Page 60 of Duke of Emeralds
On their return to the castle, Hester steered them past a confectioner’s cart that had been stationed at the gate. She bought Bella a twist of candied lemon peel which the girl accepted with a polite “thank you, Your Grace” and immediately offered to share with Miss Wilmot.
In the front hall, they found Thomas speaking with the steward. He looked up as the little group entered, and his gaze—unreadable—went from Bella to Hester then to the stranger at her side.
“Ye have brought home a stranger, Duchess,” he said, his lips twitching at the corners.
“This is Miss Wilmot,” Hester said, introducing her. “She is here for the position of governess.”
Thomas regarded the governess. “Ye have your work cut out for you, Miss Wilmot. Arabella’s a shyer one than most.”
Miss Wilmot smiled. “I rather like the shy ones, Your Grace. They are generally more interesting in the end.”
He nodded. “Aye. That’s often the case.” He looked down at Bella, who had withdrawn slightly behind Hester’s skirts. “And how is our little star this morning?”
Bella peered up at him. “I saw a robin,” she said.
Thomas crouched so that they were on the same level. “Did ye now? What did it say?”
Bella considered then, in a perfect imitation, sang, “Twit-twit-twit!”
Thomas laughed, a warm, booming sound that echoed off the high ceiling. “Ye’ve the ear of a Highland shepherd, lass.” He looked at Hester, pride written all over his features. “If she’s this clever after a week, imagine what she’ll be like by winter.”
A fierce, unexpected surge of longing welled in Hester’s chest. She wanted to see him crouched like that, teaching a child, every day of her life. The thought was so sudden and so intense that it nearly knocked her breathless.
She caught herself.No, absolutely not!She would not let this madness take root. Her marriage was a contract, not a fairy tale.
“Miss Wilmot will make a thorough governess,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I must speak with her to finalize arrangements. Could you spare a moment for Bella?”
Thomas’s eyes flashed with something like amusement. “I suppose I can spare a minute or two.”
“Thank you,” she said, perhaps a bit too crisply.
She watched as Thomas took Bella’s hand and led her away toward the conservatory. The child looked up at him with a smile, and Hester could hardly bear to watch them go.
She turned abruptly and led Miss Wilmot down the hallway toward her study, feeling the walls close in around her with every step.
I will not be ruled by this. I will not.
But the image of Thomas and Bella followed her all the way down the hall and lodged itself in her chest like a splinter she could neither dig out nor ignore.
She set her jaw and pressed on, determined to feel nothing at all.
CHAPTER 27
Adull thump sounded. Then the sudden staccato of hammering, followed by the nasal drone of Bailey’s voice.
It was meant to be a perfectly ordinary morning which was why, as Hester swept through the long passage of the east wing with a sheaf of letters in hand, she very nearly missed the sounds of controlled chaos leaking from one of the rooms down the hall.
She halted at the threshold of the little-used salon and stared. A strange lattice of wooden beams, dust sheets, and what might have been the collapsed remains of a pianoforte had replaced her vague memory of stiff settees and French cabinets.
Bailey was waving his ledger at a pair of red-faced laborers . One of the footmen was struggling to maneuver a crate twice his width across the marble.
She blinked, certain this was some dream or perhaps the aftershock of an unwise second cup of chocolate. “Mr. Bailey?” she called, hovering just inside the door. “What exactly is happening?”
Bailey looked up, caught mid-cough, and offered a smile so tight it threatened to crush the pencil behind his ear. “Nothing at all, Your Grace! Merely the annual… er… review of the furniture.”
The laborers exchanged a glance that said they would rather die than conduct annual reviews of anything, ever.
Hester stepped closer. The air reeked of sawdust, fresh paint, and a faint, cloying sweetness she couldn’t identify. “That is not the scent of French polish,” she said.
