Last Duke

by Andrea Kane

  You see, son, the provisos I alluded to are fictitious. I invented their existence merely to satisfy your curiosity and to pique your interest enough to ensure you accepted your title. Having observed you for years, albeit from afar, I know you well. And you loathe turning your back on two things: a challenge and an opportunity to aid the poor. By offering you the dukedom, I provided you with both. I did this for two reasons, only one of which was selfish—that being the hope that you would carry on the Markham title and the Ashford family name. My other reason holds true whether you remain at Markham or resume life as Pierce Thornton. It is my fervent hope that, during this difficult time when you’ve been forced to assume a role you despise, you’ve discovered what I learned too late: that nobility is born in the heart and nourished in the mind.

  I pray this discovery grants you the peace you seek. Teach it to your children, Pierce, and the agony we’ve endured will be given purpose.

  All I have is unconditionally yours: my name, my fortune, my thanks.

  Father

  Pierce raised his head, his eyes damp with emotion. “He knew,” he murmured incredulously. “He willed me his title knowing it was the very essence of all I loathed—because it was all I loathed.”

  “Loathed,” Daphne repeated, emphasizing the past tense. “Pierce, think of what you told me not five minutes before Mr. Hollingsby arrived. You said that when your day of reckoning finally came, when you confronted your past head on, you suddenly discovered it no longer mattered, because you now have something more powerful than hatred to live for. Oh, Pierce, don’t you see?” Daphne dashed tears of joy from her cheeks. “This is precisely what your father sought. He wanted you to find peace—and you have. What a miraculous gift he’s given you.”

  “Indeed.” Hollingsby removed his spectacles, frowning at an imaginary speck of dust on one lens. “Now the question is, what will you do with this gift?”

  Still dazed, Pierce inclined his head quizzically. “What do you mean?”

  “Your title. Will you keep it, or renounce it?”

  The issue hung precariously for a moment, dissipating, along with Pierce’s confusion, in a blaze of discovery.

  Capturing Daphne’s hand, he smiled, a definitive gleam in his eye. “As my beautiful wife once said, there are all varieties of dukes. I will merely enhance that number by one.”

  With a grand sweep, Hollingsby seized his glass, raising it in solemn tribute. “To your father’s gift, then. And to all the Dukes of Markham—past, present and future.”

  Epilogue

  “YOUR HEIR IS INQUISITIVE like his father,” Daphne reported, leaning against the nursery wall and pointing to their son. “Even at six weeks of age.”

  The black-haired infant—named Ashford Thornton in honor of both Pierce’s parents—was a wondrous blend of Daphne and Pierce, boasting his father’s dark coloring and his mother’s kaleidoscope eyes, eyes that, at the moment, were wide open and intently fixed on a patch of sunlight dancing along the wall.

  “He’s scarcely blinked all afternoon, lest he miss something.” Daphne shook her head in amazement. “Not a motion or sound escapes his notice.”

  “He obviously possesses cunning,” Pierce determined with a smug grin. “And instinct. We have only to supply the skill.” He wrapped his arm about Daphne’s waist. “Not that our daughter is lacking in either.” He glanced at the second crib and its cooing, honey-haired occupant with an expression of intense satisfaction. “Juliet is every bit as intelligent as her twin brother. She’s radiant and precious, which is as it should be. After all,” Pierce’s eyes twinkled as he recalled the reason they’d christened their daughter Juliet, “as only you and I know, ’twas not your doll alone that inspired Juliet’s name. Her name is truly Jewel-iet.”

  “In which case, you’re losing your touch with gems,” Daphne commented dryly. “Because, in Juliet’s case, it is she who has stolen from you. Your heart is most definitely in her custody.”

  “Only a portion of it.” Pierce caressed Daphne’s cheek. “A portion belongs to Ashford. As for the rest of it—” he brushed his wife’s lips tenderly, “the rest of my heart belongs exclusively and entirely to our twins’ incomparable mother.” Drawing Daphne closer, he deepened the kiss until he felt his wife’s heated response. Then, abruptly, he ended it, his breathing ragged. “I miss you so bloody much, I’m going insane. Christ, how the hell long has it been?”

