Tenderness unfurled inside Pierce like warm wisps of smoke. “I don’t want thanks, Daphne. I want you.” He saw panic invade her eyes, and read her thoughts easily. “I’m not afraid of your father.”
“I know you’re not. My guess is he’s afraid of you.”
Pierce’s brows lifted in surprised admiration. “Add astute to your list of attributes.”
“Why, Pierce? Why is he afraid of you?”
“Say that again.”
She shook her head in confusion. “Say what again?”
“My name. I like the sound of it on your lips.”
A soft smile. “Pierce.”
“Now let me taste it.” He lowered his head, brushing his mouth back and forth across hers. “Say it now, when I can feel it, savor it, breathe it.”
“Pierce.”
It was an exquisite whisper of sound, and Pierce drank it in, deepening and lengthening the kiss until Daphne pulled away, breathless.
“You’re impossible,” she informed him.
“And you’re intoxicating.”
Their gazes locked.
“Ask,” he murmured.
“Your interest in me, is it because of your dealings with my father?”
Pierce’s expression hardened. “No. It’s despite my dealings with your father.”
“You hate him. I saw it in your eyes during the race, and I see it again now. Why?”
“Many reasons. None of which I’m prepared to discuss yet.”
“Is his title one of those reasons?”
A muscle worked in Pierce’s jaw. “I have little use for the noble class.”
“I was born of that class,” Daphne reminded him.
“Born of it, yes. A part of it, no.”
“Pierce,” she said softly, her delicate brows knit with concern. “Father despises you. I can feel it when he speaks of you.”
“I don’t doubt it. Tell me, what does the marquis say about me?”
Chewing her lip, Daphne hesitated.
“He calls me a gutter rat, a lowlife, and a bastard,” Pierce supplied.
“I don’t believe—”
“You should. Every word of it is true. I grew up in the streets and I haven’t the faintest idea who sired me.”
To Pierce’s amazement, Daphne stood on tiptoe, clasping his forearms and brushing her lips to his chin. “The loss is your father’s then. He has no idea what a fine son he’s produced.” A shadow crossed her face. “Moreover, your sire, whoever he is, could be no less admirable than mine. Trust me, don’t underestimate the consequences of Father’s rage. Be careful.”
Pierce could scarcely speak past the constriction in his chest. Not only was Daphne accepting him without question or censure, but she was trying to shield him from harm. When was the last time anyone had worried for his safety?
“Your father can’t hurt me, sweetheart,” Pierce managed in a raw tone, threading his fingers through Daphne’s hair. “But thank you for warning me. And for caring.”
“You don’t understand. Father can be violent when provoked.”
Pierce went deathly still, his hands tightening in her hair. “Has he ever been violent with you?”
Silence.
“Daphne, does that son of a bitch strike you?”
“He’s my father, Pierce.”
A vicious oath exploded from Pierce’s lips. “I’ll kill him.”
“I can take care of myself. Besides, this discussion is not about Father’s behavior toward me. It’s about his behavior toward you.”
“You still defend him, regardless of the fact that he abuses you?”
“It isn’t defense, for there is none. It’s—I’m not certain—loyalty, perhaps. Or duty.”
“To a man who beats you?” Pierce shot back, incredulous. “Simply because he sired you?” He shook his head in furious incomprehension. “If being born in wedlock breeds such blind devotion to an unworthy scoundrel, then I’m delighted to be a bastard.”
“I can’t fault you for your sentiments,” Daphne replied softly, lowering her eyes. “Nor can I alter mine. Worthy or not, the scoundrel you describe is my father, and I have no choice but to answer to him.” She turned away. “I’d best return to the manor now, before darkness falls.”
“Wait.” Pierce came up behind her, caught her arms with gentle hands. “Forgive me. I had no right.”
“I have the strangest feeling you have every right.”
This was the moment he’d dreaded. “Suppose I were to tell you you’re right, that I have a score to settle with your father that is older than you, deeper than you can fathom. Would you refuse to see me again?”
No answer.
