook is waiting.” She ushered Hester down the narrow back stairs where the air was thick with the scents of bread and roasting meat and alarmingly, charred sugar.

The kitchens were a world apart from the rest of the castle. Cook—her hair bound beneath an immaculate cap—stood at the far counter, a trio of maids orbiting her as she cracked eggs, stirred sauces, and issued brisk, endless orders.

She looked up at Hester’s arrival then glanced over at Mrs. Smith with a twitch of her left eyebrow. “Your Grace,” Cook said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Before Hester could answer, Mrs. Smith cut in, “You wished the Duchess’ opinion regarding the lamb. The sauces, remember?”

“Ah, of course!” Cook snapped her fingers then muttered, “The kitchens are so hot today; I’m afraid my head is melting faster than the meringues.”

Mrs. Smith and Cook shared a long, meaningful look that Hester could not interpret. Then Cook flashed a smile as bright as her ladles. “We’ve three choices for the roast, Your Grace, and I simply cannot choose.”

She gestured to a trio of copper saucepans, each attended by a maid, who scrambled to present them in a tidy row before Hester.

Cook handed her a tasting spoon, and Hester tried the first: rich, buttery, and with a hint of rosemary. The second was lighter and tart with a pleasant nip of lemon at the end. The third was deep, earthy, and heavy with red wine and garlic.

Hester swirled the third on her tongue, weighing her answer. “That one,” she declared, pointing to the wine-dark sauce. “It will stand up to the lamb without smothering it.”

Cook beamed. “Excellent choice, Your Grace. Would you like to try it with the carrots?”

Without waiting for an answer, Cook ladled a spoonful of the sauce into a china bowl and set it before Hester, then handed over a plate of roasted carrot sticks, glistening with honey and herbs.

Hester dipped one and bit. It was perfect—warm, savory, slightly sweet. “May I take some to my office?” she asked.

“Of course,” Cook said, already wrapping a linen around the bowl and stacking more carrot sticks onto a plate. “Would you like something for dessert as well?”

“Perhaps later,” Hester said. “Oh! And would you mind baking a batch of chocolate biscuits for this afternoon? I think Arabella would love them.”

Cook and Mrs. Smith both looked surprised but not displeased. “As you wish,” said Mrs. Smith.

“Chocolate biscuits it is,” Cook echoed, jotting the order in a notebook with a stubby pencil.

The thought of Arabella biting into a still-warm biscuit—a proper, full-mouthed smile on the girl’s face—sent a rare surge of anticipation through Hester’s chest. There, that is how it begins, she thought.

You allow yourself a kindness, and before long, you want to see it multiplied.

God has delivered this child for a purpose .

The rawness of the thought startled her. She bundled it away, using brisk motion as her shield.

She thanked Cook, nodded to Mrs. Smith, and was already halfway down the back hallway toward her office when her body collided with a wall.

The impact knocked the bowl and plate sideways, but before either could spill its contents, a pair of strong hands closed around her arms and held her upright. She clung reflexively to the bowl, nearly upending the entire contents into her lap.

“Ye must be trying to run me down, Duchess,” Thomas said, his eyes creased at the corners. “If I was a proper wall, you’d have knocked me flat by now.”

She found herself half-laughing, half-out of breath. “If you were a proper wall, I would have walked around you, not through you.”

He surveyed the rescued carrot sticks then her face, then the bowl held protectively to her chest. “You’ve become more dangerous since last I saw you,” he said, hands still braced at her shoulders. “Is this how you spend your afternoons, sneaking about the kitchens?”

She narrowed her gaze. “Are you accusing me of culinary subterfuge?”

He opened his mouth to speak then seemed to notice his hands lingered a shade too long on her shoulder. He let them drop. “Only that yer arms are criminally strong for someone so slight,” he replied. Then he made a gentle swipe at the bowl which she raised defensively to eye level.

“Stop that,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You must wait for dinner like the rest of us.”

He arched a brow. “And who made ye an authority on the matter, Duchess?”

“I am the mistress of this castle,” she shot back. “If I choose to take lunch in the hallway, it is my right.”

He looked at her then up at the bowl hovering just above his reach. “Ye do realize, Hester, that you’re not as tall as you imagine?”

She glared at him then realized she had, in fact, lifted the bowl straight into his line of sight, if not his grasp.

He smiled then calmly reached up and plucked a carrot from the top. “Thank you,” he said, popping it into his mouth with theatrical satisfaction. “Delicious.”