  Daphne laughed, a whisper of sound against his lips. “Patience, my darling. Timing is everything.” She tipped her head back to study Pierce’s face. “Tell me the truth. Were you even a touch bothered when Juliet made her entry into the world?”

  “I was terrified.” Pierce’s jaw tightened. “You were so weak when that midwife threw me out.” He shuddered. “Seeing you in pain and not being able to do a damned thing to ease it—”

  “Stop.” Daphne pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m perfectly fine now. Besides, that’s not what I meant. I only wondered if you were disappointed when you thought your first—your only—child was a daughter and not a son.”

  Pierce blinked in astonishment. “Disappointed? Not for a second. I told you, Snow flame, indulging a daughter was as real a dream to me as siring a son.” He threaded his fingers through Daphne’s hair. “Still, I must admit, I was thrilled with the idea of acquiring a son and a daughter simultaneously. At least once I was convinced you were all right.” He flashed her a cocky grin. “I did a remarkable job, didn’t I?”

  “You?”

  “Very well, we. We produced two extraordinary infants.”

  “Proclaimed by their unbiased father.” Daphne eased away, folding her arms. “So, what are today’s gifts for the children?”

  “What makes you think I bought them gifts?”

  “Because you did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. And then last week—”

  “All right, you’ve made your point,” Pierce chuckled, not a bit deterred by his wife’s admonishment. “Very well, I spoil them. ’Tis my right, after all. Two of those beautiful infants belong to us and one to Sarah and James. Who else should spoil them, if not I?”

  “Quite a question. Now, let’s see.” Daphne tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Cook practically lives in the nursery, when she’s not arguing with Mrs. Gates over whose turn it is to feed the babes. Langley rotates between two posts now, the front door and the nursery. Then there’s Lily and Bedrick, not to mention Mama and the vicar, who alternate between their wedding plans and their nursery visits. Need I go on?”

  “There are quite a few people vying for our children’s attention, aren’t there?” Pierce concurred. He paused, considering his options. “Actually, Ashford’s gift is too cumbersome to bring into the manor. He’ll have to wait a bit to see it.”

  “I’m afraid to ask. What is this gift?”

  “A splendid filly I’ve had my eye on for a fortnight—perfect for our son.”

  “Pierce, a horse? The child is a babe!”

  “So is the filly. They’ll be ready for each other soon enough.”

  “Lord.” Daphne rolled her eyes.

  “But the girls’ gifts are quite transportable—and very special. Wait here.” With a mysterious look, he slipped away.

  Alone in the nursery, Daphne strolled about, stroking her infants’ fuzzy heads and thanking God for all the love with which they’d been blessed. She paused beside the third crib, where little Alison slept. Born just two weeks before the twins, she had strengthened the ever-growing bond between Sarah and James, and made them precisely what Sarah had prayed for, a family.

  “Daphne?” Sarah poked her head in, concern darkening her gaze when she saw where her friend was positioned. “Is there a problem with Alison?”

  “No,” Daphne reassured her. “In fact, your daughter seems to be the only one in this nursery who’s cooperating. My two imps evidently never intend to sleep.”

  Sarah laughed aloud, the lonely and unhappy young woman she’d been forever
gone: “Where’s Pierce? Rarely is he away from the twins. Has he gone to inspect the new schoolhouse?” She raised teasing brows. “Miss Redmund must be devastated at their prolonged separation.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Daphne concurred good humoredly. “Unfortunately, Miss. Redmund will have to accustom herself to seeing less of Pierce, especially now that the construction is complete. After all, her charms, potent though they are, are no match for these three babes here.” Daphne gave a tolerant sigh. “No, Pierce has gone to collect today’s purchases. He’ll be back any moment.”

  On cue, the nursery door opened, then kicked shut.

  “Oh, Sarah, good. You’re here.” Pierce’s hands stayed firmly behind his back. “I have gifts to give our daughters, but they involve you and Daphne as well.” Seeing their puzzled expressions, he explained, a wealth of emotion in his voice. “It’s been more than a decade since your workhouse meeting—two young girls who were completely different and yet so very much alike. Little did you realize that one day you would span the world separating you to become friends. Because of your courage, our daughters can begin their lives as equals, with none of the censure of the past. And now, to signify their new beginning…” Pierce brought both arms forward, each hand clutching an identical doll with golden hair, huge blue eyes, and a pink satin dress. “For Alison and Juliet,” he proclaimed, offering the dolls, both new and untainted, to their mothers. “In honor of the special women who gave them life.”

