Page 30 of Duke of Emeralds
“I—I merely stumbled upon them. I wasn’t reading anything of consequence,” she stammered, heat flooding her cheeks.
“With these books, one hardly needs toreadanything,” he remarked, flipping through the small volume with mischief in his eyes. “The illustrations convey far more than mere words, do they not?”
“H—how would I know? I’ve never read them to judge,” she dismissed, her voice wavering slightly. Turning, she put some space between them.
He regarded her in silence, an inscrutable brow raised, the seconds stretching between them like taut string.
“Are you perhaps embarrassed by these pictures, Hester?” His amusement was palpable, and she bristled at his teasing tone.
“Have you seen those pictures, Thomas? Who wouldn’t be?” she retorted, crossing her arms defensively.
“I’m not,” he shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And you just contradicted your claim of not seeing the pictures nor reading the text.”
Her blush deepened, and she cursed the warmth flooding her skin. Of course, he must be well-versed in everything contained within those pages; it was likely nothing new to him. Yet, a wave of unease rose in her throat at the thought.
“So, what do you think of us reading these books together, Hester?” he asked, taking a step closer until the desk pressed against her back, effectively pinning her in place.
She swallowed hard, the air crackling and her heart racing as she searched his expression for anything besides jest.
“The books?” She let out, her breathing quickening as her mind scrambled to collect itself but to no avail.
He was close to her. Too close. And she had no escape from the warmth of him. Not that she wanted to. No. If anything, she desired the opposite of an escape from this man before her.
“You could read them to me,” he suggested, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, lingering just a moment longer on her jaw. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine. “We could bring the library to life, aye?”
Hester held her breath as his fingertip traced along her jawline, a gentle caress that felt both thrilling and dangerous. “I—” she stammered.
“Hester,” he murmured, as if her name alone could bridge the distance between them.
But just as she was about to succumb to the magnetic pull of his presence, a loud rap echoed through the room, jolting them both back to the stark reality of their surroundings.
“Your Grace, the butler seeks your audience,” came the voice from beyond the door.
A sigh slipped from Thomas’ lips, low and frustrated, as he stepped back, creating space between them that felt unbearably vast. He cast her one last inscrutable glance, his eyes darkening slightly, before turning toward the door. Hester’s heart sank at the sudden loss of his warmth, an emptiness settling in the pit of her stomach.
As she watched him stride away, disappointment washed over her like a cold wave. What was wrong with her? Why did her pulse quicken at the mere thought of him?
Surely it was the influence of those scandalous volumes, planting wild ideas in her mind.
CHAPTER 16
Hester lay on her back in the dark, watching the tracery of pale blue light on the ceiling. She could not close her eyes, not with the memory of Thomas so close—his hand at her jaw, the warmth of his body bridging the last inch between them.
The castle had not helped. Every stone seemed to hoard its own memories, and if she turned her face into the pillows, she could almost taste his cologne: sandalwood, citrus, and a bright note that was, maddeningly, just out of reach.
She rolled over. Stared at the embroidered coverlet. Back again. It was futile. The more she tried to sink into sleep, the more her mind replayed the library scene, over and over, like some cruel farce in which her only role was that of idiot ingénue. Her cheeks burned at the thought. Ridiculous! She was a grown woman—a duchess now. How could a single look undo her so?
A clock somewhere in the castle struck a muffled hour, followed by the echo of it in some distant hallway. Hester sat up. Theroom felt too tight around her, every shadow watching her with sly intent. With a huff, she swung her legs from the mattress, found her slippers by touch, and shrugged on her robe.
Hester found herself at the gallery before she even realized she’d left her bedchamber. The air had that peculiar stillness that only belonged to ancient houses at night—alive with the threat of movement, though nothing truly moved. She walked, arms wrapped tight around her.
It was then she heard it.
A low, guttural sound that was not a voice, not quite a growl. Followed by a dull, fleshy thud. Then another and another in a steady rhythm. Hester slowed, heart thudding against her ribs. The noise came from behind a door partway down the hallway: the sports room if she recalled from the tour with Mrs. Smith. The odd light under the door glimmered like the thin edge of a blade.
She should turn back. Of course, she should. But Hester Jensen had always been far more curious than sensible. She took three quiet steps closer, pressing herself to the wood paneling and listening.
And into her mind, as if conjured, drifted Nancy’s voice: “He turns into a werewolf at night, especially on the full moon.” Nonsense, of course, but just then, with the moon pouring in through the windows and that animal sound from behind the door, Hester felt every hair on her arms rise.
