Page 64 of Duke of Emeralds
“Perfect,” Thomas muttered to himself as he stood alone in the new studio and surveyed the work with the deliberate care of a general inspecting fresh fortifications.
The space—flooded with natural light from three tall windows, the floors gleaming in unblemished polish, the wall to the north painted in the deep, dignified blue Hester had endorsed—needed only its occupant.
And perhaps one finishing touch.
He crossed to the center. The new table, capable of supporting a granite slab if called upon, had been sanded smooth, the edges rounded to be gentle on bare arms. There was a row of drawers for silks and needles, a rack for canvases, and the sturdy stool he’d commissioned which looked out at the parkland and the distant line of trees. Every tool, every brush and length of muslin was in place.
He grinned and turned as two footmen entered, struggling under the weight of a large, shrouded object. “Careful now,” Thomas barked, unable to resist the urge to hover.
“Mind the corners. There’s a hook on that easel and if you catch it, the whole business will topple.” The men nodded, red-faced, as they maneuvered the canvas to its stand without incident.
He stood for a long time before the canvas after removing the shroud, his arms folded, chewing the inside of his cheek as he weighed each line for errors, for the particular flaw he always missed until it was too late. But this once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing more to add.
He covered it and stepped back as he allowed himself a thin, undiluted satisfaction, then he ran a hand through his hair and strode out to find Hester, feeling more like a schoolboy than a Duke.
He found Hester in the drawing room with Cook. She did not see him at first. He made a sound in the back of his throat, and she looked up, startled.
“If I might have the Duchess for a moment, Cook. There’s a matter of great importance.”
Cook quickly swept from the room, and Hester fixed him with a skeptical stare. “What have you done?”
Thomas did not answer. Instead, he produced a long, wide strip of muslin and dangled it in front of her. “Trust me,” he said.
She snatched it from his hand. “If you plan to blindfold me, Thomas, you had better have a very good reason.”
“I do.”
She pursed her lips. “Is this another of your Highland games?”
“No games. But I promise it’s worth the trouble.” He waited until she relented, rolling her eyes and allowing him to tie the muslin securely. “Too tight?” he asked, secretly enjoying her resigned annoyance.
“Not at all. But if you let me trip on the stairs, I shall haunt your dreams.”
“Ye already do, Duchess.”
She did not dignify this with a reply, and he grinned.
He led her up the staircase, careful to announce every landing, and paused outside the new studio. “Brace yourself,” he warned. “Bailey claims it’s the finest room in Yorkshire.”
“He would say so. You’ve probably bribed him,” she retorted, but there was a nervous lilt to her voice. He liked it.
He opened the door and guided her in then let her stand at the threshold while he closed it gently behind them. Untying the muslin slyly for effect, Thomas leaned close to her. “Well?”
She took a step forward. Then another. She scanned the walls, the table, the tall stool, the perfect placement of every last book and brush and bolt of cloth. She turned in a slow circle, her mouth open. She did not speak.
When she faced him again, there was a softness in her expression he had never seen before. It made his chest ache.
She said, “You told me this was to be your studio.”
He shook his head. “That’s what I wanted you to think. It’s always been yours.”
Her lips parted, but words failed her. He watched, feeling foolishly raw as she drifted across the room and ran her fingers along the worktable then lifted the shears, tested their weight, and set them down.
She faced him, and for a moment, the only sound was the hum of the distant clock in the main hall.
“You kept this a secret,” she said at last. “Even Mrs. Smith would not let me near this room. When I asked her about the redecoration—two days ago—she pretended to know nothing then changed the subject to Cook’s new meringue recipe.”
He grinned. “Loyal servants. Worth every penny.”
