Page 37 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

I n last week’s edition, we erroneously implied that the Duke and Duchess of Lushton had added to their family by rather more scandalous means.

We have it on the highest authority that the Duke’s new ward, a Miss Arabella, is a child of unfortunate but respectable provenance and that the Duchess has proved herself a benefactress of rare courage and tenderness.

We apologize for our prior mischaracterization and beg the Duchess’s forgiveness, which, being the model of Christian charity, we are confident she will extend.

Hester stared at the retraction, her brows arching so high they threatened to migrate off her forehead entirely.

“What in God’s name did he do to make them apologize?” she muttered.

She was halfway through an elaborate mental catalogue of all the threats, bribes, and legal artillery Thomas might have deployed when the door to the breakfast room opened. The London butler—Mr. Edison—advanced.

“Your Grace,” he intoned, “there is a modiste here to see you. She has, it would seem, brought her entire shop.”

“Her entire shop?”

“She has already filled the vestibule with boxes and bolts and several very lively assistants,” he said, as if the presence of lively assistants was a personal insult to his dignity.

Hester opened her mouth to protest—she had summoned no modiste—but at that precise moment, Thomas strolled in, managing to make his entry look both deliberate and entirely offhand. He wore a deep green morning coat and looked as though he had never slept better in his life.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, glancing at the butler.

“Did you order a dressmaker’s army to invade the house?” Hester demanded, only half in jest.

He grinned as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Aye, I did. Thought ye’d be wanting a fresh start for the season.”

“You didn’t warn me.”

“What’s the fun in a warning?” Thomas set down his cup and turned to the butler. “Show the modiste in, and clear out the drawing room for her things. I don’t want a single box left in the hallways.”

The butler bowed, resigned to this latest defeat, and vanished.

“I’m still in my morning dress,” Hester said then lowered her voice as the sound of rushing footsteps approached. “And I have not finished breakfast. Surely, you could have given me a quarter hour?”

He only smiled, wide and unapologetic. “It’s yer house, Duchess. If ye wish to entertain them in yer nightrail, I’ll nae stand in yer way.”

Hester hastily finished her breakfast and moved to the drawing room where a whirlwind of ribbons waited along with boxes and a woman of such vigorous self-possession that the room seemed to shrink in order to accommodate her.

The modiste herself was small, French, and possessed of a voice so piercing and insistent that it could have driven geese to flight.

“ Votre Grace! ” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in delight. “I am Madame Evrard. It is the highest honor. My girls, they have already lined the hallway. We bring the finest in all London!”

Behind her, a parade of assistants stood near chests, hatboxes, and mysterious padded trunks. Hester did not know whether to laugh or run for the stables.

The modiste advanced, seized Hester’s hand, and surveyed her from neck to toe with a scrutiny that was nearly indecent. “Ah, what lines! What structure! You have the bones of a Roman empress: so rare, so difficult to dress! But I will do it, yes. I will make you a legend.”

Thomas, of course, was enjoying every second with a wicked laugh.

Hester tried to extract her hand, but Madame Evrard only tightened her grip.

“You will see. We have every color, every cut, every extravagance for the new season. There are the French waists, the English waists, the Highland—” here she threw a significant look at Thomas “—and for the Duchess, something entirely original.”

“I am only one person,” Hester said. “Surely you have overestimated my need for clothing.”

“Oh, no, Your Grace! You have not yet seen my catalogue. I assure you, every piece is essential.”

Thomas gave her a shameless wink. “Ye can buy out the entire shop, if ye like. I’ll nae stop ye.”

Madame Evrard beamed. “He is a husband of rare understanding. If only all were so accommodating.”

The parade of boxes continued, each opened with a flourish: swathes of silk, spangled shawls, gloves with embroidery so fine it made her own needlework look like the work of an amateur.

There were court dresses, walking dresses, dinner frocks, opera cloaks, and at least three bonnets so enormous that Hester suspected they required their own footmen.

It would have been overwhelming if not for the odd sense of giddiness that crept up as she realized how delighted Thomas was by the whole spectacle.

He leaned close to her so that only she could hear the deep baritone of his voice. “Go on, Hester. Ye cannae say ye aren’t the least bit excited.”

She raised a brow. “I was not aware you had opinions about ball dresses.”

He shrugged, unconcerned. “I have opinions about everything.”

