Page 78 of Duke of Emeralds
“The peach cambric, Your Grace,” Miss Holt announced, setting a folded confection atop the pile. “And here, the blue satin with the gold thread for evening.”
Hester lifted a sleeve, inspecting the handiwork. “It’s fine, but I’m starting to feel as if I ought to open a shop myself.”
Miss Holt smiled. “With Your Grace’s taste, I do not doubt it.” She reached for a large box and opened it then gasped. Hester could not see the contents of the box, but Miss Holt handed her a card.
For Her Grace. Private.
Hester blinked then investigated the box. Miss Hold pulled out a dress she could not have conjured in any dream: the deepest crimson with gold embroidery blazing over the bodice and a train so long and detailed she nearly gasped at the artistry. Thelining was a gossamer so sheer it might have been spun by spiders; the sleeves were slashed to the elbow in the fashion of a medieval princess.
She held it up, the color blooming in the gray light.
Miss Holt gawked. “Did you order that one, Your Grace?”
Hester shook her head. “It must be a mistake. I never chose—” She stopped, tracing the collar. There, in minuscule gold stitches, was a motif she recognized at once: the Lushton crest, stylized and feminine. “This is not from the catalog.”
“Do you wish to return it?” Miss Holt asked though her tone suggested it would be a sin to send such a work of art away.
Hester stared at the dress, wondering who could have arranged it. Anna, perhaps, in a fit of matchmaking mischief? Nancy, as a joke?
“How do ye like the dress?”
Hester spun to find Thomas leaning against her bedchamber doorframe with his arms folded and a devilish grin on his face.
“You did this?” she asked, and he laughed.
“I did.”
She stared at him, perplexed.
“I found out about the ball before the invitation arrived and stopped by the modiste to arrange everything,” Thomas said, “as I reckoned you’d want something special. I told Madame Evrard to surprise you.”
Hester’s hands tightened on the fabric. “I thought it was a mistake. It’s extraordinary.”
“Aye. That’s why I picked it.”
“It makes the rest of my wardrobe look like—like dressing for a funeral. I’m wearing this one to the ball.”
He watched her. “That’s what I hoped.”
She ran her palm over the embroidery, letting herself want it. The color was bold. Daring, even. She wondered what the gossips would say and what Anna would scream.
She looked up at him and asked, “Why did you not stop me from ordering the others if you had already chosen this?”
“It’s more fun to let you choose,” Thomas replied, “and I thought you’d see it for what it is. A proper surprise.”
She recalled, in a flash, his coughing fit in the drawing room and the modiste’s strange quickness to accept his interruptions. “You orchestrated the whole thing.”
He inclined his head. “I learned from the best, and Madame Evrard nearly exposed me.”
“You are insufferable.” Hester laughed.
Thomas stepped back into her adjoining living room then reappeared with a large velvet box and held it out to her. “There’s more.”
Inside was a necklace of rubies in a line, joined by tiny diamonds. There were earrings, and—God, she nearly dropped it—a tiara of the same, spiked and set so that it caught the light with brilliance.
“It’s too much,” she said, but her hands would not let go.
He shrugged. “Ye always did need more than ye allowed yerself.”
