by Andrea Kane
“Yes. But now complete that line of reasoning. You want to render him helpless, not merely to gloat, but so he can never again brutalize anyone as he did you, me, and Mama.”
Silently, Pierce ingested his wife’s words. Then he nodded. “I can’t dispute your point. Nevertheless, Tragmore will never know that holding those notes is the only victory I seek. So far as he’s concerned I could call them in at any time. He’s vulnerable and he’s terrified, and I glory in both. So don’t paint me a hero, Daphne. Given that blackmail is the only weapon capable of striking down a black-hearted bastard like your father, I use it without guilt or regret.”
“I agree.”
Pierce started. “You agree?”
“Absolutely. Father must be stopped. And threatening his wealth and social position is the only way to do it.” Daphne punctuated her declaration with an emphatic nod. “Now, tell me how I can help. What do you intend to accomplish today when we go to Tragmore and in what ways can I assist you?”
A mixture of pride and relief swept over Pierce’s face, and he shook his head in wondrous disbelief. “What an extraordinary combination of contradictions you are, Snow flame. So delicate, so strong.”
“Spirit and fire, I believe you said. Rife with untapped passion and exceptional instincts.”
He chuckled. “So I did.” Tenderly, he framed her face between his palms. “Let’s get dressed. During our carriage ride, I’ll explain my plan. Then we can put your exceptional instincts to work.”
Daphne’s smile was both jubilant and mischievous. “Wonderful! And, upon our return, may we do the same for my untapped passion?”
Stepping away, Pierce executed a formal bow, bringing Daphne’s fingers to his lips. “My pleasure, Your Grace.”
She brought her hand around to caress his jaw. “No, Your Grace. The pleasure will belong to us both.”
It wasn’t until after Daphne had walked off to gather her discarded gown that two staggering realizations struck Pierce.
He had just unflinchingly acted the part of a duke and he had actually taken the first tentative steps toward trust.
Perhaps prayers could, after all, be answered.
15
DAPHNE CLIMBED DOWN FROM the carriage and paused, scanning the woods surrounding her father’s estate.
“Pierce, when we’ve finished with Father…” She hesitated, uncertain whether Pierce would honor or laugh at her request.
“We’ll peruse the woods before heading to Markham,” Pierce finished for her, his lips curving with tenderness rather than amusement. “I’m sure we can convince your friend—what was his name, Russet?—to join us. Markham has three times the acreage of Tragmore, resulting in thrice as many cozy foxholes in which to build one’s home.”
“Thank you.” Daphne’s smile was radiant, reminding Pierce yet again how seldom his wife had been indulged, how little it took to bring her joy.
He intended to drown her in it.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked quietly. “It isn’t necessary. You can go right upstairs and pack your things, leaving your father to me.”
“I’m sure.” Daphne gathered up her skirts. “Consider it another victory for my newly freed spirit.” So saying, she marched up to the front door and knocked.
The Tragmore butler paled when he saw them there. “Lady Daphne. I wasn’t told to expect you.”
“I’m here to collect my things. But first, the duke and I would like to see my father.”
“Your f-father?” A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on his forehead. “He’s—That is, I—”
“Well, well.” Tragmore stalked into the hallway, the dark circles under his eyes the only overt sign he’d lost sleep over yesterday’s events. “If it isn’t my wayward daughter and her hastily acquired husband.”
“We want to speak with you, Tragmore,” Pierce commanded. “Alone. Now.”
“By all means.” Enmity glittered in the marquis’s eyes. “Come into my study.” He dismissed the harried butler with a wave of his hand, then turned on his heel and strode down the hall. “You know the way.”
Cupping Daphne’s elbow, Pierce guided her to Tragmore’s study, closing the door behind them.
“Your gown looks rather the worse for wear, daughter.” Tragmore’s disdainful gaze swept Daphne head to toe. “Ah, I forgot your husband’s odiously crude upbringing. Did he demand his marital rights posthaste, tossing up your skirts in the carriage?”
