The Theft (Thornton 2)

Markham was an enormous estate in Northampton, comprising hundreds of acres of manicured lawns and exquisite gardens, beyond which sat the manor's palatial walls and turrets.

For Ashford, it was home—the place he and his siblings had been raised, loved, and, as a result, now always managed to make their way back to, no matter how hectic their lives became.

But none of that was because of Markham's grandeur.

All of it was because of its master and mistress.

Pierce and Daphne Thornton were as unique as they were inspiring, both having overcome great personal hardship in order to find the joy and peace that was now theirs.

Pierce hadn't been born a future duke. In fact, not only hadn't he been the Duke of Markham's chosen heir, he hadn't even been acknowledged, much less titled, until he was thirty. He'd been born a bastard, grew up in a filthy Leicester workhouse, and nearly died on the streets. His life had been lonely and brutal; it wasn't until he'd met Daphne that it had turned around.

Ashford's mother was the most amazing of women, as emotionally strong as she was physically delicate. Before meeting her husband, she'd survived years of cruel beatings by her father, she not only survived but retained a purity of spirit that by all rights should have been splintered into fragments, vanished along with her faith.

She'd lost neither. Instead, she'd gifted both to Pierce.

Now, some thirty-four years later, Ashford's parents still had the kind of fairytale marriage others dream of but never attain.

They passed that love on to their children. Not only their love, but their values: respect others, recognize who and what defines true worth, and most of all, never act without considering the consequences. All that had been ingrained in Ashford and his brothers and sisters from the day they were born.

That and a few other intriguing things…

Swinging down from his carriage, Ashford issued a few quick instructions to his driver, then hurried up the front steps to the manor.

By the time he reached the entrance door, it had opened. "Master Ashford, what a pleasant surprise." A white-haired man, who stood as straight as an arrow despite his extremely advanced years, bowed a formal greeting.

"Hello, Langley," Ashford replied warmly. "You're looking well."

"I try, sir." The butler smoothed the coat of his impeccably pressed uniform.

"I apologize for the unexpected arrival," Ashford continued, as if his unpredictable comings and goings were rare rather than routine. "It couldn't be helped."

"Nonsense. Your parents will be delighted to see you." Langley stepped aside, having long since acclimated to Ashford's unorthodox entrances. "The duke and duchess are in the breakfast room. You'll show yourself in, I presume?"

A grin. "As always."

"Splendid. I'll arrange for your bags to be taken upstairs to your chambers."

"Thank you, Langley." Ashford strode down the hallway, sparing not a glance at the dozens of elegant rooms he passed. He had but one goal in mind: seeing his mother and father.

He reached the breakfast-room doorway and paused, watching them chatting over their coffee, totally absorbed in each other.

At past sixty, Pierce Thornton was still an imposing man. Tall, fit, strikingly handsome, the silver-grey at his temples and distinguished lines about his mouth were the only signs of his age. Otherwise, he had changed very little since Ashford had been born. Very little, Ashford reflected with a wry grin, in more ways than appearance. Ironically, people often commented that Ashford was a younger version of his father, other than his eyes, which were the same unusual melding of colors as his mother's.

Daphne Thornton was classically lovely: slender, delicate, with tawny hair and fine features, all highlighted by those kaleidoscope eyes she'd passed on to her son. Despite having borne five children—beginning with a set of twins, Ashford and his twin sister Juliet—Daphne still managed to retain the fresh quality of a woman twenty years her junior.

Many claimed it was the uncommon love that existed between the Duke and Duchess of Markham that kept them young. And Ashford would be the first to agree—their love … plus an occasional, covert dose of adventure.

With tender amusement, Ashford leaned against the door frame, wondering how long it would take before he was spied. Probably about ten seconds. Engrossed or not, nothing escaped his parents, certainly not the appearance of one of their beloved children.

As if on cue, Daphne's head came up. "Ashford." She sounded more excited than surprised. Springing to her feet, she hurried across the room, reaching up to hug her son. "We were just discussing you."

"That sounds dangerous," he chuckled, returning her embrace. "Perhaps I'd better leave."

"Don't even consider it," she warned, stepping back and squeezing his hands.

"Hello, son." Pierce joined them, clasping Ashford's shoulder and studying him intently. "I thought we might be seeing you today."

Ashford's gaze locked with his father's and he half turned, carefully shutting the door to ensure their privacy. "You heard already?"