Page 35 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester woke to a pale, sour morning and the sound of Miss Holt muttering in the far corner of her bedchamber.

At first, she thought it was some trick of the dream still clinging to her—a dream in which Thomas was scowling at a page of numbers and Bella was reciting her sums, faster and faster, until the world dissolved into noise.

But the sound persisted: a rhythm of gentle curses, rustling linen, and an odd, crisp snapping. She pushed up from her pillow and watched blearily as Miss Holt smoothed a fresh sheet across the bed.

The maid paused, startled. “You are awake, Your Grace. I—I apologize for the noise.”

Hester blinked, trying to focus. “Have you always muttered so?” She forced her voice into a lightness she did not feel. “Or is it merely Mondays that bring out your chattiness?”

Miss Holt flushed and ducked her head, quickly finishing the fold and stacking the sheet on the armoire shelf. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you. It is only—” She stopped and bit her lip.

Hester sat up, pressing her back against the headboard. “Only what?”

The maid shook her head, feigning innocence. “Nothing, Your Grace.”

“Miss Holt.” She said it as Anna might, crisp as a cracking whip. “Bring me the thing you were about to hide in your apron.”

For a moment, she thought the girl might bolt. Then, with a resigned air, Miss Holt crossed the room and placed a thin, creamy sheet of parchment on the bed. “It came with the milk delivery, Your Grace. The housekeeper thought you ought not see it, but?—”

“But you could not help yourself.” Hester took the page, flattening it across her lap. Then she felt every drop of blood leave her face then return tenfold in a hot, choking rush.

It is not every day that a new Duchess so bravely affronts Society’s cold eye by appearing in the capital attended by a daughter not her own.

Yet such is the courage of the Duchess of Lushton, whose recent arrival was observed with a ‘growing’ family in tow.

Those who recall the Duke’s appearance may draw their own conclusions as to the origin of this remarkable child, whose blue gaze and tawny mane recall her guardian’s own…

Hester could barely breathe. She crushed the sheet in her fist and remembering herself, spread it again, seeking any hope of ambiguity.

There was none. No mention of Bella by name, but the description was unmistakable—and worse, the tone suggested she was to be both pitied and mocked for her association.

She managed to say, “Thank you, Miss Holt. Please leave it on my escritoire.”

Miss Holt did, retreating to the armoire with the silence of a penitent.

Hester stared at the sheet for a long minute, willing it to vanish. When it did not, she let her head drop back and pressed a hand to her brow.

If Mother sees it, she’ll weep. If Leonard—oh, God, the whole of Town will have seen it by now. And the best I can do is pretend that I do not care.

But it was impossible not to care. She could almost feel the weight of every stare that would greet her at the next ball, the quips, the sideways looks, the careful way people would mention “the child” as if she were both object and offense.

And Bella. What would happen to her if the rumors spun out of control?

Hester pressed her palms together, breathing shallowly. “I need Thomas,” she said, half-aloud.

It was not the sort of thing she ever said, and it sounded even worse in daylight, stripped of all pretensions. But she did. He would know what to do. He always did.

Before she could change her mind, she threw back the covers and padded to the escritoire, dragging the gossip sheet with her. She found pen and paper and wrote, swiftly and with no thought to style.

Thomas

There is a problem. I am in the middle of a scandal, and it concerns Bella. You must come at once. I do not trust myself to handle it alone, and I trust no one in Town to do better. If you do not come, I shall fetch you myself.

Hester

She sealed the letter and pressed the wax hard, watching it spread like spilled blood. She addressed it to the Lushton estate, knowing that, even with the best post, it would be a day before he received it.

Hester was about to summon Miss Holt again when the sound of a child’s laughter—high, piercing, and unmistakably Bella—echoed up from the stairwell. There was another sound, too, deeper and rolling, a man’s voice.

Hester’s heart stuttered. She wrapped herself in a dressing dress (the thickest one she could find, the better to armor herself against whatever fresh disaster awaited) and stepped into the hallway.

She followed the sound of laughter down the main stairs, past the framed ancestors of her family, and into the morning room.

The sight that met her there nearly stopped her in her tracks.

Thomas—her Thomas—stood in the middle of the carpet, hair damp with mist, boots muddy, and coat barely shrugged off his broad shoulders.

He was holding Bella aloft in both arms, spinning her once, twice, as she squealed and clung to him.

He let her down gently then squatted to her height and asked, “And how do ye find London, lass?”

