The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Yes. He asked me the same question,”

“And what was your answer?”

“My answer was, yes, I care for Pierce. So much that it leaves me breathless. He makes me feel safe and protected and, in some unknown but extraordinary way, treasured. I’m not certain how else to describe it.”

“You’ve described it perfectly. Now, tell me what you’re going to do about these wondrous feelings of yours.”

Daphne took a deep breath. “Pierce has asked me to marry him, Mama.”

Two tears slid down Elizabeth’s cheeks, and, impatiently, she dashed them away. “Pay no attention to my foolish, motherly tears. I’m thrilled for you, darling. Truly I am.”

“I don’t think Father will share your joy,” Daphne cautioned, choosing her words with the utmost care. “Pierce might be a duke, but he grew up in the streets, which is hardly the type of background Father would consider appropriate for my husband.”

“The duke proposed to you, not Harwick,” Elizabeth surprised her by replying. “Your feelings—and Pierce’s—are all that’s important. Don’t let anything else deter you.”

Quizzically, Daphne studied her mother, wondering at the unprecedented fervor in Elizabeth’s tone and the ill-fated love that inspired it. With great difficulty, she restrained herself from asking, sensing that her mother was not yet ready to share that chapter of her life. “I haven’t given Pierce my answer yet.”

“Why not?”

“Everything happened so quickly. I needed time to think.”

Elizabeth stroked her daughter’s hair. “Daphne, listen to your heart. If you don’t, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. Believe me, I speak from experience.” That faraway look reappeared, then vanished. “Now, when will your duke return for his answer?”

“Today.”

In response, Elizabeth pressed the brooch into Daphne’s palm. “Then I suggest you hurry off and dispose of this repulsive bauble. Give the money to the vicar, then fly home to greet Pierce.”

Daphne kissed her mother’s cheek. “Thank you, Mama. Thank you for everything.”

“It’s barely dawn, Your Grace. And, I repeat, I can’t help you.”

The Tragmore butler addressed Pierce with haughty censure, simultaneously blocking his entry into the manor. “I’ve specified, three times, in fact, that Lord Tragmore is in London.”

“And I’ve specified, three times, in fact, that if such is the case I insist on seeing Lady Daphne.” Pierce was fast losing his patience. He’d scarcely had time to bathe and change his clothing before riding to Tragmore. He was in no mood to argue with an ornery servant who was hell-bent on thwarting his attempts to see Daphne.

“It appears that Lady Daphne has gone out.”

“Out?” Pierce stifled the urge to choke him. “At dawn? Where?”

“I really couldn’t say, Your Grace.”

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance.” Elizabeth’s tentative voice drifted from the hallway. “I’ll speak to the duke.”

The butler started, then swerved to face the marchioness. “Very good, Madam,” he agreed with a bow. Casting one last distasteful look at Pierce, he stalked off.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Elizabeth smiled as she approached him.

“Lady Tragmore, thank you for seeing me. I apologize for arriving at this ungodly hour. I hope I didn’t disturb your sleep.”

“Not at all. As you can see, I’m up and dressed.” Elizabeth hovered in the doorway. “Forgive me for not inviting you in. To be candid, I’m simply too much of a coward.”

“I understand.” Pierce nodded gravely, besieged, once again, by a wave of compassion for this gentle, broken woman, and the indignities she must suffer. “I assume the marquis is not at home?”

“No, or I wouldn’t be taking this chance. He’s not due home until late this afternoon.”

“I see.”

“But then, you’re not here to call on Harwick, are you? You’re here for Daphne.”