She turned back to the modiste, who was now arraying swatches across the sofa as if assembling a color-based puzzle. “Thank you, Madame Evrard. It is… impressive. I do not know where to begin.”

The modiste clapped her hands. “You must let your instincts guide you. Pick what makes you feel alive, powerful, and exquisite. And if you need a second opinion—” here she gestured at Thomas “—your husband has excellent taste.”

Hester shot him a look. “Does he, now?”

Thomas folded his arms, looking as smug as a cat. “Told ye I was a man of surprises.”

She relented, allowing herself a small smile and straightening her shoulders, affecting severity. “You have not yet earned my full admiration. But you are, I admit, improving.”

He affected shock. “How will I ever manage to impress you fully?”

Madame Evrard, sensing her moment, interjected, “If I may, Your Grace, we also have children’s patterns. For your little one, yes?” She glanced at Thomas. “Or perhaps for a ward?”

Hester blinked then smiled, genuine and wide. “That is a splendid idea. Arabella should have something new as well.”

Madame Evrard gestured, and within seconds, an assistant appeared bearing a book filled with miniature frocks. “We will need the child for measurements, but I assure you—every girl wishes to be a princess at least once in her life.”

Thomas’s smile widened. “I’ll send for her,” he said.

While the modiste made a great show of organizing silks by shade, Hester began to flip through the catalogues, laughing at the more extravagant options and asking Thomas’s opinion on several.

He was completely unabashed in his advice, even going so far as to completely disapprove of a dress that was “the color of spoiled ale.”

Midway through the process, the butler reappeared with a silver tray. “A message, Your Grace. From the Duchess of Eldenham.”

Hester took the card and read. “We are invited to the Eldenham Ball. It’s only four days away.”

Thomas grinned. “That’s a fine coincidence.”

Hester studied the invitation, feeling the nerves spark in her chest. It was the first truly grand event she would attend since becoming Duchess, and now, she would be expected to parade herself in the most public way possible.

She set the card down and turned to Madame Evrard. “We must make something suitable for the ball.”

“ Mais bien s?r !” Madame Evrard swept aside the other swatches and drew forth a hidden portfolio, bristling with fashion plates so elaborate they looked more like battle plans than dresses.

“Here. This one, I think—yes? The cut is daring but not indecent. And the color—what is your preference, Madam?”

Hester considered. She was about to answer when the modiste said, “Or perhaps, you would like red. His Grace sel?—”

Thomas coughed, and it was a sharp, hacking noise that cut through the room. For a moment, it seemed he might actually collapse; he clutched his chest and turned away, his face going red.

“Thomas!” Hester darted over. “Are you unwell?”

He waved her off then coughed again, louder this time, thumping his chest with one hand.

“Forgive him,” Madame Evrard said, completely unflustered. “Many men are overcome by fashion. It is nothing to worry for.”

Thomas managed to stop. “Forgive me, Duchess. Something went down the wrong pipe,” he said though Hester could have sworn he was fighting a grin.

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. He smiled and took a seat.

Madame Evrard continued as if nothing had happened. “For the ball, I recommend something bold. The world already looks at you. Give them something to admire, yes?”

“Something bold,” Hester repeated, feeling an unexpected thrill at the prospect. “Yes. Let us do that.”

She picked out three possible styles then glanced at Thomas. “Which would you choose?”

Thomas studied them with exaggerated seriousness. “The green,” he said, tapping the page. “It’s the color of confidence. And if ye wear it, no one will think to pity ye.”

Hester arched a brow. “Since when do you care about pity?”

He shrugged. “I care about what ye want. That’s all.”

Something in her chest stuttered. She wanted very much to reach out and touch his hand, just to see what he would do, but the room was too crowded, the moment too fragile.

Instead, she turned to the modiste. “We will take the green. And the peach for dinner parties. And for walking perhaps—” she searched for something that felt more like herself, “the blue with the simple embroidery.”

“ Très bien! ” Madame Evrard scribbled notes, barked orders, and instantly dispatched three assistants to begin alterations.

Moments later, Arabella appeared, breathless and bright-eyed, ushered in by the butler. She stopped short at the sight of the transformed drawing room then broke into a wide smile.

“Oh!” she said. “Are these all for us?”

Hester kneeled to her level. “We thought you should have something new, too. What would you like best?”