The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Whipping a blade from beneath her skirts, she sent it sailing on ahead, watching as it landed directly between the predator and his prey. Startled, the chipmunk dropped the crumb of food it had been eating and darted off into the woods, leaving the snake and its threat far behind.

Satisfied with her work, Daphne rearranged her skirts and walked over to reclaim her blade. “That was beneath you,” she informed the snake. “In the future, please choose targets that can adequately defend themselves. Else you’ll answer to me.

“I don’t know about the snake, but I’m certainly convinced.”

Daphne started, dropping her knife and spinning about as Pierce approached her.

“Mr. Thornton!” She flushed, regaining her composure with great difficulty. “You startled me.”

Pierce grinned, gazing down into her beautiful, flustered face. “I could say the same. That was the most admirable display of skill, execution, and approach I’ve seen in ages.”

She gave him a tentative smile. “Thank you.”

“Where on earth did you learn to throw a knife so adeptly?”

“I wasn’t taught, if that’s what you’re asking,” Daphne replied warily.

“An innate skill.” Pierce nodded his understanding. “I’m impressed. Am I to assume you exercise this ability frequently?”

Her smile faded. “You’re mocking me.”

“Never. I’m just curious why a well-bred young lady would need to carry a weapon when strolling the grounds of her estate.”

“I—” She averted her gaze, obviously uncomfortable with the question. “I walked a bit beyond Tragmore. I generally do.”

“Really? To where?”

“To the village.” Impulsively, she leaned forward, clutching Pierce’s coat as she went on in a rush. “No one but Mama knows of my visits there. Please, sir, I ask that you—”

“I won’t mention a word to anyone, especially your father.” Pierce covered her hands with his, strangely moved by her trust. “Why do you go to the village? To shop?”

“No. I visit a friend.”

“A friend,” Pierce repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Can’t this friend come to Tragmore?”

“Unfortunately not. Father detests him.”

“Him?” A surge of jealousy coursed through Pierce’s blood. “Your friend is a man?”

“A vicar. Mr. Chambers. He’s known Mama since she was a girl, and he’s been my dearest friend for as long as I can remember.”

“I see.” Jealousy vanished, supplanted by keen interest. “Why does your father hate the vicar?”

Sadness clouded Daphne’s lovely face. “Many reasons. Too many to enumerate.”

“So you travel to the church to see him. Alone.”

“Not entirely alone,” Daphne corrected. “I have my blade. Not that I’ve ever had occasion to use it. But the vicar worries incessantly about me. So I carry it to ease his mind.”

“Your vicar sounds like a fine man.” Pierce caressed Daphne’s fingers gently. “Should you ever decide you need an escort to the village, I’d be happy to stand in for your knife.”

Clearly moved, Daphne swallowed, staring at their joined hands. “Thank you, Mr. Thornton. I shan’t forget your kind offer.”

Lord, she was beautiful. More so each time he saw her.

Clad in a simple beige day dress, her tawny hair was adorably disheveled, insistently falling free of its pins. Like Daphne herself, it appeared unwilling to be bound by either ribbons or convention, and Pierce wondered if she knew how enchanting she looked, how badly he wanted to haul her into his arms.

He seriously doubted she suspected either.