The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“You don’t have to.” Instantly, Pierce enfolded her in his arms, pressing her wet face to his waistcoat. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here. You don’t have to endure it alone anymore.”

Daphne melted into his strength, unable to refuse these few moments of comfort, the joy of feeling Pierce’s arms around her. “How could you be a duke?” she wept.

Pierce kissed her hair. “That sounds more like an accusation than a celebration,” he noted dryly.

“But you loathe the nobility.”

“I do, don’t I?”

Pulling back, Daphne stared up into his eyes. “Yes. You do. Still. Even now. Then why are you joining its ranks? And why did you lie to me about who you are?”

“I never lied to you. Everything I told you was true. I grew up in the streets. I am a bastard. Until the day before yesterday, I had no idea who my father was.”

Daphne’s damp eyes widened. “He didn’t tell you himself?”

“No. Evidently, the late duke never felt the need to impart that tidbit of information to me. He let Hollingsby do it. In fact, my esteemed sire had no use for either my mother or me while he lived. But now that he’s dead, he needs someone to accept his precious title, a title that would otherwise be extinct. Thus, his bastard must be validated.”

“I told you never to refer to yourself that way.” Daphne lay her palm on Pierce’s jaw, wanting somehow to ease his pain.

Pierce turned his lips into her hand. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “And I still want to kill your father.”

“You wanted to kill him long before you discovered he struck me. Why?”

“We have quite a history together, the marquis and I.”

“Did he know you were Markham’s son prior to tonight?”

“Judging from his pallor after I made my announcement, I would say no.”

Daphne lightly stroked Pierce’s mouth. “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”

“What do you think?”

A small smile. “I think you’re exceedingly good at stopping a lady’s tears.”

Pierce’s expression grew tender, his eyes hauntingly vulnerable. “Daphne, I need to hold you, to reaffirm all I feel when you’re in my arms.”

“I need that, too,” she whispered.

They acted at the same time, fitting together as perfectly as two interlocking pieces of a puzzle. Pierce’s mouth closed over Daphne’s with poignant desperation, seeking something too profound to express, offering something too long denied. This time Daphne didn’t hesitate, but twined her arms about his neck, giving him all he needed, reaching for the wondrous blend of passion and comfort she found only with Pierce.

For long, exquisite moments they kissed, deep, hungry kisses that satisfied one craving, created another.

“Open your mouth to me,” he commanded softly, threading his fingers through her hair. “Give me more of you.”

Daphne complied at once, parting her lips, shivering as Pierce’s tongue invaded her mouth, stroked hers with bone-melting possessiveness.

“Am I frightening you?” he murmured.

“No.”

“Shall I stop?”

“No.” Daphne shook her head, pressing closer, wishing she knew how to convey all she was feeling.

Pierce seemed to know.

He lifted her against him, kissing her until she was breathless, melding their tongues, their breath, the fire in their souls. Then, in a whisper of motion, he gentled the caress, lightly brushing his lips across the angry welts on her cheek, showing her without words that he shared her pain.