Page 46 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

“ Y e move again, Duchess, and I’ll be forced to tie ye to the stool.”

“If you tie me to anything, Thomas, you’ll have to finish the sketch yourself.” Hester slumped her shoulders a deliberate inch, daring him with her eyes. “I am convinced you are doing this on purpose, to avoid the burden of improvement.”

He regarded her down the length of a half-used charcoal, arms folded.

The studio was a riot of natural light and even more riotous in the arrangement of its contents—Hester’s embroidery hoops and trays of silk thread tangled up with stacks of Thomas’ account ledgers, jars of pencils, and an entire menagerie of paper animals Arabella had staged for an imagined siege on Noah’s fortress of pillows.

“The only improvement I’d suggest,” Thomas said, crossing to inspect her pose, “is that ye refrain from mutiny for just five minutes.” He set his hands to her shoulders, tilting them as if she were a stubborn marble bust. “There. Now hold.”

She pursed her lips and let a beat of silence pass. “You know I hate being still.”

“I do. I married ye anyway.”

“That, dear Duke, is your own cross to bear.” She held his gaze, daring him to make it a contest.

He bent low, so their faces nearly touched. “Ye’d look less cross if ye smiled,” he murmured.

“And you would be less tedious if you stopped lecturing your models.”

He grinned, all teeth and spark. “Ye’re the only model I have, Duchess. I’m not about to lose my license for treating ye roughly.”

“You say that as if you do not enjoy the risk.”

Instead of rising to the bait, he pressed a kiss just below her ear—quick but lingering enough to turn her laugh into a shiver. “Ye’ll never catch me confessing to anything so reckless.”

She drew a slow breath, basking in the moment before returning to her pose. “At this rate, we shall never finish before the children’s dinner.”

Thomas stepped back and surveyed her with a craftsman’s eye. She sat on a faded velvet stool, one hand propping her jaw and the other curled into her lap—a pose equal parts queen and mischief. “We’ve nowhere to be, Hester. Unless ye’re in a hurry to show off?”

She arched a brow. “I am in a hurry to get through a sitting without being waylaid by your—” She fanned her face, as if fending off a heat that was not entirely imaginary. “—your distractions.”

“Distractions?” He feigned innocence then jabbed at the air with his charcoal. “Ye’re the one who asked to be drawn in yer new dress. I merely abide by yer artistic vision.”

She lifted her chin, regal even in rebellion. “I do not recall asking you to conduct the process as if you were the director of a French boudoir.”

“Ye haven’t seen a French boudoir, Duchess. Trust me, the lighting here is much worse.”

This time, she did smile, broad and honest, and Thomas marked the curve of it with the swift surety of a man who had spent a lifetime hoarding every rare, bright moment.

“Would you care to know what I think,” Hester asked, softening.

“Always.”

“I think you have gone entirely soft, Thomas. You pretend to be a tyrant in this studio, but you melt every time I look at you.”

He set his pencil aside, as if conceding the point. “Only because I am married to a woman who outmatches me at every turn. Ye’d have broken a lesser man by now.”

“You flatter, but you do not fool me,” she replied.

“I’ll try harder, then,” he said, and this time the kiss was longer, deeper, and he left a smudge of charcoal on her cheek for his trouble.

She patted his hand away, affecting disgust. “Now see what you have done.”

He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the mark though he left a streak on her jaw. “Perfect,” he said, admiring the result. “Now ye look like a real artist’s muse.”

“I will look like a war casualty by the time you finish.”

“Ye’ll look like a Duchess who knows her own mind. There are worse fates.”

She glanced sidelong at the growing sheaf of sketches on the side table, a record of all their failed attempts to capture her likeness. “You’re not even looking at the page,” she pointed out.

He didn’t need to. The image was burned into his memory as surely as any inheritance. “I’m taking a different approach today. Letting the lines come as they will.”

She watched him, and he sensed the weight of her stare. “Is this what you imagined,” she said quietly, “when you asked me to marry you?”