Pierce acted before Daphne’s gasp had died on her lips. He stepped in front of his wife, clearly stating his intention to shield her from her father’s abuse. “Let me begin with rule number one, Tragmore. You will address my wife with all the respect due a duchess. If you raise your voice to her or insult her in any way, I’ll finish the thrashing I began yesterday. And, if you so much as raise a hand to strike her, I’ll kill you where you stand. Is that clear?”
Tragmore’s eyes narrowed. “You contemptible gutter rat. My assets weren’t enough, Markham’s title wasn’t enough. You didn’t rest until you’d seduced my daughter into joining your sick cat-and-mouse game.”
“Pierce didn’t seduce me, Father.” Shoulders back, Daphne walked out from behind her husband, coming to stand beside him. “He asked me to marry him while you were in London. I accepted. I consider myself a very lucky woman. Pierce gave me the strength to escape your brutality while I still held a small measure of self-respect.”
“Are you aware that your esteemed husband is blackmailing me?”
“I am.” Daphne smiled proudly. “And I commend his efforts. In fact, I’ve offered to help him in any way I can. So far as I’m concerned, you deserve to suffer poverty and public ridicule. For what you did to me and to Mama I hope Pierce calls in each and every one of your notes.”
The marquis’s shock at Daphne’s brazenness was instantly eclipsed by the implication of her final words. “Your mother? Is she involved, too? Damn you to hell, Thornton, have you stashed my wife at Markham?”
“Why?” Pierce’s brows rose in sardonic amusement. “Have you misplaced her?”
“You son of a—”
“Careful, Tragmore. That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”
Tragmore clenched his fists, which were white and trembling with rage. “So that’s why my messenger was turned away from Markham last night. I thought it stemmed from your spiteful determination to keep me from my daughter. In reality, it sprang from something far more ominous. You’ve not only abducted Daphne, you’ve seized Elizabeth as well.”
“Daphne is my wife.”
“Elizabeth is mine.”
“Is she, Father?” Daphne asked. “Then why don’t you treat her as such, with some care and respect? Instead, she is naught but your prey, the object of your violence. ’Tis no wonder she’s so desperate to escape you.” A flash of anger ignited Daphne’s eyes. “Pierce didn’t abduct Mama. She chose to go.”
“Chose?” Tragmore roared. “She has no right to choose. She relinquished that right and all her others the day she married me.” He shoved past Pierce. “I’ll drag her out of there myself.”
“No, you won’t,” Pierce clamped a hand on Tragmore’s forearm, staying his departure.
The marquis made several ineffective attempts to free himself. “Your threats mean nothing, Thornton. Not this time. This time the law is on my side. If you block my entry to Markham, I’ll contact my solicitor and—”
“I repeat, no you won’t. Because if you do I’ll call in your notes so fast, your head will spin.”
“You’ll do that anyway.”
“Perhaps not.”
Tragmore ceased his struggles. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes narrowed on Pierce’s face. “What does that mean?”
“It means I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I thought you might.” Pierce released his grip, thrusting Tragmore away like a hideous insect. “I’m willing to have Hollingsby draw up a paper, which we bot
h will sign, attesting to the fact that I won’t call in a single one of your notes.”
“And in return?”
“In return, the agreement will contain a stipulation clause.”
“Which is?”
“That you make no attempt to see, speak with, or in any other way contact Daphne or the marchioness.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“For how long?”
“As long as the ladies wish it.”
“Thorn—Markham,” the marquis amended, obviously striving with great difficulty to temper his fury, “I’m willing to compromise. But you’re not being reasonable. Daphne is one issue, Elizabeth quite another. I’ll agree to relinquish Daphne to you. Whether or not I approve, the two of you are wed. But Elizabeth—For heaven’s sake, Markham, surely you see the ramifications of what you’re demanding.”
“Frankly, no.”
“No?” Tragmore wiped his brow. “How would you suggest I explain my wife’s disappearance to the world?”
“The world? Ah, you mean the ton.”
