Page 54 of Duke of Emeralds
Only of what she might want from it.
Hester should have been asleep. The hour was late, the castle silent, and yet she sat on the edge of her bed staring at the garment laid out across the coverlet with horror and if she was honest, a little bit of fascination.
It was a night rail or rather, a confection of silk and lace that owed more to French scandal sheets than to English virtue. The hem was trimmed with a band of embroidered roses and—good lord—there were mother-of-pearl buttons along the bodice, each one smaller than the nail of her little finger.
She could see, even from a distance, that it would cling rather than drape. It was nothing like her usual nightwear, and she would never, not even in her wildest moments, have chosen it for herself.
Hester thought instantly of Anna, who had insisted, during the trousseau fittings, that no self-respecting Duchess wore “plain dresses.” Hester had argued for sensibility and comfort, but Anna had overruled her, winking at the modiste and muttering about how English husbands required “provocation, not propriety.”
At the time, Hester had rolled her eyes and allowed the purchase, fully intending to consign such extravagance to the bottom of a trunk, never to be seen again.
But here it was, spread out on her bed.
She glared at Miss Holt, who was arranging soft silk slippers at the foot of the bed.
“Why this one?” Hester asked.
Miss Holt set the slippers with excruciating care. “Your Grace, the laundry is behind. The rain kept the drying lines soaked these past two days, and I have gone through all your simpler night rails. Unless you wish to wear your robe to bed, this is the best option.”
Hester eyed the garment with suspicion. “Are you certain there is nothing else? Perhaps one of the woolen shifts from the country box?”
Miss Holt shook her head. “I’ve checked twice. The rest are still damp, and you’ll catch a chill if you try to sleep in wet linen.”
Hester huffed, but she knew a lost battle when she saw one. “Very well. I suppose I shall be the most overdressed person asleep in the castle tonight.”
Miss Holt, perhaps sensing that sympathy was in order, gave her a conspiratorial smile. “It is quite beautiful, Your Grace.”
“I do not require beautiful,” Hester muttered. “I require warm and inconspicuous.”
She waited until Miss Holt had left then stripped down and donned the night rail. It was as she feared: the fabric hugged her curves, the neckline was both alarmingly low and alarmingly well-designed to keep everything in place, and the thinness of the cloth left absolutely nothing to the imagination when caught in the light.
Hester wrapped the accompanying silk robe around herself then glanced at the door, thankful that Thomas would never see this. He might even laugh at her and think her a clown for wearing such silly things. Hester slipped beneath the covers and sighed.
Sleep did not come.
She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her mind looped endlessly through the days’ events: the arrival of Arabella, the letter, Thomas’ bewildered denial, and the awkward moment in the blue guest room. And then, always, the memory of Thomas’s hand as it brushed the child’s hair—that brief, careful touch.
The thoughts would not leave her!
She turned onto her side, then her stomach, then back again, but nothing helped. After an hour of tossing and resenting the tick of the clock, she threw off the covers and paced.
Hester found herself in front of her wardrobe, peering inside. Anna’s work was evident here too: there were far more night rails and shifts than any one woman could ever use, and at least half of them were what Anna had called “conversation pieces”—as if a nightdress could ever be part of polite conversation.
She rifled through the collection, hoping to find something plain and serviceable. No luck. It was all silk, lace, or—heavens above—sleeveless stays that looked like they belonged in a Parisian brothel.
Hester made a mental note to write Anna a sharply worded letter at the first opportunity.
Still restless, Hester slipped on a thicker robe atop the silken one and wrapped it tightly around herself before she slipped into the hallway, moving by memory and moonlight. She tiptoed down the hallway, intent on checking the blue guest room one more time. There was no real need; Mrs. Smith had assured her thatArabella was comfortable and safe, but a strange urge compelled her.
She eased open the door and peered inside. The room was dim, but she could make out the shape of Arabella curled beneath the blanket, her hair spilling across the pillow like spilled gold.
Hester felt an emotion catch in her chest. She had not expected to feel so protective of the girl nor so invested in her comfort. It surprised her, this sudden surge of maternal impulse.
She stepped closer, just to adjust the edge of the blanket. Arabella stirred but did not wake.
“There, there,” Hester whispered. “You’re safe.”
She lingered a moment longer then slipped back into the hallway.
