Left with no option, Tragmore swallowed an oath and followed.
“Lady Tragmore?” Pierce asked, inclining his head in her direction.
“Why, yes. Do I know you, sir?” The woman who stared solemnly at Pierce, her fingers alternately gripping and releasing the brim of her hat, had obviously at one time been extraordinarily lovely. It was evident in her still-smooth skin, the fragile lines of her features. But, like a small broken bird’s, her beauty was faded, her eyes listless and surrounded by lines of suffering and sadness.
Both of which had been caused by the brutality of one heartless bastard.
Pierce’s gut gave a savage twist.
“Elizabeth, this is Pierce Thornton.” The marquis was reluctantly performing the introduction. “Mr. Thornton is,” an uneasy cough, “a business associate of mine. Thornton, may I present my wife, Lady Tragmore.”
“Delighted, Madam.” Pierce bowed.
“And my daughter, Lady Daphne.” Tragmore reached out to guide his daughter from behind the eclipsing wall of her mother’s headpiece.
“Lady Daphne, ’tis a pleasure.” Pierce caught a glimpse of tawny hair and readied himself, with more than a touch of curiosity, to inspect Tragmore’s only child.
His inspection was limited to the golden brown mane that flowed gracefully down her back.
Head averted, Daphne appeared to be scrutinizing the grounds, as if thoroughly fascinated by something or someone in the crowd, and was thus oblivious to her father’s introduction.
“Daphne!” Tragmore snapped, his fingers biting into her arm.
Like a frightened rabbit, she jerked about, her face draining of color. “I’m sorry, Father. What were you saying?”
“I was performing an introduction,” Tragmore ground out, indicating Pierce’s presence. “This time I suggest you listen. Carefully.” Fury laced his tone, blazed fire in his eyes. “Pierce Thornton, my meditative daughter, Daphne.”
“Mr. Thornton, I apologize.” Turning in Pierce’s direction, Daphne bowed her head, the pulse in her neck accelerating with the blow of her father’s reprimand.
“I should hope so,” the marquis berated. Thornton, forgive my daughter’s behavior. At times she is inexcusably—”
“No apology is necessary.” Pierce raised Daphne’s gloved hand to his lips, revealing none of the rage that coiled within him like a lethal spring. “In truth, I can guess just what dilemma occupies Lady Daphne’s thoughts.”
Instantly, Daphne’s fingers went rigid in his, her lowered gaze unconsciously darting to her father, gauging the degree of his anger. “No dilemma, sir. I was merely watching. That is, I was wondering—”
“Which horse to choose in the first race,” Pierce finished for her. “The choice is a difficult one, isn’t it, my lady?”
This time Daphne’s head came up, her brows arched in bewildered surprise. “Why, yes, it is.”
Pierce’s first unimpeded view of Tragmore’s daughter was a dazzling revelation.
Small and fine boned like her mother, but with a vibrancy clearly lacking in the marchioness, Lady Daphne was exquisite, emanating, not the glittering beauty that filled London’s ballrooms, but the classic beauty of a rare and priceless painting. Her hair, like rich honey, cascaded over her shoulders in a tawny haze—all but those few tendrils that had broken free and now trailed stubbornly along her cheeks and neck. And those eyes. The most amazing contrast of colors—a kaleidoscope of soft greens and muted grays with luminous sparks of burnished orange; delicacy offset by strength.
“The contenders are exceptional.” Pierce held Daphne’s hand a fraction longer before releasing it. “Perhaps if we compare notes we can together arrive at the winning candidate.”
A faint, uncertain smile. “You’re very gracious, Mr. Thornton.”
“Yes, you are.” The marchioness sounded vastly relieved. “Look, Harwick, the horses are lining up.” She urged her husband toward his seat. “Come.”
Apparently convinced that no irreparable damage had been done, Tragmore gave a curt nod. “Very well.”
“Mr. Thornton?” Elizabeth turned to Pierce. “Please, won’t you join us? Unless, of course, you’ve made other arrangements.”
Seeing the immediate opposition on Tragmore’s face, Pierce made a swift decision. “No, I have no other arrangements. I’d be delighted to join you.”
“Wonderful. We have an empty chair directly beside Daphne. I’ll take that seat myself, so you and my husband can discuss your mutual business dealings.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Pierce declined. “The race is a social event. Your husband and I share a wide variety of interests, all of which promise to be ongoing for quite some time. Isn’t that right, Tragmore?”