Page 41 of Duke of Emeralds
He stepped in, offering Hester his hand. “If I may, Duchess.”
She turned, startled for half a second, before she placed her hand in his. The gentleman inclined his head politely which Thomas returned with a smile so tight, it could crack stone.
He said nothing else, simply guided Hester away with a decisive turn and took her into the waltz.
“Ye looked to be enjoying yerself immensely,” Thomas said as they moved, her hand warm in his, her other resting lightly atop his shoulder. “Laughin’ like a girl at her first fête.”
“Oh, Lord Paisley is rather amusing,” she replied with a soft laugh.
Thomas arched a brow. “So that’s his name.”
“Viscount Paisley, yes,” she nodded.
“Well,” Thomas muttered, turning them into a tighter spin, “I doubt his jests are half as clever as ye claim.”
“They areexactlythat clever,” she said, her lips twitching. “If the Prince Regent seeks a royal jester, he need look no further.”
His mouth flattened. “Aye. The court’s in desperate need of another fool.”
Hester tilted her head, studying him a moment. Then her brows lifted. “If I did not know better, I’d think you sounded positively jealous, Thomas.”
“Jealous?” He scoffed. “Of the King’s jester? Don’t be absurd, Hester.”
“If you say so, Duke,” she said, smiling up at him. But her gaze held that glint, one that said she saw far more than he intended. The music swelled, and he pulled her just a fraction closer.
When the final note rang out, he bowed to her in the customary fashion and prepared to offer his arm again, but before he could so much as extend it, a familiar voice rang out.
“Your Grace, Might I be so bold as to claim the next dance?”
Lord Alderton, sprightly despite his years, stood nearby, offering his hand with a gallant air and a grin as broad as his waistcoat.
“Oh yes, yes!” the Marchioness trilled from beside him. “You would honor us most delightfully, Duchess, if you would indulge our dear Alderton this small pleasure.”
Thomas watched Hester glance his way, hesitating.
She was going to say no.
He opened his mouth to confirm that fact—graciously, of course—but the older woman had already taken Hester’s elbow and turned her toward her husband.
The next thing he knew, his wife was smiling once more and floating off in Lord Alderton’s arms, skirts whispering, laughter trailing like ribbon behind her.
Thomas stood at the edge of the dance floor, hands clasped behind his back, looking far more composed than he felt. His eyes tracked every step. The old man wasn’t even doing it properly—his rhythm was off, his turns too slow, and yet Hester looked thoroughly delighted.
She laughed again—louder this time. Her head tilted back with mirth.
Thomas felt something unpleasant stir in his chest.
When at last she returned to his side, cheeks flushed from exertion and laughter both, he gave her a look and said, “I see Lord Alderton rivals the King’s fool in humor.”
“Am I not permitted a bit of mirth this evening, Duke?” Hester asked, her lips curled in a smile that, frankly, he was beginning to find dangerous.
“Not with strangers, ye’re not,” Thomas replied, guiding her along the edge of the ballroom where the crowd thinned and the music softened.
Her laughter only deepened. “Strangers? Oh, but they’re hardly that.”
He looked at her sidelong, one brow arching. “Have ye known them for more than twelve hours?”
“No,” she admitted with the faintest air of challenge.
