The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“We leave for Benchley on Wednesday.”

“Excellent. Then we shall visit the school on Monday. How would that be?”

“That would be wonderful.” Daphne squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Vicar.” She glanced up as a slender serving girl entered the room carrying a tray with three steaming bowls of artichoke soup. “At last! Our first course has arrived. Congratulations, Jane. I feared Cook might never be persuaded to relinquish her soup. Now hurry along and have a bowl yourself, you and the rest of the staff. Cook made enough for an army.”

“Yes, ma’am, she did.” The girl’s head bobbed up and down, a genuine smile alighting her face. “Thank ye, ma’am.” She scurried off.

“Wait until you sample this,” Daphne told the vicar proudly. “You may decide never to leave.”

Two hours later, full of roast pheasant, stewed mushrooms, Yorkshire pudding, and lemon pie, the vicar wholeheartedly agreed.

Pushing back his plate, he groaned. “You were right, Snowdrop. Not only do I not wish to leave such a splendid feast, I fear I might never be able to. With the massive amounts of food I’ve just consumed, I doubt I can stand, much less walk.”

Daphne laughed, rising from the table. “Why don’t we adjourn to the sitting room? I’m sure some conversation and an exceptional glass of claret will do wonders for—” She broke off, swaying on her feet, groping for a nonexistent object upon which to brace herself.

Pierce caught her just before she fell.

“She’s fainted,” the vicar said, his features tight with concern.

“She’s white as a sheet,” Pierce managed, looking as pale as his wife. Swiftly, he carried Daphne into the sitting room where he placed her gently on the sofa. “Snow flame?” Lightly, he stroked her face, brushing tendrils of hair from her forehead. When she didn’t respond, he turned paralyzed eyes to the vicar. “What do I do?”

Instantly, the vicar appraised the situation. Pierce was bordering on panic. In that state, he could do naught but get in the way. “Go to Daphne’s bedchamber. I’m certain you’ll find a vial of smelling salts there.”

Pierce’s eyes narrowed. “This has happened before?”

“On occasion, yes.”

Comprehension dawned. “When that bloody bastard beat her.”

“Get the smelling salts, Pierce,” the vicar instructed quietly. “Daphne will be fine.”

This time Pierce complied, taking the steps two at a time, bursting into Daphne’s bedchamber like a man possessed. “Lily!” he bellowed. Not waiting for a reply, he began flinging items from Daphne’s dressing table, frantically searching for the vial he sought.

Nothing.

Her nightstand.

Veering around, Pierce crossed the room, yanking open Daphne’s nightstand drawer. The vial was right in front, the first thing he spied. Seizing it, he raced back to the sitting room where the vicar, surrounded by over a dozen worried servants, was pressing cold compresses to Daphne’s forehead.

“Let me through,” Pierce ordered. Instantly, the servants complied, hastily making a path for the duke to pass. He knelt at Daphne’s side, waving the vial beneath her nose. “Please, sweetheart. Open your eyes. Damn it, Vicar, she’s been unconscious for at least a quarter hour!”

“It’s been a scant two minutes, Pierce. See? There, she’s coming around.”

Daphne shook her head and blinked, slowly opening her eyes. “Pierce?” She pushed the smelling salts away, her fingers going to the cold cloth against her forehead. “What happened? Why are you all staring at me?”

“You fainted, Snow flame. You scared the hell out of me. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. That’s odd. I normally never faint unless Father—” She saw the murderous glint in Pierce’s eyes and checked herself.

“Is the duchess well, Your Grace?” Langley demanded.

“Apparently, yes. Nevertheless, she is going straight to bed.” So saying, Pierce scooped Daphne into his arms and rose. “Vicar, you’ll forgive us. I want Daphne to rest.”

“Of course,”

“I don’t need rest,” Daphne protested.

“You’re going to get it anyway.” Pierce was already halfway across the room.