The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Good morning, ladies.” He tipped his hat, a flicker of amusement crossing his face as he realized Grace was sound asleep. “Good morning to you, then,” he amended, his gaze meeting Noelle’s as he tossed his hat negligently to the seat.

“Good morning,” Noelle managed, unable to look away, her curiosity spiraling along with her pulses as she openly studied her new companion.

He was perhaps the most charismatic, if not the handsomest, man she’d ever seen—his powerful frame seeming to fill the compartment with that imposing presence she’d sensed from afar. As for handsome—well, the word just didn’t suit. Handsome applied to chiseled beauty, the type of graceful good looks depicted in paintings or sculptures. This man was far too overwhelming to be deemed handsome. His features were too hard, too severe. His raven black hair was unfashionably long in the back, and strands of it slashed across his broad forehead in bold lines; his eyes—a startling contrast of greys and greens highlighted by sp

arks of burnished orange—were a kaleidoscope of color and intensity. The harsh lines about his mouth emanated power, and yet when he smiled—which he was doing now—he looked almost boyish, as if he possessed some coveted secret that was his alone to savor.

His smile faded, his penetrating stare taking her in from head to toe—not once but twice—assessing her with a self-assurance that bordered on the audacious.

With an undisguised gleam of approval, he took the seat directly across from her, his knees brushing hers as he settled in. “Pardon me.” His voice was as commanding as he, a rich, deep baritone that flowed through Noelle like warm honey.

“That’s quite all right.” Her heart was slamming so hard against her ribs she could scarcely speak. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, forcing out the first question that came to mind. “Are you going to London on business?”

Another smile. “I am. And you?” His gaze flickered from Noelle to Grace—who was emitting a series of unladylike snores—to the small basket of bread and cheese Grace had tucked beneath their seats. “Are you off to Town on a shopping spree?”

“More or less.”

“More or less?” The man removed a folded newspaper from beneath his arm, laying it down upon the empty seat beside him. “Now that sounds intriguing.”

“Not really.” With a silent reprimand, Noelle reminded herself that she’d never allowed anyone to intimidate her before, much less the limited number of men to whom she’d been exposed. Not only was she blatantly outspoken, she was far from unworldly. She’d traveled with her parents, accompanied them to the continent, to Scotland, certainly to Town, and she’d been introduced to all the people they knew, men and women alike. Further, she was being brought out in two months and had been well schooled in conversation—something she was rarely at a loss for anyway. So why was she behaving like such a ninny around this man?

Because he took her breath away.

“If you keep staring at me like that, I’ll be forced to ask you why,” he noted in a teasing drawl.

“Please don’t,” Noelle returned swiftly. “Because if you ask, I’ll be forced to answer. And, given that I’m disgustingly forthright, I’ll doubtless blurt out an honest reply. At which point I’ll probably die of embarrassment.”

Husky laughter rumbled from his chest. “We can’t have that. You’re far too lovely to expire. And for so unworthy a cause. I’ll change subjects and instead ask your name.”

Noelle smiled. “A much safer question. I’m Lady Noelle Bromleigh. And you?”

“Ashford Thornton.”

“Ashford Thornton?” Noelle’s eyes widened with interest. “Are you any relation to Pierce Thornton, the Duke of Markham?”

“Indeed I am. He’s my father.”

“Is he?” Noelle’s thoughts spun into motion, careening along as she remembered every wonderful, generous gift the duke had donated to her great-grandfather’s parish, all the needy children he and his duchess had fed—not only through their contributions, but through their personal visits to the villages, and most especially, the schoolhouses. “Your mother and father are exceptional people,” she said fervently. “I can’t tell you what a difference they’ve made—to my great-grandfather, to the children of his parish.”

“I thank you. I also agree—my parents are extraordinary.” Ashford Thornton inclined his head. “Then again, if I’m correct, so are yours. In fact, with regard to your great-grandfather’s parish, Mother and Father had a fair amount of help in providing for those children. Help, I believe, that came from your father and mother.”

“You know Mama and Papa?”

“Not personally. But I certainly know the name Bromleigh. Judging from the ‘lady’ with which you began your introduction, I’m guessing that your parents are the Earl and Countess of Farrington.”

“They are,” Noelle assured him proudly. “And they’re the two finest people on earth, Lord …” She paused, her brows knit in puzzlement. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your title. And you didn’t provide it in your introduction.”

“Is that a requirement?”

Well versed on the subject of the Duke of Markham and the irreverent way in which he’d shouldered his title some thirty-four years ago, Noelle felt a flash of excitement. “Have you chosen not to assume one of your father’s courtesy titles?” she demanded, leaning forward. “Do you, like he, shun the nobility?”

Ashford Thornton’s teeth gleamed. “I fear I’m about to disappoint you. No, I don’t shun the nobility. Nor, for that matter, does Father. Only those who boast nobility and demonstrate none. As for my title, if it would make you feel better, by all means use it. In fact, use any one of them. I’m the Earl of Tremlett, Earl of Charsbrow, Viscount Renwick, and Baron Halsbury. Which do you prefer?”

A flush. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m teasing you,” he amended.

“In that case, I’ll forgive you,” Noelle returned with a peppery spark. “Lord Tremlett,” she added pointedly.