The Last Duke (Thornton 1) - Page 156
“Countless.”
“Such a pity.” Daphne sighed. “Lord Weberling is a greedy and unfeeling man. He’ll probably squander the funds at White’s or have the diamonds made into rings for his garish, coldhearted wife.”
“I fear you’re right,” Pierce agreed, his eyes beginning to twinkle.
Crossing over to the double chest, Daphne eased open the drawer housing Pierce’s cravats. She reached to the back, groping about until she extracted the glittering sapphire they’d secreted there for safekeeping. “Do you think the diamonds could be larger than this?” she asked, fingering the stone.
“Definitely. Several times larger, if they’re half as grand as Weberling boasts.”
“Perhaps we should make sure—examine them at close range.”
“A splendid idea.” Pierce climbed out of bed and strolled over to his wife. “Do you know, I just realized I have yet to initiate that handsome black cloak you gave me for Christmas.”
“True. And I have yet to accustom my husband to seeing the mother of his children adorned by a mask.”
“Just this once,” Pierce qualified in a dark whisper.
“Just this once,” Daphne concurred, the essence of sincerity.
Their gazes locked.
And the Tin Cup Bandit smiled.
Turn the page to start reading the follow-up to The Last Duke
Prologue
Farrington Manor, Dorsetshire, England
June 1869
HE SHOULD HAVE ANTICIPATED HER REQUEST.
But he hadn’t.
Maybe that was because of the enormous love that existed within his family. Or maybe his reasons had been more selfish, a fervent wish that the past could remain as it was, dead and gone.
Still, Eric admonished himself, he’d been a damned fool.
After all, this was Noelle. And when, in the dozen years of her young life, had Noelle allowed the slightest detail to escape her? When hadn’t she demanded to know the answer to every tiny, bloody question under the sun?
And this involved far more than a simple question.
This involved her birth, her lineage, the physical roots of her very existence.
“Papa?”
Abandoning his thoughts, Eric Bromleigh, the seventh Earl of Farrington, leaned back in his lib
rary chair, regarding his elder daughter with a dark scowl. “What, Noelle?”
“I asked you—”
“I heard what you asked me.” He made a steeple with his fingers and rested his chin atop them. “I’m just not sure how to answer you.”
“You’re not sure how to answer me? Or you don’t want to answer me?” With her typical candor-bordering-on-audacity, Noelle met her father’s gaze, her sapphire blue eyes astute, assessing.
“Both.”
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