Page 99 of Duke of Emeralds
“I do. I married ye anyway.”
“That, dear Duke, is your own cross to bear.” She held his gaze, daring him to make it a contest.
He bent low, so their faces nearly touched. “Ye’d look less cross if ye smiled,” he murmured.
“And you would be less tedious if you stopped lecturing your models.”
He grinned, all teeth and spark. “Ye’re the only model I have, Duchess. I’m not about to lose my license for treating ye roughly.”
“You say that as if you do not enjoy the risk.”
Instead of rising to the bait, he pressed a kiss just below her ear—quick but lingering enough to turn her laugh into a shiver. “Ye’ll never catch me confessing to anything so reckless.”
She drew a slow breath, basking in the moment before returning to her pose. “At this rate, we shall never finish before the children’s dinner.”
Thomas stepped back and surveyed her with a craftsman’s eye. She sat on a faded velvet stool, one hand propping her jaw and the other curled into her lap—a pose equal parts queen and mischief. “We’ve nowhere to be, Hester. Unless ye’re in a hurry to show off?”
She arched a brow. “I am in a hurry to get through a sitting without being waylaid by your—” She fanned her face, as if fending off a heat that was not entirely imaginary. “—your distractions.”
“Distractions?” He feigned innocence then jabbed at the air with his charcoal. “Ye’re the one who asked to be drawn in yer new dress. I merely abide by yer artistic vision.”
She lifted her chin, regal even in rebellion. “I do not recall asking you to conduct the process as if you were the director of a French boudoir.”
“Ye haven’t seen a French boudoir, Duchess. Trust me, the lighting here is much worse.”
This time, she did smile, broad and honest, and Thomas marked the curve of it with the swift surety of a man who had spent a lifetime hoarding every rare, bright moment.
“Would you care to know what I think,” Hester asked, softening.
“Always.”
“I think you have gone entirely soft, Thomas. You pretend to be a tyrant in this studio, but you melt every time I look at you.”
He set his pencil aside, as if conceding the point. “Only because I am married to a woman who outmatches me at every turn. Ye’d have broken a lesser man by now.”
“You flatter, but you do not fool me,” she replied.
“I’ll try harder, then,” he said, and this time the kiss was longer, deeper, and he left a smudge of charcoal on her cheek for his trouble.
She patted his hand away, affecting disgust. “Now see what you have done.”
He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the mark though he left a streak on her jaw. “Perfect,” he said, admiring the result. “Now ye look like a real artist’s muse.”
“I will look like a war casualty by the time you finish.”
“Ye’ll look like a Duchess who knows her own mind. There are worse fates.”
She glanced sidelong at the growing sheaf of sketches on the side table, a record of all their failed attempts to capture her likeness. “You’re not even looking at the page,” she pointed out.
He didn’t need to. The image was burned into his memory as surely as any inheritance. “I’m taking a different approach today. Letting the lines come as they will.”
She watched him, and he sensed the weight of her stare. “Is this what you imagined,” she said quietly, “when you asked me to marry you?”
He didn’t answer at once. The room was full of the little noises of home—the chirr of a distant sparrow, the echo of Noah’s measured footsteps in the hallway, the low hum of fire in the stove. All the things that would have driven him mad in London now worked on him like a balm.
He looked at her, every line of her face familiar and new. “No,” he said. “It’s more than I ever thought I could want.”
She pressed her lips together, as if refusing to give ground to sentiment. But her voice was softer now. “You are a ridiculous man, Thomas Green.”
