Page 23 of Duke of Emeralds
A shiver ran down her back, and her breath shook. Nancy’s words swam in her thoughts: tales of the Scottish Duke turning into a raging, howling wolf at night.
“Ridiculous.” Hester shook her head and straightened her spine. She raised the candles as she came upon the portrait of a bewigged gentleman in crimson velvet looking particularly disdainful, his lips curled as if smelling something unpleasant.She met his gaze defiantly and lifted her chin. “Find me lacking, do you?” she murmured to the portrait, the candlelight making his painted jewels glint coldly. “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”
Passing him, she pushed open imposing oak doors to reveal a drawing room. It was grand, formal, and icy—all pale blue silk damask and stiff, uncomfortable-looking chairs arranged with geometric precision.
Across the hall, another door led to a smaller, marginally warmer drawing room dominated by a massive stone fireplace. Paintings of dark forests and hunting scenes adorned the walls.
At the far end of the drawing room, an arched doorway led not to another room but into a humid embrace of greenery. A conservatory. Although the air was dense with the scent of damp earth and citrus, Heater still did not feel welcome.
Eyeing French doors that led out into the gardens, she set down the candles on a small, ornate wrought-iron table. Drawn by the promise of cool night air and escape, she moved toward the doors.
“You should not venture out at this hour.”
The voice was low, dry, and utterly unexpected. Hester gasped and whirled around, her hand flying to her throat where her pulse hammered against her skin.
Mrs. Smith stood barely three feet away, like a specter summoned from Hester’s fears. Her breath refused to come easily. She stared, wide-eyed, at the housekeeper, unable to form any words. The serene garden beyond the glass suddenly felt miles away, and the conservatory a gilded cage.
“I-I am…” Hester blinked, unsure what to say.
The violation of her moment of peace and the sheer presence of the housekeeper was all too much for her.
Spinning on her heel, Hester swept past the housekeeper, wondering how she was to spend her first night here—in a territory fiercely guarded where she was an intruder under watch.
A headache pulsed behind Hester’s temples as she descended the grand staircase the next morning. It was the result of tossing and turning in a cold and dark bedchamber. Slater materialized in the cavernous front hall like a particularly stern statue.
He bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Slater,” she began, her voice raspy. “The breakfast room… Where is it?”
“West wing, Your Grace,” he intoned, gesturing vaguely towards the hallway to her left.
Hester suppressed a sigh. “Yes, but… where in the west wing?”Left? Right? After the hideous vase? Before the tapestry of the griffin eating something unfortunate?she was tempted to add.
“Proceed down the west hallway, Your Grace. Pass the blue drawing room. The breakfast room is the third door on the left, directly opposite the portrait of the fifth Duchess.”
How very specific.“Thank you, Slater.”
The breakfast room was empty when she found it. Sunlight streamed through tall windows onto a small round table laden with food, but only one place was set. Hester sank into the chair and reached for the toast rack, the butter knife feeling heavy in her hand.
As she took her first bite, voices came from the hallway just outside the open door. Thomas’ voice, deep and brisk.
“…then tell Roberts the drainage in the south field is a priority. I want it sorted before the next rain.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” a voice replied.
Hester sat straighter in her seat and glanced at the door, slightly holding her breath.
“Good. See it’s done.” Thomas’s footsteps echoed away down the hall, fading quickly.
He hadn’t even glanced into the room. Annoyance flared, hot and sharp, cutting through her headache. Disrespected. Ignored. In the place that was supposed to be her home. She ate the toast quickly, the taste like ashes.
Fueled by irritation, Hester went in search of Mrs. Smith after breakfast. She found the housekeeper near the bustling kitchens, supervising the arrival of crates.
“Mrs. Smith,” Hester began, injecting as much authority as she could muster, “please bring the household accounts to the blue drawing room. I wish to review them.”
There was a barely perceptible tightening around Mrs. Smith’s mouth. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
The blue drawing room lived up to its name—and its temperature. Hester shivered, rubbing her arms as she waited. When Mrs. Smith arrived, ledger in hand, the chill seemed to deepen.
