The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“I see. So you really don’t know his name.”

“Not his name or anything about him.”

“And you’re not the slightest bit—?”

“No. Not even the slightest bit.”

Noelle sighed, twisting a strand of sable hair about her forefinger—a childlike gesture Eric found greatly comforting, especially in light of the circumstances. Actually, he amended silently to himself, as Noelle grew older he was finding himself more and more grateful for the infrequent reminders she afforded him that she was not really a short, unusually straight-figured woman, but rather a normal, if extremely precocious, twelve-year-old girl.

One whose mind and tongue were quicker than a whip.

Heavyhearted, Eric cleared his throat, seeking his own essential answers. “Why are you asking me this—now, after all these years? Why are you suddenly curious about your real fath—about the man who sired you?”

Something of Eric’s anguish must have conveyed itself to Noelle. Abruptly, her probing look vanished, supplanted by a flash of regret and a wealth of unconditional love. “Oh, Papa …” She jumped to her feet, rushing over to fling her arms about Eric’s neck. “You don’t truly imagine I consider that horrible man—whoever he is—my father, do you? You don’t think my question has anything to do with my feelings for you and Mama?”

“No. But still, I have to wonder. …” Eric broke off, wishing he knew what the hell to say.

“Good. Because you and Mama are my parents. My only parents.” Noelle hugged Eric fiercely. “I love you both so much,” she whispered. “If my interest in knowing who he is hurts either of you, I’ll forget the entire notion.”

Tenderly, Eric stroked Noelle’s hair, reflecting on how very typical this entire display was. Noelle was fervent about everything. Her love. Her curiosity. Her allegiance.

Her hunger for knowledge—knowledge that, in this case, she was more than entitled to be granted.

Yes, she was his daughter, his and Brigitte’s, but it hadn’t been that way from the start. She’d been born his niece, the unwanted illegitimate babe of his sister Liza. Liza and some nameless Italian aristocrat who’d thrown her aside the instant he learned she was with child. Not that Liza had proven to be any more principled than her lover. As always, she’d hastened straight to Eric, seeking him out as her inexhaustible source of love and protection. And, as always, he’d offered her both, convincing himself that she truly repented her reckless behavior, that she was ready to forgo her selfish whims and assume responsibility for the life of her unborn child.

What a fool he’d been. Liza had given birth to Noelle on Christmas Day, then abandoned her at the onset of the new year—forsaking Farrington Manor to sow her wild oats, only to die shortly thereafter, leaving Eric with a bitter heart, a deluge of self-censure, and an untenable dilemma.

Noelle.

God help him for his reaction. He’d been a wounded animal, incapable of feeling or forgiveness—especially when it came to himself. Uncertain of his sanity, unable to endure even the slightest reminder of Liza, Eric had wrested Noelle from his life, determined to live out his days in self-imposed isolation.

It hadn’t happened that way.

And not because of any heroic transformation on his part. No, Eric harbored no illusions on that score. His unexpected awakening, all its ensuing joys—every one of those blessings he owed to one extraordinary, incomparable woman.

Brigitte.

As his courageous bride, Brigitte had marched into Farrington Manor just shy of Noelle’s fourth birthday, a wife in name, a governess in fact.

Or so Eric had intended.

Within weeks Brigitte had undone four years of hell, healed all of Eric’s and Noelle’s emotional wounds, and transformed the future from bleak to miraculous.

Thanks to Brigitte, there was joy, there was unity, and there was family—a family that grew to include not only their beloved Noelle but their equally beloved Chloe, who made her appearance the summer before Noelle turned five.

Both girls had flourished—happy, nurtured, secure in the knowledge that they were loved.

Fortunately, Noelle had never had to know the selfish woman who’d given her life.

Or the despicable man who’d aided in the same.

There was no reason for that to change. No reason but one.

Noelle. Noelle and her inexhaustible curiosity.

“Tempest,” Eric murmured, easing Noelle away from him and gripping her small hands in his large ones. “Even if I knew who the scoundrel was who … that is, the scoundrel who was responsible for … for …”

“Impregnating,” Noelle supplied helpfully. “The scoundrel who was responsible for impregnating Liza.” She smiled a bit at the ashen expression on Eric’s face. “I do know how babies are made, Papa.”