Page 97 of Duke of Emeralds
“I’ll take it from here,” Thomas said, his voice cold as the North Sea.
Paisley blinked. “Your Grace?—”
“She is my wife,” Thomas ground out. “Step aside.”
He kneeled beside Hester, brushing away the other hands, and lifted her chin with two fingers. Her skin was clammy, her lips too pale.
“Hester. Darling. Speak to me.”
She blinked up at him, dazed. “I suppose I have made a scene,” she murmured.
“Ye’ve always had a talent for theatrics, Duchess,” Thomas replied, but the joke was half-choked by fear.
Lady Alderton dabbed at Hester’s brow with a lace handkerchief. “You must take it easy, dear. I suppose I should congratulate you, but first we must get you to a quiet room?—”
“Congratulate me?” Thomas echoed, completely at a loss.
Lady Alderton beamed. “Well, I do have an eye for these things. But the Duchess can tell you herself, I’m sure.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Women’s matters.”
Thomas felt a dull panic rise in his chest, but he tamped it down and turned back to Hester. “Can ye stand?”
She nodded though she looked anything but steady. Thomas scooped her up into his arms with care, ignoring the stares of half the room as he guided her toward the nearest exit.
They were nearly to the doors when Anna intercepted them, a look of pure horror on her face. “What happened?”
“She needs to lie down,” Thomas said.
Anna took command at once. “Follow me.” She swept ahead, all the confidence of a general with a wounded soldier in tow. She led them to a quiet salon at the back of the house where pale morning light crept around the curtains, and a sofa waited.
Thomas settled Hester onto the cushions then hovered as Anna poured water from a carafe and pressed the glass into his hand. He helped Hester drink, careful to support her neck. When her eyes cleared a little, Anna rummaged through a cabinet and produced a small vial.
“Smelling salts,” she said, uncorking it and waving it gently under Hester’s nose.
Hester grimaced and pushed it away. “I am not an invalid, Anna.”
Anna’s mouth twisted. “No, but you are quite wretched, darling. Drink more, and then I’ll leave you with your husband.” She squeezed Hester’s hand and retreated, shutting the door softly behind her.
They were alone.
Thomas took a seat at the end of the sofa. Hester’s breathing had steadied, but she kept her gaze fixed on her lap. He wanted to hold her, to crush her to his chest and feel her heartbeat, but he could sense the wall she’d built between them. He settled for taking her hand which she allowed but only just.
“Ye look like death warmed over,” he said quietly.
Hester drew her hand away and moved to the far end of the sofa. “You needn’t pretend concern, Thomas.”
He flinched at the old, familiar coldness in her voice. “I am not pretending.”
She let out a brittle laugh. “Then what do you call it? You disappear for a week, say nothing, do nothing, and now, you show up to haul me out of a ballroom like a sack of potatoes? Is this your notion of chivalry?”
Thomas stared at the rug, trying to remember every word he’d rehearsed in his mind and finding none of them adequate. “I’ve been wrong, Hester. I see that now.”
She braced her hands on her knees, as if to rise. “Then say so plainly, and spare me the performance.”
“I thought to spare ye,” Thomas said, his voice rough, “from me. I thought I was doing the right thing. I see now how much I’ve hurt ye. I—” He stopped, uncertain how to continue.
Hester looked up then, meeting his gaze with a furious glare. “You don’t get to decide what hurts me, Thomas. You don’t get to leave then waltz back in and play the hero when it suits you.”
He felt something in his chest break. “No. I suppose I daenae.”
