Page 57 of Duke of Emeralds
“Why? Because I am not running away?”
“Because ye’re not nearly as cold as ye pretend to be.”
Thomas touched her cheek, and the contact lingered. He leaned ever closer until their faces were a few inches apart. It was not a kiss, but it could have been.
Hester shivered, and he seemed to sense it. His eyes drifted down and he grinned. “That night rail truly is remarkable, Hester.”
She blushed to the roots of her hair and pulled her robe over it. “I—I should go.”
He grinned, letting his hand drop, and stepped away. Hester wrapped her robe tighter and brushed past him, her heart pounding as she escaped.
Thomas slept, if it could be called that, in brief and haunted snatches. More often, he lay on his back, his jaw locked and eyes fixed on the blackness above. Sleep, when it did come, arrived as a shallow, perfunctory thing—no shelter at all.
He woke again just after three, the house stone-dead silent, his mind still clawing at the image of Hester in her night rail. He muttered a curse and sat up, rubbing the heel of his palm across his face until the grain of his beard bit back.
Lying here was a fool’s errand. It only invited memories he couldn’t afford.
He reached for his banyan and shrugged it on then padded barefoot through the hallway, down to the drawing room that served as his private retreat. He poured a finger of whisky—too early, too late, what did it matter—and settled behind the battered easel near the window.
He was halfway through a charcoal sketch already, and he pressed a thumb to the paper, smudged a shadow into the hollow of the throat, and then, without any conscious intent, drew the line of a jaw he knew too well. Then the soft, squared shape of a chin, the downward cast of an eyelid. He caught himself and hesitated, the charcoal pausing midair.
It was her of course. Again. Always.
This was not good. He should not care this much. He certainly should not indulge it. Let the Duchess be mysterious, let her flit through the house as she wished, so long as she left him enough space to manage his business, that was all that mattered.
“You asked to see me, Your Grace?” Bailey asked the following day. Thomas was convening with him in the east wing.
“Aye. The Duchess is to have a proper workroom here on the second floor.” Thomas walked as he spoke, and Bailey matched his stride. “I want the north-facing windows uncovered, the floors refinished, and a new table—something sturdy, not a toy for a lady’s embroidery.”
Bailey raised a brow but wisely kept any comment to himself. “Very good, Sir. Shall I ask after the artisans in the village or have some brought up from Town?”
“Best workers ye can find here, but I want it finished in two or three days. Tell them it’s a royal commission if ye must.” He stopped and turned on Bailey. “No expense spared, mind. Whatever is needed, you get it.”
Bailey blinked then nodded once, as quick as a soldier. “It will be done, Sir. The Duchess is… to use the room for her needlework?”
“Among other things,” Thomas replied, not quite willing to admit he had no earthly idea what else she did with her days. “She’s of a mind to keep herself occupied. We’ll not have her bored.”
The steward smiled then stood straighter. “I meant to say, Your Grace, I heard some talk in the village about her work at St. Brigid’s.”
“Go on.”
Bailey’s eyes darted up the stairwell then back. “A boy, Your Grace. Noah, they call him. He’s an orphan, and mute since… well, since before anyone remembers. Never spoke a word until two weeks ago. The Duchess, they say, coaxed it out of him. She’s been going down there herself, seeing to the children.”
Thomas’s heart gave a strange, unfamiliar stutter and then settled.She never mentioned it to me.
Bailey grinned. “The village has never seen anything like it, Your Grace. The boy wouldn’t let anyone else near him before, but he is now more forthcoming.”
He tried to imagine Hester kneeling in the dirt, coaxing words from a silent child, and found the image unbearably bright.
He clapped Bailey on the shoulder, harder than he intended. “Ye’ll see to the studio then. And ensure that the villagers double their efforts with the children. If they’re cold, feed them. If they’re hungry, same. Duchess’ orders take priority, always.”
Bailey grinned, his respect plain. “Understood, Sir.”
Thomas dismissed him with a nod then turned down the hall toward the service wing. He found Mrs. Smith in the larder, interrogating a maid about the morning’s bread.
The housekeeper straightened as he entered then she curtsied. “Your Grace.”
“I’ll not keep ye long, Mrs. Smith. I wanted to ask how the Duchess is faring under yer care.”
