The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

She flushed. “Forgive me.”

“And you’ve done nothing but apologize.”

“I—”

“Don’t.” He covered her hand with his. “Just don’t.”

Daphne twisted a loose strand of hair about her finger, glancing nervously toward her father’s seat. “Is it unusually warm today?” she blurted out.

“I don’t know,” Pierce responded quietly, making no move to pull away. “Is it?”

Yanking her hand from beneath his, Daphne swept her hair up to cool her nape. “Perhaps it’s the excitement of the race.”

“Perhaps.” Pierce didn’t bother reminding her that neither of them had been watching the horses run for the past quarter hour. Further, although he felt her confusion, her discomfort, it was his own myriad emotions that intrigued him: compassion for the fear that clearly imprisoned this enchanting young woman, hatred for the man he was certain inspired it, and something more, an odd combination of fascination and attraction.

Following the movement of Daphne’s hair, Pierce’s gaze fell to her throat, exposed now, and bare but for a small strand of pearls.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

“What?” Daphne dropped her tresses as if they were lead.

“Your necklace. The gems are lovely.”

“Oh. I thought—I apologi—” She caught Pierce’s eye and broke into unexpected laughter.

“Your laughter is lovelier still.”

“And my parents are ten feet away.”

“I’m sure they already know of their treasures.”

Daphne’s laughter faded and Pierce had the irrational urge to coax it back, to make her glow the way she had when she’d chosen the winning horse. The vulnerability of her smile, the honesty of her laughter, were as tender as a child’s, but the resignation in her eyes was old, sad, tempered only by a small spark of inextinguishable pride. The combination was stirring, and Pierce, whose knowledge went far deeper than Daphne imagined, found himself strangely moved by Tragmore’s daughter. It was the first time he could remember feeling such empathy for a blue blood. In this case, however…Pierce’s gaze drifted slowly over Daphne’s delicate features, the alluring curves concealed by the modesty of her day dress. Lord alone knew what she must endure with Tragmore for a father.

The thought left him cold.

“Mr. Thornton, you’re staring.”

A corner of Pierce’s mouth lifted. “Am I? How boorish of me. I’m usually far more subtle in my approach.”

“Your approach? What is it you’re approaching?”

Again, he leaned toward her. “You.”

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“Oh. I see.” She moistened her lips, venturing another swift glance at her father, sagging with relief when she saw he was absorbed in the last race of the day. “Tell me, Mr. Thornton, are you always so direct?”

“Yes. Tell me, my lady, are you always so naive?”

She considered the question. “Yes.”

A rumble of laughter vibrated in Pierce’s chest. “How old are you, Daphne?”

If she noted the informality of his address, she gave no sign. “Twenty.”

“And why is it, if I might be so bold as to ask, that no worthy gentleman has yet whisked you down the aisle?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Thornton,” she replied with artless candor. “I suppose none has found me pleasing enough to pursue.”