Page 33 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

“ P erfect,” Thomas muttered to himself as he stood alone in the new studio and surveyed the work with the deliberate care of a general inspecting fresh fortifications.

The space—flooded with natural light from three tall windows, the floors gleaming in unblemished polish, the wall to the north painted in the deep, dignified blue Hester had endorsed—needed only its occupant.

And perhaps one finishing touch.

He crossed to the center. The new table, capable of supporting a granite slab if called upon, had been sanded smooth, the edges rounded to be gentle on bare arms. There was a row of drawers for silks and needles, a rack for canvases, and the sturdy stool he’d commissioned which looked out at the parkland and the distant line of trees.

Every tool, every brush and length of muslin was in place.

He grinned and turned as two footmen entered, struggling under the weight of a large, shrouded object. “Careful now,” Thomas barked, unable to resist the urge to hover.

“Mind the corners. There’s a hook on that easel and if you catch it, the whole business will topple.” The men nodded, red-faced, as they maneuvered the canvas to its stand without incident.

He stood for a long time before the canvas after removing the shroud, his arms folded, chewing the inside of his cheek as he weighed each line for errors, for the particular flaw he always missed until it was too late. But this once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing more to add.

He covered it and stepped back as he allowed himself a thin, undiluted satisfaction, then he ran a hand through his hair and strode out to find Hester, feeling more like a schoolboy than a Duke.

He found Hester in the drawing room with Cook. She did not see him at first. He made a sound in the back of his throat, and she looked up, startled.

“If I might have the Duchess for a moment, Cook. There’s a matter of great importance.”

Cook quickly swept from the room, and Hester fixed him with a skeptical stare. “What have you done?”

Thomas did not answer. Instead, he produced a long, wide strip of muslin and dangled it in front of her. “Trust me,” he said.

She snatched it from his hand. “If you plan to blindfold me, Thomas, you had better have a very good reason.”

“I do.”

She pursed her lips. “Is this another of your Highland games?”

“No games. But I promise it’s worth the trouble.” He waited until she relented, rolling her eyes and allowing him to tie the muslin securely. “Too tight?” he asked, secretly enjoying her resigned annoyance.

“Not at all. But if you let me trip on the stairs, I shall haunt your dreams.”

“Ye already do, Duchess.”

She did not dignify this with a reply, and he grinned.

He led her up the staircase, careful to announce every landing, and paused outside the new studio. “Brace yourself,” he warned. “Bailey claims it’s the finest room in Yorkshire.”

“He would say so. You’ve probably bribed him,” she retorted, but there was a nervous lilt to her voice. He liked it.

He opened the door and guided her in then let her stand at the threshold while he closed it gently behind them. Untying the muslin slyly for effect, Thomas leaned close to her. “Well?”

She took a step forward. Then another. She scanned the walls, the table, the tall stool, the perfect placement of every last book and brush and bolt of cloth. She turned in a slow circle, her mouth open. She did not speak.

When she faced him again, there was a softness in her expression he had never seen before. It made his chest ache.

She said, “You told me this was to be your studio.”

He shook his head. “That’s what I wanted you to think. It’s always been yours.”

Her lips parted, but words failed her. He watched, feeling foolishly raw as she drifted across the room and ran her fingers along the worktable then lifted the shears, tested their weight, and set them down.

She faced him, and for a moment, the only sound was the hum of the distant clock in the main hall.

“You kept this a secret,” she said at last. “Even Mrs. Smith would not let me near this room. When I asked her about the redecoration—two days ago—she pretended to know nothing then changed the subject to Cook’s new meringue recipe.”

He grinned. “Loyal servants. Worth every penny.”

Hester laughed. “And Cook—she acted so startled when I came into the kitchen this morning, as if she had forgotten I even lived here.” Hester shook her head, eyes wide. “You orchestrated this entire charade.”

He allowed himself a little pride. “Aye. And not a word escaped. You’d think I threatened them with the lash.”

She laughed then caught herself, the sound tapering to something almost shy.

Her gaze swept the room again. “The wallpaper is the blue I picked out.”

He nodded. “You said it was dignified.”

She smiled, a small, genuine thing that brightened her entire face. “You were very determined to keep me in the dark, weren’t you?”

“I was determined to make it a proper surprise,” he replied. “I’m told that’s what husbands do on occasion.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into the back of it, unable to resist.

She blushed. He could see the color climb her neck, and he wanted, very much, to see what else he could do to bring it out.

Before he could try, she spotted the covered canvas on the easel. “What is that?” she asked, suspicion returning to her tone. “There’s more?”

He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I’m a man of many talents. Would you like to see?” She nodded, all composure, but her eyes shone.

He reached over and pulled off the muslin, revealing the finished portrait. He heard the breath leave her, and in that instant, he knew he had done well.

She said nothing for a long moment then, “I never sit so still.”

He grinned. “I drew you as I see you. That’s a privilege, you know. Most people only see what you want them to.”

Her gaze lingered on the drawing, and when she looked back at him, something in her had softened. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You did not have to do all of this.”

He shook his head. “I did. For the blankets. For the orphanage. For Bella. And for making this place your own.” He found his voice tightening in a way he disliked, so he tried to make it a joke. “And for choosing the best wallpaper in England.”

She laughed, and the sound did not falter this time.

He stepped closer, and the space between them narrowed. “You’re remarkable,” he said more gruffly than intended. “You deserve this. You deserve more.”

She stared up at him, and for a moment. he thought she might close the gap herself. She looked at his mouth then at his eyes. He leaned in, just enough to be sure she could refuse him if she wished. When her lashes fluttered in invitation, his arm moved around her waist.

