The Theft (Thornton 2)

Prologue

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Farrington Manor,

Dorsetshire, England

1869

He should have anticipated her request.

But he hadn't.

Maybe that was because of the enormous love that existed within his family. Or maybe his reasons had been more selfish, a fervent wish that the past could remain as it was, dead and gone.

Still, Eric admonished himself, he'd been a damned fool.

After all, this was Noelle. And when, in the dozen years of her young life, had Noelle allowed the slightest detail to escape her? When hadn't she demanded to know the answer to every tiny, bloody question under the sun?

And this involved far more than a simple question. This involved her birth, her lineage, the physical roots of her very existence.

"Papa?"

Abandoning his thoughts, Eric Bromleigh, the seventh Earl of Farrington, leaned back in his library chair, regarding his elder daughter with a dark scowl. "What, Noelle?"

"I asked you—"

"I heard what you asked me." He made a steeple with his fingers and rested his chin atop them. "I'm just not sure how to answer you."

"You're not sure how to answer me? Or you don't want to answer me?" With her typical candor-bordering-on-audacity, Noelle met her father's gaze, her sapphire blue eyes astute, assessing.

"Both."

"I see. So you really don't know his name."

"Not his name or anything about him."

"And you're not the slightest bit—?"

"No. Not even the slightest bit."

Noelle sighed, twisting a strand of sable hair about her forefinger—a childlike gesture Eric found greatly comforting, especially in light of the circumstances. Actually, he amended silently to himself, as Noelle grew older he was finding himself more and more grateful for the infrequent reminders she afforded him that she was not really a short, unusually straight-figured woman, but rather a normal, if extremely precocious, twelve-year-old girl.

One whose mind and tongue were quicker than a whip. Heavyhearted, Eric cleared his throat, seeking his own essential answers. "Why are you asking me this—now, after all these years? Why are you suddenly curious about your real fath—about the man who sired you?"

Something of Eric's anguish must have conveyed itself to Noelle. Abruptly, her probing look vanished, supplanted by a flash of regret and a wealth of unconditional love. "Oh, Papa…" She jumped to her feet, rushing over to fling her arms about Eric's neck. "You don't truly imagine I consider that horrible man—whoever he is—my father, do you? You don't think my question has anything to do with my feelings for you and Mama?"