“Daphne.” He buried his lips in her hair. “I want you, but I won’t lie to you. Not about my roots, nor about my hatred for your father. However, I also give you my word that I will never intentionally cause you pain. Are those declarations enough, or is what you feel for your father stronger than what you feel when you’re in my arms? You’ll have to tell me, for a lowly bastard such as I would have no knowledge—”
“Stop it!” She spun about to face him, her exquisite eyes the green-gray of a stormy sea. “Don’t ever call yourself that again. I don’t care how shrouded your lineage is, you’re not a bastard.”
All Pierce’s tension drained away, and he caught Daphne’s face between his palms. “Your defense is almost as beautiful as you are,” he murmured with a tender smile. “Thank you.”
“You have nothing to thank me for. Your actions speak for themselves. Whatever your history, you’re every bit a gentleman.”
“Not every bit.” Pierce’s eyes twinkled as he lowered his mouth to hers. “For instance, a proper gentleman would never demand so scandalous a good-bye before allowing you to return to Tragmore. I would.”
“I see,” Daphne acknowledged breathlessly. “Well then, an improper gentleman.”
A husky chuckle rumbled from Pierce’s chest. “What exactly is an improper gentleman?”
“The most fascinating sort—inherently decent, excitingly unconventional.”
“Ah.” He nibbled lightly at her lower lip. “And could such a gentleman entice you to see him again?”
“Indeed he could.”
Reflexively, Pierce’s hand tightened about her nape. “Is that your answer then?”
“No.” Daphne reached up and twined her arms around Pierce’s neck, tugging his mouth down to hers. “This is.”
Stifling a groan, Pierce gave Daphne what she sought, forcing himself to relinquish control of the kiss. He sensed how important this moment was, her first tentative emergence from the tightly woven cocoon she’d spun about herself. He gave only as much as she took, moving with her, tasting the trembling sweetness of her lips, righting the urge to crush her in his arms and ravish her mouth with his own.
At last he could take no more. “Go,” he murmured. “It’s nearly dusk.”
Daphne nodded, her eyes aglow, her cheeks as triumphantly flushed as they’d been at Newmarket when she’d selected the winning horse. “You’ll be back?”
“Without question.” Stooping, Pierce retrieved Daphne’s forgotten blade, placing it in her palm only after he’d kissed each of her fingers, the delicate veins at her wrist. “Nothing could keep me away,” he promised, his gaze as unwavering as his purpose. “Nothing, and no one.”
6
THE MESSENGER SHOT TO his feet the moment Pierce’s carriage turned into the drive. Brushing his uniform free of the hour’s worth of dust he’d acquired sitting on the stoop, he stood at attention, waiting for Pierce to alight.
With a puzzled frown, Pierce descended, mounting the front steps to his home.
“Mr. Thornton?” the lad inquired.
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“I’m to give you this, sir.” Efficiently, he extended a sealed note. “And to wait,” he added.
“I see.” Pierce glanced down at the unmarked missive. Tucking it in his pocket, he extracted a key an
d opened the entranceway door. “Come in.”
The boy shifted uncomfortably, hovering in the hall as Pierce went into the sitting room to pour himself a drink. “I believe it’s a matter of some urgency, sir,” he called out at last. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Really?” Pierce emerged, sipping at his brandy. “And who told you this?”
“Mr. Hollingsby, sir. The gentleman who sent me.”
“Hollingsby?” Pierce cocked a surprised brow. George Hollingsby was a well known and prominent solicitor, who handled much of the ton’s legal dealings. Had Tragmore put him up to something?
His curiosity aroused, Pierce set his glass aside and removed the missive from his pocket. “You said that Mr. Hollingsby asked you to wait while I read this?”
“Yes, Mr. Thornton. He did.”
“Very well. You’ve piqued my interest.” Pierce tore open the sealed flap and unfolded a tersely worded message.
