Page 80 of Duke of Emeralds
As they drifted away, Thomas muttered, “It’s their own doing, ye know. They build you up only to pull you down.”
“Are you always so good at dueling with society dragons?” she asked, letting him lead.
He shrugged, and she felt the muscles in his arm flex. “Ye have to be in Scotland. The dragons are real there.”
The dance began in earnest. Hester, at first too conscious of her body, focused on the mechanics: left, right, step, turn. But Thomas was better—surer, lighter, as if he meant to show her off rather than pin her down. Soon, she forgot the room and concentrated on the rhythm, letting herself move with him.
Around them, the whispers multiplied, but they waltzed through the scrutiny, and Thomas pulled her a fraction closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Daenae mind them, Hester. Let them watch.”
“I am not so sure I like it,” she said, but she liked the way he looked at her. It was nothing she had ever expected: fierce, proud, almost… reverent.
The song ended, and the applause thundered. Thomas kept her hand a moment longer than was necessary.
“You do not have to act the part for my sake,” she said over the din.
“I am not acting, Hester,” he said, serious now. “I have seen the worst this world can do, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone—anyone—bring you low. I would not have you debased for the sport of idle tongues.”
The statement rattled her, not because of the force behind it but because she wanted—so badly—to believe him. To believe that he was capable of that sort of loyalty.
She realized she was trembling, and it annoyed her.
The next dance started, but Hester excused herself. “I must attend to the retiring room,” she said. She did not look back to see if he followed.
In the cool silence of the powder room, Hester steadied her breathing. She caught her own reflection in the glass, the flush high in her cheeks, the dress burning brighter than her own skin. The flush was not from embarrassment. It was from the intensity of that last exchange. She pressed her hands to her face then let herself breathe, slowly and evenly.
On the way back, she cut through a side hallway to avoid the worst of the crowd. As she passed an ajar salon, she heard voices. Hester could have ignored them, but the mention of ‘Lushton’ had her steps slowing.
“—utterly disrespectful,” said one, brimming with outrage. “The man was nothing before. A commoner, practically. How he came to be Duke is a scandal unto itself.”
“And her,” another chimed in, “wasting away as a spinster when she set her sights on him. Some say she courted the favor of every titled man in London until she found one desperate enough.”
“The dress,” the first voice spat. “Only a desperate climber would wear such a color to a ball. Red. For a duchess!”
Hester froze at the threshold. The voices belonged to the matrons from before that Thomas had reprimanded.
“The Crown gives out titles now like sweetmeats at Easter. No breeding, no lineage. The man worked, did you know? Actually worked, as a steward or some such before the old Duke died.”
“He was under Craton, if you believe the stories,” the second voice whispered. “Imagine. Our hostess’ own husband had him in employ once. And now, he dares act as if he’s always been a peer.”
The third voice sighed. “It’s unseemly. The new money, the lack of manners. I would have thought the Duchess could teach him better, but it seems she prefers to lower herself to his level.”
Hester’s heart hammered. She turned, about to leave, but a memory snagged her: something Craton had said in Dorset, a remark about Thomas’s uncanny competence, his ability to manage lands and people, to make the impossible run like clockwork. At the time, she’d found it a compliment, but now, the undertone was clear.
A wave of shame swept over her. Not because of Thomas but because she realized she had never asked about his past.
She moved past the door, careful to make no sound, and walked the rest of the way back to the ballroom in a daze. The noise, the heat, the music—all of it faded to a muffled drone.
When she saw Thomas across the floor, he was speaking with Isaac. Thomas had the easy stance of someone who belonged. But now, she saw it for the armor it was.
He had built himself, brick by brick, until he could pass for any other nobleman in the room. And she, blind as she was, had never noticed.
When their eyes met, Thomas started toward her. She looked away first, feeling unsettled within.
Hours later, when she could not sleep, Hester found Thomas in the library, alone, seated not before his easel but in the battered leather chair by the fire. He wore shirtsleeves and had his boots propped on the fender, one ankle crossed over the other. A book balanced on his knee, but she could tell from the unturned pages that he wasn’t reading.
“You’re not drawing tonight,” Hester said. She stood in the doorway, watching him.
Thomas looked up. “Lost the urge,” he said. “Some nights the world is enough to fill a man’s head.”
