Page 75 of Duke of Emeralds
“Ye’re not bad yerself.”
She snorted. “Is that another compliment?”
“The highest,” he said.
They stood that way until the flame in the hearth shrunk. Hester peeled herself away and cleared her throat. “Good night, Thomas.”
He nodded but did not watch her go. Instead, he turned back to the drawing and added a shadow to Bella’s chin. A sigh rose to his throat but refused to be released, and his chest tightened.
God help me, I want her to stay.
He knew the rules they had set, and he was keenly aware of the approaching time when she would walk out of his life as suddenly as she’d entered.
CHAPTER 32
In last week’s edition, we erroneously implied that the Duke and Duchess of Lushton had added to their family by rather more scandalous means. We have it on the highest authority that the Duke’s new ward, a Miss Arabella, is a child of unfortunate but respectable provenance and that the Duchess has proved herself a benefactress of rare courage and tenderness. We apologize for our prior mischaracterization and beg the Duchess’s forgiveness, which, being the model of Christian charity, we are confident she will extend.
Hester stared at the retraction, her brows arching so high they threatened to migrate off her forehead entirely.
“What in God’s name did he do to make them apologize?” she muttered.
She was halfway through an elaborate mental catalogue of all the threats, bribes, and legal artillery Thomas might have deployedwhen the door to the breakfast room opened. The London butler—Mr. Edison—advanced.
“Your Grace,” he intoned, “there is a modiste here to see you. She has, it would seem, brought her entire shop.”
“Her entire shop?”
“She has already filled the vestibule with boxes and bolts and several very lively assistants,” he said, as if the presence of lively assistants was a personal insult to his dignity.
Hester opened her mouth to protest—she had summoned no modiste—but at that precise moment, Thomas strolled in, managing to make his entry look both deliberate and entirely offhand. He wore a deep green morning coat and looked as though he had never slept better in his life.
“Is something amiss?” he asked, glancing at the butler.
“Did you order a dressmaker’s army to invade the house?” Hester demanded, only half in jest.
He grinned as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Aye, I did. Thought ye’d be wanting a fresh start for the season.”
“You didn’t warn me.”
“What’s the fun in a warning?” Thomas set down his cup and turned to the butler. “Show the modiste in, and clear out the drawing room for her things. I don’t want a single box left in the hallways.”
The butler bowed, resigned to this latest defeat, and vanished.
“I’m still in my morning dress,” Hester said then lowered her voice as the sound of rushing footsteps approached. “And I have not finished breakfast. Surely, you could have given me a quarter hour?”
He only smiled, wide and unapologetic. “It’s yer house, Duchess. If ye wish to entertain them in yer nightrail, I’ll nae stand in yer way.”
Hester hastily finished her breakfast and moved to the drawing room where a whirlwind of ribbons waited along with boxes and a woman of such vigorous self-possession that the room seemed to shrink in order to accommodate her. The modiste herself was small, French, and possessed of a voice so piercing and insistent that it could have driven geese to flight.
“Votre Grâce!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands in delight. “I am Madame Evrard. It is the highest honor. My girls, they have already lined the hallway. We bring the finest in all London!”
Behind her, a parade of assistants stood near chests, hatboxes, and mysterious padded trunks. Hester did not know whether to laugh or run for the stables.
The modiste advanced, seized Hester’s hand, and surveyed her from neck to toe with a scrutiny that was nearly indecent. “Ah, what lines! What structure! You have the bones of a Roman empress: so rare, so difficult to dress! But I will do it, yes. I will make you a legend.”
Thomas, of course, was enjoying every second with a wicked laugh.
Hester tried to extract her hand, but Madame Evrard only tightened her grip. “You will see. We have every color, every cut, every extravagance for the new season. There are the French waists, the English waists, the Highland—” here she threw a significant look at Thomas “—and for the Duchess, something entirely original.”
