The Theft (Thornton 2)

"I'm on my way."

With a fleeting, thoughtful glance at Baricci's back, André opened the door and slipped out of the office.

* * *

Markham's ballroom had been transformed into a glittering paradise.

That was Noelle's first thought as she stood between her parents, gazing into the enormous, elegant room—its crystal chandeliers aglow, its polished wooden floor

s crowded with hundreds of magnificently dressed guests, some of whom gathered in small groups, chatting and drinking punch, others of whom danced to the exquisite musical strains emitted by the string quartet who were assembled on a platform alongside the French doors.

A profusion of color, sound, and motion.

"Have you ever seen anything so lovely?" Noelle breathed, staring about with wonder in her eyes.

"Yes." Eric looked proudly from his wife to his daughter. "The two women I'm escorting."

Noelle flashed him a warm smile. "Thank you, Papa. My confidence sorely needed that."

"It shouldn't," Brigitte murmured, smoothing the capped sleeve of Noelle's silk velvet gown with an approving nod. "You look beautiful. That rich blue color makes you look positively regal."

"Of all the gowns you had designed for me, this is my favorite," Noelle confessed. "Thank you for letting me wear it tonight—in honor of my first ball."

"That's what it was fashioned for."

"Yes and no," Eric put in dryly. "It was designed for your first ball, but that ball was supposed to take place at the onset of the Season."

"A mere technicality," Brigitte assured Eric with a sunny smile. "After all, the Season is only five or six weeks away. Consider tonight to be the gown's debut, and this ball to be Noelle's taste of what's to come."

"Besides, this gown is not only my favorite, Papa. It's yours, as well," Noelle reminded him.

"Indeed. As I'm sure it will be Ashford Thornton's." Eric arched a pointed brow at his daughter. "You manipulate me so splendidly, Noelle. You and your brilliant accomplice here." His knowing gaze flickered to Brigitte—and softened. "Then again, you always have. It's a good thing I love you both enough to overlook it." His knuckles brushed Brigitte's cheek, his appreciative stare taking in her radiant expression, the fashionable cut of her amethyst gown. "Or perhaps I'm just dazzled by your mother's beauty."

"Either reason will do," Brigitte assured him, love shining in her eyes. She covered her husband's hand with her gloved one, squeezing his fingers to let him know she understood his inner turmoil. "You look dashing as well, my lord," she murmured softly. "And Noelle and I are proud to be the ladies on your arm—on both arms."

"I suspect one of those arms will soon be free," Eric returned quietly, his observation meant for Brigitte's ears alone.

His wife gave a profound shake of her head. "Never free, my darling. Just shared. Which is as it should be—as it must be. But remember, your other arm is permanently taken." She pressed her lips into his palm. "As is the rest of you."

Their gazes locked, and Eric swallowed, absorbing Brigitte's implicit message, slowly nodding his understanding.

"I'll try," he promised roughly.

"I know you will."

With that, Brigitte directed her attention back to Noelle, who'd used this moment in which her parents were privately chatting to step closer to the ballroom doorway. Now she hovered on its threshold, peering inside and intently studying the throngs of people.

"Are you ready to be announced?" her mother inquired. Noelle was too engrossed in her search to hear, much less to reply.

"He's over by the punch," Brigitte supplied helpfully. "With his sister," she added, spying the laughing woman by Ashford's side.

Sheepishly, Noelle lowered her lashes. "Am I that obvious?"

"Yes," Eric confirmed.

"No." Brigitte tossed her husband an Eric-you-promised look. "Only Papa and I see it, because we know you so well."

"Chloe, too," Noelle confessed. "She says I glow when I talk about him. I don't mean to, but I suppose I do." A quick, worried look at Eric. "You do like him better now, don't you, Papa?"