Page 40 of Duke of Emeralds
Thomas inclined his head, barely concealing his amusement. The Marchioness was easily twenty years older than Hester, yet she held her arm with all the intimacy of a lifelong friend and all the determination of a general.
“Indeed,” came a slower, raspier voice—her husband, the Marquess, approaching behind her with the aid of a cane though his steps had lost none of their energy. “All she’s spoken of these past days is how fervently she hoped the Duke and Duchess of Lushton might grace our little affair. Given the novelty of your union and your, shall we say, recent retreat from the eyes of theton…”
Thomas gave the older man a slight incline of his head, his lips twitching. “We wouldn’t have missed it. Ye’ve our gratitude for the invitation.”
The Marchioness beamed. “And we aresohonored you chose our event for your first public appearance. It is rather thrilling for us.”
Before he could reply, she turned toward Hester with sudden purpose. “Come, dear. I must introduce you to the others. A duchess must take her rightful place among the circle.”
With that, she deftly looped her arm through Hester’s. “Pardon me, Your Grace,” she added over her shoulder to Thomas, barely slowing her pace. “But I am going to steal your wife for just a bit. You shan’t mind, I trust.”
Thomas chuckled under his breath. “I suppose I haven’t much choice in the matter.”
But Hester was already glancing back with a faint smile, the candlelight catching in her hair as she allowed herself to be swept into the crowd.
“Wives,” the Marquess said beside him with a knowing shake of his head. “We spend decades understanding them, and they still manage to outpace us.”
Thomas allowed a smile. “Aye. That they do.”
He made polite conversation, nodded at the appropriate moments, and even managed a few observations about the architecture of the ballroom which truly was fine. But his gaze kept sliding elsewhere. Always to the same place.
Across the room, Hester stood in a semicircle of ladies, a duchess now by right and title, but never more regal than in this moment when she was not trying at all. She moved with elegance, reserved yet never uncertain, laughing softly at something the Marchioness whispered in her ear.
Her hands were perfectly gloved, her posture impeccable. And her smile—genuine, if a touch shy—seemed to strike something curious in him. Something warm.
This world had always been hers. The cut-glass charm of society, the silk and sparkle. She belonged here in a way that made him forget she had ever doubted it.
And now she washis. His duchess. That thought, oddly enough, made his chest expand.
She looked at ease now in Anna and Fiona’s company. With them, her movements grew looser and her face more animated.
She touched Fiona’s arm in greeting, laughed at something Anna said, her head tipping back ever so slightly. Her eyes glittered like glass beads beneath the chandeliers.
Thomas found himself smiling, slow and stupid. She hadn’t noticed him watching. Oddly, he didn’t mind that she hadn’t. That was until a gentleman arrived.
It began innocently enough—just a figure moving through the crowd, introduced by the Marchioness. He bowed, and Hester inclined her head.
Then the man took her hand, brought it to his lips, and placed a kiss on her glove.
She smiled.
Thomas’ jaw set.
A flicker of something unfamiliar settled low in his throat. Tight. Irritating. The Marquess said something beside him, perhaps about politics, or hounds, but Thomas didn’t catch it.
His gaze remained on that smile and the foolish dandy who had earned it.
Thomas’ jaw worked, silent and tight, as he watched them. He found he didn’t much care for propriety at the moment. Especially not when his wife smiled likethatin response to whatever drivel the man had just uttered.
The gentleman leaned forward slightly, said something with a self-satisfied air, and Hester laughed.
That was quite enough.
Thomas turned back to the Marquess, who was midway through some anecdote about a foxhound with a limp. “Forgive me, My Lord,” he said, already stepping away. “I must claim my wife for a dance before another man does.”
The Marquess chuckled heartily. “Quite right. They don’t remain without dance partners for long, these young duchesses.”
Thomas cut across the floor, weaving through the gathering with more speed than was strictly gentlemanlike. The orchestra had struck up a waltz—thank God—and as he reached the group, he did not bother waiting for any natural pause.