“Well, of course I mean the ton. Whom else would I mean?”
“If that’s your only concern, the problem is easily resolved,” Daphne intervened, unable to bear another moment of her father’s unfeeling tirade. “Tell the ton Mama is staying with me, helping me to oversee a staff, to adjust to my new role as a duchess, to adapt to married life in general. That should stifle the gossips.”
Tragmore hesitated.
“The final decision, of course, is yours.” Pierce shrugged, turning to his wife. “Do you need help collecting your things?”
“No. I’ll be just a few moments.” Taking Pierce’s cue, Daphne eased open the door.
“Good. By that time, your father will have made a decision. At which point I’ll know what to advise Hollingsby—whether he’ll be drawing up an agreement or arranging for a bankruptcy notice to be placed in the London Gazette.”
“You vile—”
Daphne closed the door behind her, cutting off her father’s expletive. Pierce could more than handle things from here. Now all she needed was to collect her few treasured possessions, locate Russet, and leave Tragmore forever.
She hastened up the stairs and to her bedchamber, leaning back against the closed door and taking deep, calming breaths. Looking down at her hands, she was stunned to see they were shaking. Evidently, the confrontation with her father had affected her more profoundly than she’d realized.
Soberly, Daphne forced herself to look about her bedchamber, to remind herself that she was leaving her sadness and fear behind, that the foundation for her dread was no more. It was over at last, and the only thing that remained was to gather her things and bid her past good bye.
Crossing over to the dressing table, Daphne scooped up her brush and comb, suddenly struck by how very little else she truly cared to take. Her clothing consisted of but a few modest day and evening gowns, her personal items only an ongoing needlepoint that made her sleepless nights easier to bear and a few favorite books.
And her two prized possessions.
Having packed all she intended to, Daphne hastened to the bed, sliding her hand beneath the mattress to retrieve her scrapbook: a collection of articles describing the thefts of the Tin Cup Bandit. With a fond smile, she slipped the scrapbook into one of her bags, then turned to her nightstand and her final remaining treasure.
Juliet.
Daphne’s gaze softened as she picked up the elegant doll who, so far as she was concerned, was as beautiful as she’d been a dozen Christmases before, when her mother had flourished her before Daphne’s enchanted eyes. It mattered not that her dress was worn in spots, nor that her golden hair had lost some of its luster. She was Juliet, the precious doll who had absorbed Daphne’s childhood tears, listened patiently to her loneliness and fear, and offered her the constancy and comfort denied to her by fate.
For the umpteenth time, an image of the little girl at the workhouse flashed before Daphne’s eyes, evoking the same aching sadness as always. Unexpectedly, the blanket of hopelessness that customarily followed in its wake never occurred. Instead came a startling and miraculous realization, one that spawned the wonders of faith and hope, rather than futility and despair.
She was no longer her father’s daughter, but Pierce’s wife.
Exhilaration surged through Daphne’s blood as she envisioned all she could finally do, how many people she could aid. Why, with Pierce’s influence and their mutual resolve, the possibilities were limitless.
Infused with newly born hope, Daphne tucked Juliet beside the scrapbook and took up her bags, casting a final look about the bedchamber. Devoid of her personal touches, it looked coldly austere, like Tragmore’s other rooms and like the man who owned them. The similarity wasn’t surprising. Neither her father nor his manor had a soul.
Without a backward glance, Daphne abandoned her childhood.
“Hollingsby will notify us when the agreement is ready to be signed,” she heard Pierce saying as she descended the stairs.
Her husband glanced up and saw her, instantly making his way to her side, relieving her of her luggage with a smoothly possessive motion that told the world and the marquis that she was his.
“That concludes our business, Tragmore.” Pierce guided Daphne to the entranceway. “I expect we won’t be seeing you anytime soon, except in Hollingsby’s office.” He tossed Tragmore a mocking grin. “And, of course, at the procession of Christmas houseparties next month.”
Daphne was still glowing with newfound optimism when, after a thirty-minute cajoling session in the woods, their carriage sprinted off toward Markham.
