Page 51 of Duke of Emeralds
Hester straightened and regarded him in silence. He nodded toward her. “Good day, Hester.”
She inclined her head. “Welcome home.”
He waited for her to continue, but she did not. She returned her attention to the blanket, smoothing its corners with careful hands.
“Working on something for the orphanage?” Thomas asked, stepping closer. He saw now that the blanket was embroidered with small gold butterflies, and the stitches were delicate and even.
“I am,” she said. “There are more children this year than ever before I was told. And some need warmer things.”
He reached out to touch the fabric then stopped himself. He noticed that her hands, usually so steady, were now curled into fists.
“I did not realize you would be returning so soon,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied with a shrug that didn’t fit right. “Norwood is settled for now. They’ll need a new bridge, but the rest can wait.”
She nodded simply. The silence lengthened, and Thomas searched her face for any sign of anger or injury but found only that confounding calm and the unyielding mask that made him tempted to shift his weight from one foot to another.
How can one slight woman unsettle me so?
“Hester,” he said, uncertain why her name alone felt so much like a plea. “Is somethin’ wrong?”
She looked away, shaking her head minutely. “All is well. Thank you for asking.”
He waited, but she did not elaborate. Instead, she resumed her work, guiding the needle with slow, deliberate care as she marked places on the blanket. The room felt colder than the chilly wind outside.
Thomas swallowed. “If ye need anything?—”
“I will send for you,” she said; her voice was so polite it was nearly a rebuke.
He nodded and retreated, closing the door behind him.
Thomas spent the rest of the afternoon in his study, trying to immerse himself in estate matters, but the numbers swam and blurred until he abandoned the ledgers entirely.
At dinner, he sat at the head of the table. The butler poured the wine, the footman served the meat, but Hester’s place remained empty. Thomas glanced at the clock then at the door.
“Where is the Duchess?” he asked, barely bothering to disguise his impatience.
Slater, stationed by the wall, bowed slightly. “The Duchess is to take her supper in her chambers, Your Grace. She prefers it that way since your last departure.”
He frowned. “Is she unwell?”
“I cannot say, Your Grace,” Slater replied. But the pause that followed was filled with what he was likely not permitted to say.
Thomas sat in silence. He took a sip of wine then another, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in his chest.
Unable to bear it any longer, he rose and left the dining room. It was time he settled this matter once and for all.
CHAPTER 24
Why has Thomas said nothing to me?
Hester watched the fire burn down to coals, her mind as brittle and ash choked as the grate. The logs sputtered; the last one caught and collapsed, sending up a bitter hiss. She prodded it with the poker then sank back into the settee, drawing her knees up beneath her nightdress.
A knock came at the door, and her breath snared in her throat. She did not move.
Another knock—firmer, impatient—followed.
She stared at the door, calculating. If she did not answer, he would surely go away. Unless he was in a mood that paid no mind to doors or the wishes of a recalcitrant wife. She swallowed and drew her robe tighter, refusing to be the first to speak.