She fumed but only a little because it was funny and because his hand, when it brushed hers, had been very warm. She dropped her arm and balanced the bowl between them.

“You really are insufferable,” she said, but it came out as a sigh.

“I’ve been called worse,” he replied.

She glared, but the sharpness dissolved as two footmen hurried past, each carrying what looked like dismantled segments of the old salon’s woodwork. “Are we renovating the entire wing?” she asked, tracking the retreating chaos. “I thought only the little salon was under assault.”

Thomas watched the footmen vanish then gave a noncommittal shrug. “Might as well do the job proper. Those rooms have not seen daylight in a century. I’m thinking to put a studio in.”

“A studio? For yourself?”

He straightened. “I’ve drawings that want finishing, and the drawing room is overrun with distractions.”

She eyed him. “You mean me.”

He smiled, very slightly. “Who else could it be?”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to confine your artistry to your new studio,” she teased.

“Indeed,” he said, but his gaze slid away for a fraction of a second. It was the same look he wore when evading a difficult negotiation.

She caught it and catalogued it for later.

He cleared his throat. “Come, I have something for you in the drawing room.” And before she could protest, he was already moving, leaving her to follow with her bowl and plate in tow.

She trailed him down the hallway, aware of the warmth rising in her cheeks.

They reached the drawing room, and he walked to the escritoire, plucked a letter from the stack, and held it out to her.

“Arrived yesterday morning,” he said. “From your brother. I meant to bring it up, but you were otherwise occupied.”

She took the letter, noting the familiar scrawl on the back. “Thank you,” she said, more softly than intended.

He studied her a moment then added, “You seem happier, Hester. The child—she is well?”

She nodded, surprised by the tenderness in his voice. “Better every day,” she replied. “She is clever though still very shy. I think she will come to like it here.”

He nodded, and for a moment, a comfortable silence spread between them.

Then he added, “Ye know, it’s not too late to travel back and enjoy the season if ye want it.”

She looked up, startled. “You mean… to Town?”

“Aye,” he said. “Ye could see yer family, finish out the season. No one would blame ye for wanting a taste of the old life.”

She considered this, and to her surprise, she felt a small flutter of longing.

Not for London but for the ease of her old world where everything was arranged, and the risks were minimal.

“Perhaps I shall,” she said. “It would do me good to see Mama and Leonard. And Arabella could use the experience.”

Thomas smiled, and she felt an unfamiliar ache open inside her. “Thank you, Thomas,” she said.

He waved it off. “It’s nothing. You’re free to do as ye like.”

She stared at him, the urge to say something honest—something dangerous—bubbling beneath her ribs. Instead, she shifted the subject. “Did you want another carrot?” she asked, holding out the plate.

He took one, grinned, then produced a pair of small cards from his breast pocket. “Actually, I need your opinion. For the studio. These are color swatches.”

She took the cards, holding them to the light. One was a deep, slate blue. The other was the color of late summer grass.

“Which do you prefer?” he asked. “I can’t trust my own taste. Mrs. Smith said I should leave these matters to you.”

She laughed. “I think either would make excellent wallpaper. But the blue is more dignified.”

He grinned, a touch conspiratorial. “That’s my own preference, but I wanted to see if you’d agree.”

She studied the cards then glanced up at him. “Is there a reason you are so invested in the walls of a studio you claim is just for drawing?”

He shrugged, but there was something cagey in the set of his mouth. “It’s just a room, Hester.”

She nodded but was unconvinced.

He reached for the bowl again, and she caught his wrist, slapping his hand lightly. “Wait for dinner,” she admonished.

“It’s not fair,” he said. “You get a meal now, but I’m to starve till evening?”

“Mistress of the house, remember?” She grinned.

Thomas gave her a mock salute. “Impish woman,” he said, but it was clear he meant something else entirely.

She set the bowl on the table and, after a moment, pushed it in his direction. “Fine,” she said. “Share it with me.”

He took a carrot, and they stood there, side by side, eating in companionable silence.

After a while, she looked up at him. “When do you want to leave for Town?”

He turned to the window, thinking. “Whenever ye like, Duchess. I’m not coming with you, but you can leave any day.”

She stared at him. “You… you aren’t coming?”

He shook his head, absently tracing the rim of the bowl with his finger. “Too much to do here,” he said. “I’ve business with Bailey, and… well, Arabella’s happier with you. I’d only get in the way.”

The disappointment hit her, sharp and sudden. She masked it with a smile. “Of course,” she said. “You always did prefer the wilds of the country.”