Page 50 of Duke of Emeralds
As Hester smoothed the hair from her brow, she felt again the pang—the uncanny echo of Thomas in the arch of the brow, the stubborn set of the mouth.
When she left the room, she was unsure whether she wanted answers or oblivion. Perhaps it was not even a question.
Later in the afternoon, Hester returned to her study. She sat at her escritoire, the letter from Lady Alderton still unopened, and her thoughts circling ever tighter.
What did it mean? That Thomas had a child—perhaps from some careless encounter? Or was it simply a cruel trick played by fate, this resemblance and the note’s phrasing designed to sow discord?
She let the letter rest on her lap, unopened, and turned instead to her embroidery. The work was rather absorbing and a way to banish stray thoughts. She stitched the outline of a butterfly, the gold silk thread shining in the sunlight streaming into the room.
She was interrupted by a gentle tap at the door. “Enter,” Hester called.
Mrs. Smith appeared, looking marginally less severe than usual.
“Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. The physician has seen to Miss Arabella. He prescribes rest, warmth, and simple food which we shall provide.”
“Thank you,” Hester said. She waited for the housekeeper to retreat, but Mrs. Smith lingered at the threshold.
“Is there more?” Hester prompted.
“She asked for you,” Mrs. Smith said, almost awkwardly. “She refuses to rest unless she knows you are near.”
Hester rose and set her embroidery aside. “Of course. I will go at once.”
In the blue guest room, she found Arabella sitting upright, her eyes wide and wary. Hester crossed to the bed and sat beside her, smoothing the blanket.
“I am here,” she said.
The girl did not speak, but after a moment, she slid her hand into Hester’s.
Closing her eyes, Hester sighed. It was not the girl’s fault she was in this world. She held her small hands, and for a little while, neither of them felt quite so lost.
Thomas reined in his horse in front of Lushton Castle and handed the animal off to a stableboy before he strode toward the door, savoring the sharpness of the air and the clarity that came from the days spent away. Inside, the castle was muffled and warm, and the silence was nearly perfect.
Slater stood waiting just inside the entrance. “Welcome home, Your Grace,” he said and took Thomas’s coat and hat with unhurried grace.
Thomas cast his gaze across the foyer as he thought of his wife. He had spent three days in Norwood, and he had been hesitant to return, but now that he was here, he wanted to see her.
“Where’s the Duchess?” he asked, feigning indifference. He loosened his cravat with one finger.
“In her office, Your Grace. She has not left it all morning,” said Slater.
Thomas’s brows pulled together. “Very good. See to it I’m not disturbed,” he said, and started for the west wing.
At the door to Hester’s office, he paused and knocked once, sharply. No answer came, and he rapped again, louder.
Still nothing. Thomas turned the handle and stepped inside.
“I believe it is too short.” At the far end of the room, Hester stood with her lady’s maid. They appeared to be engaged in some debate over the length of blue wool that looked like a quilt. The maid held the edges taut while Hester leaned over, pinning and measuring with focused intent.
“It appears to be the right size for children, Your Grace,” her maid said.
“Yes, but children grow. I want them to use the quilt for a long time, Miss Holt, not for one summer.”
Thomas took the scene in, her profile etched in the afternoon sun and the pale green of her dress bright against the somber wood of the chamber; her hair was bound in a chignon but loose enough for a few errant strands to trace her jaw. She lookedevery inch a duchess, and something else as well: unreachable, as if she had been cut from the same cloth as the castle itself.
He watched her for a moment longer than was necessary then cleared his throat. Hester’s head jerked up. Her expression was composed, but her eyes held an unfamiliar spark—alarm, maybe, or annoyance.
“Good day, Your Grace,” said the maid, bobbing a curtsy before gathering her things and slipping from the room.