Mr. Thornton: it read. I earnestly request that you travel to my London office as soon as possible. I do not make this request lightly and, were it not a matter of grave urgency, I would not presume upon your time. Please advise my messenger when I can expect you. Cordially, George Hollingsby
After reading the note through twice, Pierce calmly refolded it. “How long have you been waiting for me to return home?”
“About an hour, sir.”
Nodding, Pierce extracted a one-pound note and handed it to the lad. “Thank you for your efficiency and your patience. Tell Mr. Hollingsby he can expect me first thing in the morning.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” The boy beamed. “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell him directly, sir.” Bowing profusely, he fairly flew from the house, almost as if he were afraid Pierce would come to his senses and reclaim the outrageous sum.
Chuckling, Pierce returned to the sitting room, dropping to the sofa and tucking the missive back in his pocket. The day had turned out to be anything but dull. First, his ugly meeting with Tragmore, then his remarkable moments with Daphne, and now this intriguing message from Hollingsby.
Again, Pierce wondered if Hollingsby were acting as Tragmore’s agent and if the solicitor’s urgently requested meeting had anything to do with the marquis’s threats. If Hollingsby planned to flourish a damning report of Pierce’s workhouse history, he was going to be terribly disappointed with the reaction he received. And, Pierce reflected, he himself would have made a long trip for nothing.
Tomorrow would tell.
Closing his eyes, Pierce dismissed the forthcoming inconvenience from his mind, instantly replacing it with the image of a far more appealing subject: Daphne.
A satisfied smile curved his lips as he relived their encounter in the woods. Physically, emotionally, they’d reached a new level of involvement today, both of them tacitly accepting the pull between them as a tangible force that neither denial nor escape could negate. Pierce’s instincts told him that Daphne was as unaccustomed as he to baring her heart, yet she’d opened up to him, shared thoughts, feelings, and intimacies he was certain she’d never shared with another.
And he?
He’d plunged one step deeper into a commitment he’d never conceived of making.
She felt so bloody right in his arms, so natural and responsive. Like a newly opened flower, she’d unfurled to his touch, reaching trustingly for the promise of sustenance and warmth he offered.
He’d be damned if he’d burn her.
Pierce slammed his fist into the cushion. Where was this leading? Where could it lead?
Most frightening for him, where did he want it to lead?
Were it only to bed, he wouldn’t feel this acute sense of alarm. Lust could be—would be—tempered. His compulsion to shelter Daphne was more powerful than his craving to possess her. He’d protect her from everyone, even himself.
But he wanted so much more than her body, and he knew it. He wanted the rare and precious quality that was Daphne herself, the beauty she submerged, the fire she restrained, the compassion she stifled.
The spirit of adventure he knew he could induce.
It was there. He’d seen sparks of it. And so had the Tin Cup Bandit.
A wave of arrogance surged through Pierce as he evaluated the dilemma of his dual identity. True, Daphne was doubtless still enamored with her mysterious champion of the poor. But after today Pierce harbored not the slightest doubt that she was also captivated by Pierce Thornton. That bloody bandit didn’t stand a chance.
George Hollingsby rose when Pierce entered, gesturing for his clerk to close the door and leave them alone.
“Mr. Thornton.” He extended his hand. “Thank you for traveling to London on such short notice.”
Warily, Pierce shook the solicitor’s proffered hand. “Your message sounded quite urgent. And quite mysterious, I might add.”
“I apologize for that. In a moment, you’ll understand why the matter is both urgent and somewhat delicate. Please, have a seat. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“No, thank you.” Pierce lowered himself into a chair. “Only an explanation.”
“Very well.” Adjusting his spectacles, Hollingsby glanced down at the document on his desk. “Does the name Francis Ashford mean anything to you?”
“Ashford?” Pierce repeated woodenly, instantly accosted by waves of hateful memories.
“Perhaps by his titled name then,” Hollingsby clarified, mistaking Pierce’s silence for non-comprehension. “The Duke of Markham.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of him.”
Everything inside Pierce had gone cold. Heard of him? Markham was the one sketchy link to his puzzle, the one aspect of Tragmore’s visits to the workhouse that Pierce had never quite understood.
