Page 38 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

Bella surveyed the room with the careful intensity of a small general then pointed at a lavender dress with a sash the color of cream. “That one. And also—” she added, more quietly, “something to match yours.”

Hester’s heart twisted. “Of course,” she said. “We’ll have them make you one just like mine.”

Madame Evrard swooped in, measured Bella’s arms and waist with lightning speed, and pronounced her “perfect for all fashions.” Bella bore it with stoicism then turned to Thomas.

“Do you want a dress, too?” she asked with utter sincerity.

Thomas managed to keep a straight face. “No, thank ye, lass. But I might try a sash if you think it suits me.”

He picked up the nearest ribbon and draped it over his shoulder then paraded about the room to Bella’s delight.

“Boys don’t wear sashes!” Bella giggled.

“Maybe not in England,” he replied. “But in Scotland, we wear all sorts of things.”

Bella was undeterred. “You should have something in blue. It matches your eyes,” she said with authority.

Hester felt laughter bubble up, the room gone light and bright with it. “She’s demoted you, Thomas. From Duke to dress dummy.”

He grinned. “It’s a fine promotion.”

The modiste and her assistants worked around them, and the drawing room was a hive of fitting, pinning, and laughter. Hester watched Bella preen in her new dress, watched Thomas let himself be ordered about by a six-year-old, and felt—for just a moment—as if they were a real family.

The thought stabbed then lingered, and she told herself that this did not matter.

Hester’s dresses arrived the day before the Eldenham Ball, and her sitting room resembled a battlefield of silk and satin.

Miss Holt was already unwrapping the parcels with even more excitement than Hester.

“The peach cambric, Your Grace,” Miss Holt announced, setting a folded confection atop the pile. “And here, the blue satin with the gold thread for evening.”

Hester lifted a sleeve, inspecting the handiwork. “It’s fine, but I’m starting to feel as if I ought to open a shop myself.”

Miss Holt smiled. “With Your Grace’s taste, I do not doubt it.” She reached for a large box and opened it then gasped. Hester could not see the contents of the box, but Miss Holt handed her a card.

For Her Grace. Private.

Hester blinked then investigated the box.

Miss Hold pulled out a dress she could not have conjured in any dream: the deepest crimson with gold embroidery blazing over the bodice and a train so long and detailed she nearly gasped at the artistry.

The lining was a gossamer so sheer it might have been spun by spiders; the sleeves were slashed to the elbow in the fashion of a medieval princess.

She held it up, the color blooming in the gray light.

Miss Holt gawked. “Did you order that one, Your Grace?”

Hester shook her head. “It must be a mistake. I never chose—” She stopped, tracing the collar. There, in minuscule gold stitches, was a motif she recognized at once: the Lushton crest, stylized and feminine. “This is not from the catalog.”

“Do you wish to return it?” Miss Holt asked though her tone suggested it would be a sin to send such a work of art away.

Hester stared at the dress, wondering who could have arranged it. Anna, perhaps, in a fit of matchmaking mischief? Nancy, as a joke?

“How do ye like the dress?”

Hester spun to find Thomas leaning against her bedchamber doorframe with his arms folded and a devilish grin on his face.

“You did this?” she asked, and he laughed.

“I did.”

She stared at him, perplexed.

“I found out about the ball before the invitation arrived and stopped by the modiste to arrange everything,” Thomas said, “as I reckoned you’d want something special. I told Madame Evrard to surprise you.”

Hester’s hands tightened on the fabric. “I thought it was a mistake. It’s extraordinary.”

“Aye. That’s why I picked it.”

“It makes the rest of my wardrobe look like—like dressing for a funeral. I’m wearing this one to the ball.”

He watched her. “That’s what I hoped.”

She ran her palm over the embroidery, letting herself want it. The color was bold. Daring, even. She wondered what the gossips would say and what Anna would scream.

She looked up at him and asked, “Why did you not stop me from ordering the others if you had already chosen this?”

“It’s more fun to let you choose,” Thomas replied, “and I thought you’d see it for what it is. A proper surprise.”

She recalled, in a flash, his coughing fit in the drawing room and the modiste’s strange quickness to accept his interruptions. “You orchestrated the whole thing.”

He inclined his head. “I learned from the best, and Madame Evrard nearly exposed me.”

“You are insufferable.” Hester laughed.

Thomas stepped back into her adjoining living room then reappeared with a large velvet box and held it out to her. “There’s more.”

Inside was a necklace of rubies in a line, joined by tiny diamonds. There were earrings, and—God, she nearly dropped it—a tiara of the same, spiked and set so that it caught the light with brilliance.

“It’s too much,” she said, but her hands would not let go.

He shrugged. “Ye always did need more than ye allowed yerself.”

She looked at him, trying to gauge the angle of the smile. Was it a joke? Or did he mean something more?

“You want me to be noticed,” she said. “You want everyone at the ball to stare.”

He nodded unapologetically. “My Duchess will bring life to that ballroom if it’s the last thing I do.”