Bella, cheeks flushed, bounced on her toes. “It is very large! Yesterday, we walked in a park with so many trees. I fed the ducks in the river. And there was a lady in a red hat who shouted at the ducks, but they did not listen to her at all.”

Hester wanted to weep. Instead, she braced her hand against the doorframe and watched.

Thomas nodded solemnly. “The ducks here are a law unto themselves, I’ve heard. Did ye feed them with good bread, or did ye sneak them bits of cake?”

Bella grinned, showing a missing tooth. “Cake! Miss Anna said it was only proper to spoil them once in a while.”

“Anna is wise.” Thomas ruffled the girl’s hair then straightened, dusting imaginary crumbs from his sleeve.

He caught sight of Hester, then, and his entire demeanor shifted—softer, somehow, but also brighter.

He grinned, and for a moment he looked nothing like a Duke and everything like a rogue who’d gotten away with something.

“I was wondering where I might find my Duchess,” he said, bowing with mock gravity. “I am sorry for arriving unannounced, but I thought?—”

She stopped him with a look, torn between relief and annoyance. “You are supposed to be in Dorset.”

He shrugged, all broad shoulders and calm certainty.

“That was the plan. But I reckoned you might need me here.” He gestured to Bella, who had sidled up to his leg, one hand wrapped possessively around his knee.

“And she told me, first thing, that no one in this city can make porridge like I can. I couldnae leave her to starve.”

Hester snorted then remembered herself and smoothed her hair. “You traveled all night for a bowl of porridge?”

He stepped forward, every inch the Duke again, and took her hand—hers, not the outstretched hand of a socialite or a wife but her hand, which he lifted and kissed before she could protest. She felt the warmth of his lips through the skin, the jolt of connection, and then the slow, aching return of everything she’d worked so hard to suppress.

“I traveled all night because I thought ye might require my company,” he said more quietly.

She tried to keep her voice steady. “You are prescient. I was just about to send a letter to summon you.”

“Shall I pretend to be surprised?” He cocked a brow, eyes alight.

Hester shook her head. “We have trouble. We need to speak privately.” Her voice caught, and she hated it, hated the way her throat seemed to close at the ends of words—so much for composure.

He nodded without asking, and with a gentle squeeze that was all the more infuriating for being so perfectly attuned to her, he drew her toward the nearest empty salon. The morning sun pooled in trembling puddles on the carpet. He closed the door, the click soft, and waited.

Hester paced once then twice then turned on him.

She thrust the gossip sheet at Thomas, whose broad hands dwarfed the page.

It looked almost comic, except for the way his jaw set as he read.

He did not interrupt, only let his eyes move across the lines, his thumb slowly creasing the page as he went.

When he finished, he let his hand fall. “I see.” He looked at her, but there was no shock, only a cold, steady light. “Who brought this to you?”

“Miss Holt,” Hester said. “But it hardly matters. Everyone will have seen it by breakfast.” She pressed her nails into her palm. “I walked with Bella in Hyde Park yesterday. They must have seen her and began speculating.” The words spilled in frantic waves.

Thomas crossed the space between them. She thought he might rebuke her or worse, offer some bland reassurance. Instead, he took her by the shoulders—gently, but with a force that steadied her, as if anchoring her in place. His thumbs pressed a careful warmth through the fabric of her robe.

“They’ll say what they please,” he said. “They always do. But it’s not your burden to carry alone, Hester.”

She shook her head, pressing the heels of her hands to her brow. “You don’t understand. If it were only me—” She could not finish. The muscles of her jaw twitched. “I can’t let them do this to the child.”

He pulled her in and wrapped both arms around her, holding tight, and for a moment she could not think, only feel: the heat of his chest, the thrum of his heart, the harsh wool of his coat against her knuckles. She waited for him to let go, but he did not.

“You’re frightened,” he murmured against her hair. “But I have weathered worse than this, and so have you. Let me take care of it.”

She couldn’t breathe, not properly. Every inch of her wanted to lean into him, to let the moment collapse into something dangerous and real. Her face pressed against his shirtfront, and she felt the rise and fall of his breath, the way it matched hers, and loathed herself for needing it.

He set his chin on her crown, a ridiculous, intimate gesture, and she almost laughed. Thomas pulled back and looked down at her then tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up.

“I did promise ye that ye willnae cry while ye are me wife. I will take care of this nonsense.”

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He smiled then let her go and walked out of the room.