Page 55 of Duke of Emeralds
As she made her way to her own chambers, a faint light caught her attention from the far end of the hallway. At first, she thought it was an errant candle left by a careless servant, but as she drew nearer, she saw movement through the crack of a door left ajar.
Curiosity trumped caution. She tiptoed closer and peered inside.
The room was unfamiliar, but she recognized it at once as the gymnasium Mrs. Smith had pointed out during the tour. It was lined with fencing foils, boxing gloves, and heavy leatherbags suspended from the beams. In the center, by the largest punching bag, stood Thomas.
He was shirtless, his skin slick with sweat, and he was toweling off his face with brisk, efficient movements. His hair was damp at the temples, and the muscles of his back bunched and flexed as he moved.
Hester’s first thought was that she had stumbled into some kind of mythic tableau—a Greek statue, rendered in flesh and sweat. Her second thought was that, if she was caught staring, she would never, ever recover from the humiliation.
She took a step back, intending to sneak away, but just then, she noticed the candle burning on the edge of a table behind him. It was dangerously close to being knocked over by his next pass.
Hester almost called out, but her voice caught.
He turned, perhaps sensing movement, and his gaze found her instantly.
CHAPTER 25
Hester froze, her every muscle locked in place. They stared at each other for a beat, the world narrowing to the axis of that small flame and the impossible fact of his bare chest.
She opened her mouth to warn him, but he moved first—spinning toward the table and bumping it with his hip. The candle toppled, sending a thick glob of molten wax onto the wood.
“Candle!” she blurted, finally finding her voice.
He caught it before it rolled to the floor, but not before some wax splattered onto his hand.
Thomas groaned then muttered a string of words that would have made a sailor blush.
Hester darted forward, unable to help herself. “Oh for heaven’s sake, give it here,” she said, snatching the candle from his hand and righting it on the table. She grabbed the nearest cloth—his discarded shirt—and used it to mop up the wax.
When she turned back, he was staring at her, his brow raised in amusement and exasperation.
“Have ye come to join the midnight boxing, Duchess?” he said.
She blushed furiously then blushed more furiously at the awareness that she was, at this very moment, standing in a hallway in little but a scandalous night rail and a barely-tied robe.
“Absolutely not,” she replied, trying to gather herself. “But if I were, I’d hope to keep the fires in the hearth, not the floorboards.”
He grinned, flexing his burned hand. “If I’d known ye were so concerned for my safety, I’d have staged the accident earlier.”
She rolled her eyes, but he had already crossed the room, his presence looming and immediate.
“Ye know—” he began, then stopped, his head cocked as his eyes moved over her. “Well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a night rail quite like that.”
She looked down and realized her robes has fallen open. Hester yanked the outer robe tighter. “It is a travesty foisted upon me by Anna and a French modiste. I had no choice in the matter. And if you ever breathe a word?—”
He raised both hands. “Ye have my solemn word, Hester. Yer secrets are safe with me.”
She eyed the raw patch on his hand. “You’ll blister if you do not cool that. There is a wash basin in the hallway. Come, I’ll show you.”
He followed, and she led him to the marble-topped side table where a porcelain pitcher and bowl waited. She poured the cold water over his hand, careful and slow, and he watched her the entire time.
“Is it bad?” she asked.
Thomas shrugged. “I’ve had worse, Duchess, but thank ye.”
She let the silence stretch then said, “Why do you box at night? Could you not do it in the mornings when the rest of the world is sensible?”
He smiled crookedly. “Night’s quieter. No one to see if I lose.”