“Your fox is exhausting, Snow flame,” Pierce muttered, settling himself across from his wife. “I thought he’d never agree to abandon his den.”
“He is a bit stubborn,” Daphne agreed, stroking Russet’s fur with a reassuring hand. “Not to mention skeptical. But surely you can relate to those qualities.”
“Am I being likened to a fox?”
“In some ways, yes. You’re both fiercely independent and loyal.” She smiled, reveling in the unfamiliar sense of well-being. “I’m a lucky woman.”
A corner of Pierce’s mouth lifted. “I won’t argue, since I applaud your conclusion.”
The carriage swerved onto the main road, and Daphne glanced back at the rapidly receding mansion. “From what I overheard, I presume Father agreed with your stipulation that he sever ties with Mama.”
Pierce’s amusement vanished. “Did you doubt it? After all, I offered him the finest of incentives, the use of his bloody money without my noose around his neck.”
Daphne nodded. “I know. No, I assumed he’d prefer financial security even to castigating his wayward wife.” She paused, lowering her gaze. “I spent my entire life in that house and I felt nothing, upon leaving it, Pierce, not even a pang.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No. Nor does it matter. Once we managed to retrieve Russet, the last of my bonds with Tragmore was severed. I don’t intend to return.”
At the sound of his name, Russet raised his head from Daphne’s lap, his sharp eyes darting about the carriage. Evidently content with what he saw, he wrapped his tail around him, curled closer in the folds of his mistress’s gown, and went to sleep.
“Your fox cub appears to be taking his transition rather well,” Pierce observed dryly. “Granted, he was leery at first, but he certainly seems at peace now.”
“He’s accustomed to upheaval. He was abandoned young—at birth I fear—and had to make his own way.”
“He and I have a great deal in common.” A sad smile touched Daphne’s lips. “So you do. Well, like you, Russet is a survivor. He’ll resettle himself in no time, so long as I’m nearby.”
“A great deal in common,” Pierce repeated huskily, reaching across to take Daphne’s hand in his.
Their gazes locked, their fingers touched, and Daphne’s heart skipped a beat at the uncon
cealed longing burning in her husband’s forest green eyes.
“I wonder if I’ll always feel this way when you look at me like that,” she whispered.
“Like what?” Pierce kissed her fingertips, one by one, his breath a heated caress on her sensitized skin.
“Like you are now. Like you did last night.”
“Ah, last night.” Pierce eased across to sit beside her, his palms gliding up her arms to her shoulders, tugging her to him. “I can still feel you, taste you, hear your cries of pleasure as you shuddered under me.” His fingers slid beneath her hair, stroking her nape as his mouth found hers. “Ah, Daphne, I want to drown in you again.”
She gripped his coat, moaning softly as his words brought back all the excitement, the wonder of their wedding night. Her mouth opened to his, welcoming his tongue, melding it with her own. Had Russet not been occupying her lap, she would have flung herself into Pierce’s embrace, given herself up to his magic then and there.
Pierce sensed and shared her frustration. “When we arrive at Markham, I’ll introduce you to the staff—at least the first wave of them,” he murmured against her lips. “Then, I’ll arrange for a hot bath to be drawn for you. While you’re bathing, I’ll be making final provisions for your mother.” He circled his lips against hers. “Moreover, I suggest you concentrate on soaking the ache from your muscles. Because Daphne,” he nipped lightly, “I fully intend to tax each and every one of those beautiful muscles, plus some new ones that have yet to be exhausted, again tonight.” He absorbed her tiny shiver. “Are you amenable to that?”
“Y-yes. But Pierce?”
“Hmm?”
“I think my muscles will be renewed long before nightfall.”
“Prophetic as well as insightful and passionate.” Pierce traced her lower lip with his tongue. “Very well, then. Dusk, shall we say?”
“Late afternoon would be better.”
This time it was Pierce who shuddered. “Continue baiting me like that and I’ll make love to you in the carriage, fox or not.”
