The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

“Come with me.” His fingers bit into Daphne’s arm. “Now.”

Daphne flinched, her eyes widening with fear as she saw the rage on her father’s face.

“Harwick, what is it?” Elizabeth asked in a quivering voice.

“Stay out of this, Elizabeth,” he commanded. “I intend to have a private talk with our daughter. Immediately. And I suggest”—he turned blazing eyes on Daphne—“that she not make a scene.”

“Very well, Father.” Daphne’s mind was already racing, desperately trying to envision what damning information her father had just gleaned. Her hands shook violently as she gathered up her skirts and followed him to a deserted sitting room down the hall.

“You were with that bloody vicar again,” Tragmore ground out the moment he’d closed the door. “How many times have I forbidden you to go there? How many times have you disobeyed me?” He began to advance toward Daphne, his rage terrifying in its intensity.

Daphne’s heart began slamming against her ribs.

“ ’Twas only for a few minutes, Father,” she began.

“Liar!” His palm struck her face, and she cried out, instinctively pressing her fingers to her cheek.

“I’m not lying,” she whispered, backing away. “I was at the church for a mere quarter hour.”

“That’s a quarter hour more than you’re permitted.” The marquis lunged forward again, slapping Daphne so hard she lost her balance and toppled to the couch. “Damn you! I’d beat you within an inch of your life were we at Tragmore.”

“Please, Father.” Daphne crept to the far corner of the sofa, frantically trying to think of words to appease him.

An insistent pounding at the door rescued her.

“Tragmore? Tragmore are you in there?” The Earl of Gantry’s voice accompanied his determined knock.

Glowering at Daphne, Tragmore crossed the room and yanked open the door. “I’m in the midst of a discussion with my daughter, Gantry.”

The earl nodded his understanding. “I apologize for intruding. But a most intriguing situation is in the process of unfolding. Hollingsby just arrived, bringing an uninvited guest, who, according to our solicitor, has an important announcement to make. He’s requested that everyone converge in the ballroom.”

“Very well,” Tragmore agreed with a reluctant glance over his shoulder. “I’ll be there directly.” Closing the door, he waited until Gantry’s footsteps had faded. Then, he whirled about. “We are not finished, Daphne. Your defiance will be dealt with—severely dealt with—when we arrive home. Until then, make yourself scarce.” Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the red welts on her cheek, which had already begun to swell. “The marks of my discipline are unfortunately quite visible this time. You will not embarrass me further. Go to your room. And remain there until tomorrow when we take our leave. I shall tell the countess you’re not feeling well and are in bed.” He reached for the door handle once more. “We’ll resume your punishment at Tragmore.”

The slam reverberated behind him.

Long moments passed before Daphne rose, drawing a few steadying breaths to compose herself. Fate had granted her a temporary reprieve, and she was profoundly grateful for it. The thought of staying in her assigned chamber, far away from her father’s rage, was pure bliss. Oh, she’d bear the brunt of his beating once they returned home, but perhaps by then the edge would be off his anger, and her back would not be as badly whipped.

She’d face that ordeal when she had to. For now, all she wanted was the sanctuary of a quiet room, a soft bed, and her private thoughts.

Creeping into the hall, Daphne assured herself that it was empty. Evidently, all the guests had gathered in the ballroom for the grand announcement Lord Gantry had spoken of.

Weak with relief, Daphne was about to veer toward the guest quarters when she spied Mr. Hollingsby in the ballroom entranceway, leading a tall, starkly handsome man into the ballroom.

Pierce Thornton.

For an instant, Daphne was convinced her eyes deceived her. What on earth would Pierce Thor

nton be doing at the Earl of Gantry’s ball? He who detested the nobility and all they represented. He couldn’t be the bearer of the mysterious proclamation. ’Twas impossible.

But there was no mistaking that bold, assessing stare, that confident walk, those meltingly hard good looks.

It was most emphatically he.

Curiosity overshadowing pain, Daphne tiptoed down the deserted hallway, straining to hear the grand announcement Pierce was apparently about to make.

“Well, hello, Tragmore,” Pierce’s deep voice reached her ears. “I’m delighted to see you here tonight.”

“Thornton!” Her father’s muffled response sounded stunned—and frightened. “You’re Hollingsby’s guest?”