The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Ashford waited until Grace was poised outside the carriage. Then he made his move. He lurched forward, his fingers closing around Noelle’s, staying her as she made to rise. “I want to see you again.”

Those exquisite sapphire eyes glinted with anticipation. “Are you asking to call on me, Lord Tremlett?”

“Ashford,” he corrected, his thumb caressing her wrist.

“Ashford,” she reiterated, whispering his name in a breathless way that made his blood heat.

He brought her fingers to his lips, as much on instinct as on design. Whatever the hell he was doing far transcended his hunt for Baricci, and he knew it. “Yes, I’m asking to call on you—Noelle. May I?”

With apparent fascination she watched her fingers against his lips, shivering as he lightly kissed her fingertips. Slowly, her chin came up and her gaze met his. “I’d like that, my lord,” she admitted. “I’d like that very much.”

“Good. Then expect to hear from me.”

“I shall.”

“My lady!” Grace bellowed her summons over the noise of the busy London station.

“I’m coming, Grace,” Noelle called back. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand, gathered up her skirts, and exited the carriage. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, turning to face Ashford. “For the ride, the game of piquet, and the fascinating conversation.”

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, holding her with his gaze. “At least not yet.”