Page 52 of Duke of Emeralds
The door opened anyway, and Thomas filled the frame. Not just in stature, though he was more than large enough for that, but in the way his gaze surveyed the room as though everything in it belonged to him—especially her. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind with a quiet thud.
He paused, further taking stock: her, the settee, the half-eaten tray on the center table…
He did not speak, but she felt the power of his attention settle on her, and she pulled herself upright and fixed her eyes on the flames.
Thomas crossed to the fire, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he looked down at her and tilted his head.
“I expected ye for dinner,” he said.
“I preferred to dine alone this evening.” She kept her voice even as she spoke though her hands had started to tremble again.
He shot a glance at the tray. “Ye’ve made a habit of it. I have it on good authority that ye’ve dined here alone since I left for Norwood.”
Hester fought to keep her expression impassive. “I’ve been occupied with the castle. There are matters which cannot be ignored simply because the Duke is absent.”
“And when he returns?”
She lifted her chin. “I did not expect you tonight.”
“Evidently not,” he said, his gaze moving to the untouched roast and then back to her. “Is all well, Hester?”
“Perfectly,” she said.
It was a lie, and they both knew it.
He let the silence stretch, as if daring her to fill it. When she did not, he sat on the adjacent settee but so that his knees nearly brushed hers. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs and hands clasped.
She could not meet his gaze. Instead, she stared at his boots. “I have the sense,” he said at last, “that ye wish to avoid me.”
“Why would you think that?”
He gave a low laugh. “Because I have eyes, Hester. And because ye’re the most direct person I’ve ever met—until now. So. Out with it.”
Her stomach twisted. She darted a glance at him, but the fire cast his eyes in shadow.
“Did you see her?” she asked, unable to keep the tremor from her voice.
He frowned, as if caught off guard. “See who?”
She searched his face for any sign but saw only confusion and—worse—concern. “The girl. The one who arrived while you were gone.” His brows drew together, and she continued, her voice wavering. “She—she looks like you.”
He stared at her, the lines between his brows deepening. “I beg yer pardon?”
Hester drew a slow breath, trying to anchor herself. “There is a child in this house, Thomas. A girl. Five or six years old by my guess.” She forced herself to say the rest: “She was left on the doorstep with nothing but a satchel, a woolen blanket, and a letter. The note claimed she is yours.”
He went utterly still.
It would have been a relief—his silence, his obvious bafflement—if she had not been so certain he was merely marshaling a defense.
She drew her knees up and hugged them. “You needn’t lie,” she said, “but you must tell me what you want me to do with her.”
“I have no child, Hester,” Thomas said, the words landing like stones.
“She’s in the blue guest room,” Hester pressed on, ignoring the pain in her chest. “I have fed her, arranged for the physician, and seen to her clothes. She’s as thin as a whippet. She will require?—”
“Hester,” he cut in, his voice iron flat, “I donothave a child.”
She flinched at the force of it, but the doubts had taken root. “How can you be so certain?” she said and immediately regretted it. “I mean—men often?—”
