The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Something tender and profound flashed in Pierce’s eyes. “So do I, my beautiful snow flame. So do I.”

Muffled laughter drifted from the manor, and far away the strings struck up another waltz.

“It suddenly occurs to me,” Pierce noted, his arms still around Daphne’s waist, “that I have yet to enjoy my first dance as a duke.”

“Oh.” She shook her head, disoriented. “I suppose that’s true.”

“I’d hate to waste skills I so painstakingly learned once I became a law-abiding businessman. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Then, may I have the honor?”

“Pierce, I can’t return to the ball. My father ordered me—”

“Who said anything about the ball?” Pierce released her, stepping back

to execute a formal bow. “I’d prefer my first dance to take place privately, with the glow of the moon, above me, the fragrance of the garden surrounding me, and the feeling of you in my arms.” He held out his hand. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

Her heart pounding wildly, Daphne sank into a curtsy. “I’d be delighted, Your Grace.” She placed her fingers in his.

Had she ever danced before?

Daphne thought not.

Certainly she’d gone through the motions. But nothing could match the sheer wonder of floating about the garden with no impeding crowds, no harsh lights, nothing but pleasure and freedom—and Pierce.

“Are you happy, Daphne?” he asked, whirling her toward him.

Wordlessly, she nodded. “You’re a splendid dancer, Your Grace,” she managed, praying Pierce would understand the magnitude of what she couldn’t put into words.

He did. “And you’re a breathtaking partner, my lady.” Coming to a halt, he pressed her palm to his lips.

“I wish we could stay here all night,” she blurted.

“As do I. But I don’t want the marquis to discover you’re not abed. Then he’d be forced to lash out and I’d be forced to kill him.”

“Pierce.”

“Go, love. Before I forget I’m reputedly now a gentleman.” His tone was mocking.

“Will you be all right?”

“I? You’re the one who’s been hurt.”

“There are many different kinds of wounds,” Daphne replied quietly. “Some are worn on the surface. Others are not.”

“True.” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “And, to answer your question, yes, I’ll be fine. I always am.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I’ll pray for you.”

Pierce’s muscles tightened beneath her fingers. “What did you say?”

“Only that I’ll pray for you.”

“And if I were to tell you I don’t believe in prayers?”

Daphne smiled, resting her hand over Pierce’s heart. “Then I’d say, fortunately for you, I do.”