But before anything could happen, a small, piping voice intruded, “Would you like biscuits, Your Graces?”

Thomas jerked back, startled, and found Bella at the door, holding a china plate stacked high with chocolate biscuits. She looked proud and a bit hopeful.

He blinked then laughed outright, the tension in the room dissolving in a single breath. “That’s very thoughtful, Bella,” he said, catching Hester’s amused glance. “Are they for us?”

“For everyone,” Bella said, crossing the room with her careful, quick steps. “Cook made them for me, but I am to share.”

Hester wasted no time in plucking a biscuit from the plate. She took a bite and sighed, eyes closing. “They are heavenly. Did you like the first batch, Bella?”

Bella nodded with gravity. “I want them every day.”

Thomas looked at the plate then at Hester, whose lips were glossed with a smudge of chocolate. “Every day?” he repeated. “Are you sure you’re not just hiding behind the child to indulge your own cravings, Duchess?”

She shrugged, feigning innocence. “You’ll never prove it.”

Thomas reached for a biscuit and found Bella had already offered him one, her face alight with pride. Hester turned to Bella, her tone warm. “Are you going to take the rest to your governess?”

Bella nodded then, as if remembering her manners, curtsied. “May I go, Your Grace?”

Thomas ruffled her hair, unable to help himself. “Ye may.”

When Bella had left, carrying the plate as if it held the crown jewels, Hester looked at him and smiled. “She really does seem to like Miss Wilmot.”

He nodded. “She’s a clever one. The both of them.”

They stood together in the blue-lit quiet, and Thomas found he did not want the moment to end.

Hester was first to break the silence. “I wish I could stay to use the room, but I want to see my mother. I think I should leave for Town tomorrow.”

He tried not to react, but the words left a sour pinch in his stomach. “Aye. That’s wise. Yer mother will be glad to see ye.”

She looked at him, something questioning in her gaze. “You will remain here?”

He nodded. “Too much to do. The estate needs a firm hand. But you can always return if ye tire of London.”

She laughed. “That is the best offer I’ve had today.”

He caught her hand again and felt the coolness of her skin against his. “I’ll ensure this room awaits your return with equal anticipation.”

She arched a brow. “How would you manage that?”

He shrugged. “As I said—man of many talents.”

She grinned then let the humor fade into something more subdued. “Humility is not one of them.”

He barked a laugh, and she joined him. For the first time, he felt as though the castle was not merely full but alive.

He wondered what it would be like, someday, to hear that laughter in every room.

Thomas found Hester and Arabella already waiting in the drawing room, both dressed for travel in somber grays and deep blues that managed to render the coming trip as solemn as a military campaign.

Hester’s gloves were fastened, her bonnet tied, and Bella sat primly at the edge of a settee, swinging her feet in a rhythm that betrayed her excitement far more than her composed features.

“Ye look ready for the front lines,” Thomas said, pausing at the threshold.

Hester glanced up and managed a smile though her lips were drawn thin. “If only London society were half as predictable as Waterloo. At least then I would know what to expect.” She patted the seat beside her for Arabella then turned back to Thomas. “May I speak with you privately?”

He nodded, led her to his study, and closed the door behind them. The sun was not yet high, but already, the new light from the studio cut a sharp angle across his desk.

She faced him. “What am I to say about Bella? To Town, I mean.”

He leaned against the door, arms crossed. “Tell them she is our ward. That’s all the truth anyone requires.”

She pressed her lips together, thinking. “They will want to know more.”

“Let them speculate,” he replied. “They’ll invent a story regardless. At least this way, it’s your story to tell.”

She nodded then caught his gaze, holding it. “You trust me, then?”

He shrugged, finding it difficult to look away. “With my life, Duchess.”

She inhaled once, quick, and Thomas wondered if she was about to say more. Instead, she smoothed her glove and let the subject drop. “Thank you,” she said.

They returned to the drawing room. Bella was standing now, peering out the window, clearly itching to be off.

Thomas watched them for a moment before speaking. “Have ye got everything you need, Hester?”

“Yes,” she said, tucking her gloves tighter. “We should be on our way before the roads fill with the market wagons.”

He nodded and offered Bella his arm. The girl took it, small fingers curling with surprising strength around his wrist. He led them out to the waiting carriage which gleamed in the cold morning air, the Lushton crest already attracting looks from the assembled staff.

He helped Bella in first, lifting her gently onto the high step. She smoothed her skirt then turned back to him, cheeks flushed. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “This is the grandest carriage I have ever seen. I feel like a princess.”

He smiled. “Ye should. It suits ye, Bella.”

He turned to Hester next, offering his hand. She took it, her grip cool but steady, and she met his eyes as she climbed aboard.

“If anything is amiss, or if you need anything—” he started.

“I will send word at once,” she finished for him.

He nodded, stepping back. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him, to keep her here and see her smile again in the blue-lit studio, to show her that he meant every word he’d said about trust. But he said nothing.

He shut the carriage door then stepped back, folding his arms against the morning chill. Hester leaned out the window, her bonnet framing her face. Their eyes caught, and he waited for her to say something—anything.

She only smiled, small and genuine, then retreated to her seat. The carriage rocked, the horses champed, and with a crack of the driver’s whip, the whole procession moved off down the gravel lane.

Thomas watched it go until it vanished around the first bend. Only then did he let his arms drop to his sides.

The cold felt sharper, somehow, now that she was gone.

If you tire of London, you can always return here , he’d told her. He hoped she would. God help him, he hoped she would.