The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Would Daphne want to fill that role? Even with the powerful pull that drew them together, it was far too soon for her to have considered anything as significant as marriage. And while Pierce was worldly enough to discern the rarity of what hovered between them, Daphne was young, inexperienced. So how could he expect her to comprehend the magnitude of what occurred when they met, spoke, touched?

He did know that she trusted him, reached out to him for a complexity of reasons too vast to put into words. She’d even taken a few tentative steps closer to the fire that blazed to life when she was in his arms.

But it still wasn’t enough.

So, how would she react to the thought of becoming his wife? Now. Immediately. She’d be stunned. That was a certainty. But when the shock had subsided, when she’d had time to think, then what? Would she flatly refuse his proposal, or would she entertain the idea of becoming Mrs. Pierce Thornton?

Tragmore. What would he do?

Pierce’s smile vanished. The son of a bitch would be furious. More than furious. His rage would be boundless; vented—how? By striking out at Pierce, or at Daphne?

Just the thought of Tragmore laying one of his contemptible hands on Daphne made Pierce’s skin crawl. Clenching his fists, he cursed aloud.

By wedding Daphne he could wrest her from her father’s brutality. He’d do it in a minute, with or without Tragmore’s consent, if he were certain it was what Daphne wanted. But was it?

I’ll never take what you don’t willingly offer. Pierce had spoken that vow just yesterday as he’d drawn Daphne into his arms for the first time. He wouldn’t break it. Not now, not ever. She had to freely choose to become his wife.

But was the fragile thread of feeling that had grown between them strong enough? Was Daphne strong enough to defy her father, knowing how much he loathed Pierce?

No. Not yet. There hadn’t been enough opportunity.

But, dammit, there would be.

Abruptly, Pierce leaned forward. “Rakins!” he called to his driver. “Head back to Hollingsby’s office at once.”

“Mr. Thornton. You can’t just walk in there! Mr. Hollingsby is a busy man.” The scrawny clerk made one final attempt to block Pierce’s path.

Sidestepping the man’s flailing arms, Pierce flung open the solicitor’s door and stalked in.

“Don’t blame your clerk, Hollingsby,” Pierce announced, dropping into a chair. “I intended to see you immediately. And nothing and no one was going to stop me.”

“I see.” Hollingsby had jolted to his feet, and now began furiously polishing his spectacles. “You may leave us, Carter,” he told the clerk.

“Yes, sir.” Carter mopped at his brow, sent an aggravated look in Pierce’s direction, and walked out.

“I didn’t expect to see you again, Mr. Thornton.” Hollingsby shoved his spectacles back into place. “And certainly not so soon.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Pierce folded his hands behind his head and began without preliminaries. “I have a few questions. First, how did Markham know I was capable of managing his funds?”

Hollingsby’s eyes widened in surprise, but he answered without hesitation. “The late duke knew a great deal about you. He followed your life, at a discreet distance, of course, quite closely. Therefore, he was aware of your brilliant business investments and your equally brilliant mind. When he had me draw up the codicil, he was fully confident that his estate would be entrusted to the very best of hands.”

“How flattering. Next question. You mentioned that once my responsibilities had been fulfilled I would have complete access, within reason, to the Markham funds. Define within reason.”

Now Hollingsby’s jaw dropped. “Does this mean you’ve reconsidered and intend to—”

“Just answer the question.”

“Very well. The only reason your father—er, the late duke, added that phrase was to ensure that his family name and fortune remained essentially intact for his grandson.”

“His grandson. You mean, my son?”

“Yes.”

“In other words, Markham was afraid I would intentionally tarnish his name and squander his money?”

“The possibility occurred to him, yes.”

“Which, in turn, would leave my son destitute, much the way Markham left me, correct, Hollingsby?”