The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Yes, indeed you must.” Chambers urged her toward the door. “Good day, children, Miss Redmund.”

“Good day.” Miss. Redmund followed them outside, looking as if she wanted to say more. “God bless you, Lady Daphne,” she barked suddenly. “God bless you both.” Red faced, she disappeared into the school.

The vicar and Daphne looked at each other and dissolved into laughter.

“I think you’ve even managed to thaw Miss Redmund,” he chuckled, guiding Daphne toward the road. “And to think there are those who claim miracles don’t exist.”

They’d just begun their walk when a speeding carriage rounded the bend, bearing down on them and screeching to a halt.

Daphne went sheet-white as her father leapt from the carriage.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here.”

“Father. I—I—”

“You were visiting those filthy urchins again, weren’t you? Even though I expressly forbade it.”

“Harwick—” the vicar began.

“Shut up!” Tragmore’s head snapped around, his eyes blazing with rage. “How dare you encourage my daughter to disobey me? You, who presume to call yourself a man of the cloth? If I have my way you’ll lose your parish, your home, and your reputation.”

“Father, no!” Daphne shook her head emphatically. “The vicar has done nothing. ’Twas my idea to visit the children, not his.”

“Get in the carriage,” Tragmore bit out through clenched teeth. “I’ll deal with your vicar later.”

Daphne’s whole body began to tremble.

“Did you hear me? Get in that carriage!” He grabbed her arm, twisting it violently as he dragged her with him.

A cry of pain escaped Daphne’s lips.

“Let her go, Tragmore.”

Pierce’s voice sliced the air like a bullet.

“Pierce?” Daphne’s head whipped around, and she stared at him, stunned.

“Well, Your Grace, why am I not surprised to find you here as well?” The marquis made no move to relinquish his punishing grip.

“I don’t think you heard me.” Pierce advanced toward him, predatory hatred glinting in his eyes. “I said take your filthy hands off Daphne.”

Tragmore’s lip curled in a snarl. “You audacious bastard. How dare you interfere. This,” he jerked Daphne’s arm, eliciting another muted cry of pain, “is my daughter. I’ll deal with her in whatever manner I choose.”

Liked a coiled viper, Pierce struck, lunging forward, his fist cracking into Tragmore’s jaw. “Not any more, you won’t.”

“Pierce, don’t!” Falling free of her father’s hold, Daphne regained her balance in time to see Harwick retaliate. Charging at Pierce, he swung violently, his fist aimed at Pierce’s jaw.

The blow never found its mark.

Pierce caught Tragmore’s arm, simultaneously slamming his own fist into the marquis’s gut—once, twice, three times. Dragging air into his lungs, he watched Tragmore fold at his feet. “Get up, you son of a bitch. Get up and find out what a gutter rat does best.”

“Pierce!” Daphne blocked Pierce’s path, beseeching him in the instant before the marquis rose. “Don’t do this.”

Ignoring Daphne entirely, Pierce stood rigid, staring down at Tragmore and awaiting his next onslaught. The venom darkening his gaze from forest green to nearly black was blistering in its intensity, but somehow Daphne was not afraid. Instinctively she knew Pierce was somewhere else, somewhere far away, and it was up to her to bring him back.

“Pierce!” She gripped his lapels, shaking him. “Please,” she added in a wrenching whisper.

Slowly, he glanced down, seeming to see her for the first time. “Daphne.” He reached out, touched her arm. “Are you all right?”