Markham had accompanied Tragmore on almost every occasion, shared the covert meetings with Barrings that Pierce continued to observe. But rather than actively participating in the division of illegal funds, Markham usually remained silent, aloof, as if he didn’t give a damn about the money Tragmore was procuring for him. And when Tragmore went on a rampage, shouting his hatred to the children, Markham would detach himself, strolling idly in the garden or wandering aimlessly about the building, surveying the occupants with dark, brooding eyes.
What was he seeking? Why was he there?
Pierce had tortured himself with those questions for years, both during his workhouse days and long after he’d left the hated walls behind. A decade before, when he’d begun actively plotting Tragmore’s demise, he’d made some discreet inquiries into Markham’s life. He’d learned nothing of what the duke’s motives might have been for his workhouse visits, but he did learn that Markham’s duchess had since died and that he’d recently lost his only child, his beloved son, to a riding mishap, after which the aged duke had become a recluse. Armed with that knowledge, vengeance had suddenly seemed unduly cruel, especially since, in Pierce’s mind, Markham had been no more than Tragmore’s passive companion. It was Tragmore Pierce despised, Tragmore he intended to destroy.
But the unresolved questions persisted.
“Mr. Thornton?”
Pierce blinked, returning to the present, meeting Hollingsby’s quizzical gaze. “Hmm?”
“Are you well? You look a bit green.”
“I’m fine.” Pierce’s jaw tightened fractionally. “You were saying about the Duke of Markham?”
“Yes, well, the poor soul passed away several days ago. No one has been notified because, quite frankly, he hadn’t any friends or known living relatives. In truth, he hadn’t even ventured from his estate in more than ten years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But what has it to do with me?”
The solicitor shifted uncomfortably. “More than you could ever imagine.” He cleared his throat. “Any way I phrase this, it’s going to come as a shock.”
“Then I suggest you merely state what you must.”
“Very well.” Hollingsby gripped the edge of his desk. “As of two days past, you are the Duke of Markham.”
r /> A ponderous silence.
“Is this some kind of a jest?” Pierce managed at last. “Because I’m decidedly unamused.”
“I assure you, Mr. Thorn—er, Your Grace, this is no jest. If you’ll allow me to—”
“I’ll allow you to nothing.” Pierce was on his feet, striding toward the door. “You’ve obviously received some gravely erroneous information. I didn’t even know the Duke of Mark—”
“Did you know Cara Thornton?” Hollingsby asked quietly.
Pierce came to an abrupt halt. Turning, he stared at the solicitor through furiously narrowed eyes. “You’d best have a damned good reason for speaking my mother’s name. She’s dead. If you’ve been paid to sully her character—”
“Cruelty is not my forte, sir. Nor am I so badly in need of funds that I would compromise my integrity. I assure you, no one has paid me to ruin your deceased mother. Quite the contrary, in fact. Now, will you sit and listen to what I have to say?”
Like a prowling tiger, Pierce crossed the room and perched, whip taut, on the edge of the chair.
“Thank you,” Hollingsby said, resettling himself and pointing to the pages in his hand. “I have here a letter and a legally binding codicil to the Duke of Markham’s will. Several months ago he summoned me to his manor, where he asked me to draw up the papers. I complied. It is my opinion that he meant to send for you in order to reveal the contents himself. Unfortunately, he took sick shortly after the papers were executed, with an illness from which he never recovered. Therefore, you are hearing this information today for the first time.”
“What information?”
“The late Duke of Markham was your father.”
Father.
The word hit him like an avalanche, its odious shock waves crashing through Pierce in harsh, physical blows.
“The letter is written in the duke’s own hand,” Hollingsby was continuing. “I can attest to that. Of course, you’re welcome to read it yourself, and the codicil as well, after I’ve had the opportunity to explain its terms and conditions. First, however, I’d like to clarify your true origins by recounting the details of the duke’s letter.” When he was greeted with nothing but silence, Hollingsby looked up, taking in Pierce’s rigid jaw. “Are you all right, sir?”