He didn’t answer at once. The room was full of the little noises of home—the chirr of a distant sparrow, the echo of Noah’s measured footsteps in the hallway, the low hum of fire in the stove. All the things that would have driven him mad in London now worked on him like a balm.

He looked at her, every line of her face familiar and new. “No,” he said. “It’s more than I ever thought I could want.”

She pressed her lips together, as if refusing to give ground to sentiment. But her voice was softer now. “You are a ridiculous man, Thomas Green.”

“Aye, but ye’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck is not the word I would use,” she said. “But I will allow it for today.”

He was about to return to the sketch when she shifted in her seat, dropping her chin in a mock sulk. “Do not start again. I have lost the thread of your grand composition,” she said though her eyes were bright with mischief.

“Maybe we need a new subject,” he said then, deciding, he added, “What would ye draw, Hester, if it were up to ye?”

She pondered for a moment. “I would draw us,” she said, “not as a duke and duchess but as people. You with your hair always too long, me with the ink stain on my thumb, both of us surrounded by as many foundlings as we can keep in line.”

“Ye think we’re people, do ye?”

“I think we are almost a family,” she said. “A real one. I know you worry about it sometimes, but you need not.”

He moved to kneel before her, the air between them suddenly charged with an old, sweet urgency. “Ye really believe that?”

She reached for his hand, anchoring him to the earth. “I do. We are, Thomas. Even if we have to practice at it every single day.”

He let himself believe it. For a man who had built his life on plans, it was strange to trust a thing that could not be measured or mended with a tool.

“Well, then, let’s get back to practicing,” he said.

But before he could resume, she cleared her throat with such pointed intent that he nearly missed the glint in her eye.

“What is it?” he asked.

She straightened her posture, pressing her hands to her lap as if preparing to make an announcement in Parliament. “I think,” she began, “that we ought to finish this particular portrait with some haste.”

He cocked a brow. “Since when are ye in a hurry?”

“Since now.”

He grinned. “And why is that?”

She drew a long, theatrical breath. “Because I do not wish to spend weeks being sketched only to begin again.”

He laughed. “You’re impossible, Duchess.”

But she did not return the smile. Instead, she reached out, took his hand, and placed it firmly on her own. He felt the tremor in her fingers. “Because, if we are not quick about it, I will begin to show,” she said.

He stared, not understanding at first. Then the world snapped into focus.

“Hester.”

She nodded, the movement barely visible.

He was afraid to hope. “Ye mean to say?—”

She squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. “Yes, Thomas. I mean to say exactly that.”

The next instant, he had her in his arms. The stool went toppling; the sketchbook scattered its pages to the floor. He kissed her, face, hair, anywhere he could reach, with a joy so fierce it startled even him.

When he finally drew back, he pressed his palm to her stomach, as if daring himself to believe it. “I’ll draw ye every day until it’s born,” he said, awed. “And then I’ll draw all three of us together.”

She laughed, and it was the sound he would remember on the worst nights for the rest of his life. “At this rate, you will fill the entire castle with portraits before you even meet the child.”

He shook his head. “I’m going to be a father,” he said, testing the words. “I’m going to be a father, Hester.”

“You are,” she said and kissed him, her arms winding tight around his neck.

“I’m not sure I deserve this,” he whispered.

She held him back, matching the fierceness of his grip. “Neither of us do. That is what makes it so perfect.”

They were still entwined on the carpet when the studio door crashed open, and Arabella barreled through with Noah in close pursuit. Both were breathless, faces red from whatever contest they’d staged in the hallway.

“Mrs. Smith says you are to come at once for tea, or there will be consequences,” Bella announced. “Also, Noah broke your wax seal, and he is very sorry.”

Noah, appearing contrite, stared at his shoes, but it was clear from the glimmer in his eyes that he was not at all sorry.

Thomas stood, hoisted Hester with him, and set her gently upright. “Go on, both of ye. We’ll be right behind.”

As soon as the children were gone, Thomas pressed his forehead to Hester’s, unwilling to let her go. “I love ye, Hester,” he said, the words easy at last.

She smiled, soft and sure. “And I you, Thomas. Now let’s go before Bella eats all the cake.”

The End?