  “Presenting us with those dolls was a beautiful gesture,” Daphne told Pierce that night in his bedchamber.

  She unbuttoned her robe, shaking out her hair and glancing sideways at her husband as he sat down to read the Times, his nightly ritual since the twins’ birth had spawned his forced celibacy. Daphne bit back a smile, determinedly hiding the flush of excitement on her cheeks. “Most heroic. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” Pierce frowned, purposely opening the pages of his newspaper to block Daphne and the revealing cut of her nightwear from view. “Tell me when you’re abed. I can’t bear watching you undress and knowing I can’t have you.”

  “Very well.” Nonchalantly, Daphne climbed beneath the bedcovers and extinguished the light. “I’m abed.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “The room is pitch dark, Pierce. You can’t possibly read.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” A pause. “Why the hell did you wear that diaphanous nightgown?”

  Daphne propped herself on one elbow. “Because our endless wait is at an end.”

  “What did you say?” Pierce shot to his feet.

  “Come to bed and I’ll show you.”

  Pierce’s body was already rigid. “Isn’t it too soon?” Even as he asked, he was shedding his robe, crossing the room to the bed.

  “No. It’s been well over a month. I’m healed.” Daphne reached for him, wrapping her arms about his neck.

  “God, I’ve missed you, Snow flame.” He buried his lips in the scented hollow of her throat.

  “And I you.” Shivering, Daphne gave herself up to her husband’s magic. “Let’s see if your instincts are as keen as ever,” she whispered.

  She felt the rumble of laughter vibrate through his chest. “Very well, Snow flame.” He lifted his head, covered her mouth and her body with his. “And, should you deem it necessary, I promise to spend the entire night honing them to perfection.”

  Long, delicious hours later, Pierce cradled his slumbering wife in his arms and settled both of them amid the disheveled bedcovers. He was utterly exhausted yet too exhilarated to sleep, inundated by a happiness he’d never in his life anticipated. His heart and soul were at peace, his body sated from a night-long reunion with Daphne. He was also a father, and his beloved children were asleep down the hall in their beds.

  At long last Pierce Thornton had a home.

  Raising his eyes, he gave silent thanks to the heavens, vowing never again to doubt what he now knew to be true.

  Prayers could indeed be answered.

  Shifting a bit, Pierce spied the copy of the Times he’d cast to the floor the instant Daphne had offered him the paradise he’d been denied for six weeks. Still wide awake, he reached for it, angling the newspaper toward the window and the illuminating glow of the moonlight.

  An article on the front page caught his eye:

  Lord Weberling returned from his three-month journey to India yesterday, bringing with him what he claims to be the largest, most perfect pair of diamonds ever to grace English soil.

  “ ‘Neither stone possesses either a flaw or a chip,’ ” Daphne read aloud over her husband’s shoulder. “Fascinating.”

  Pierce’s head snapped around. “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in reading.”

  “I wasn’t. But now that I’ve exhausted you, I am.”

  “Hmm. I see.” Naked, Daphne rose, slipping thoughtfully into her robe. “Lord Weberling. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “Oh, yes. He was a friend of my father’s. One of his best informants, in fact. Every time I visited the vicar, Lord Weberling spotted me, and took great pleasure in reporting my indiscretions to Father.”

  “Did he?” Pierce, inclined his head, watching Daphne from beneath hooded lids.

  “Both diamonds are large and flawless—the article does specify that, does it not?” she asked, tapping her chin.

  “It does.”

  “I wonder what their total value is.”

  “Lord knows. Probably tens of thousands of pounds.”

  Daphne’s expression was the picture of innocence. “Tis hard to envision the number of children that could feed.”

  “Countless.”

  “Such a pity.” Daphne sighed. “Lord Weberling is a greedy and unfeeling man. He’ll probably squander the funds at White’s or have the diamonds made into rings for his garish, coldhearted wife.”

  “I fear you’re right,” Pierce agreed, his eyes beginning to twinkle.

  Crossing over to the double chest, Daphne eased open the drawer housing Pierce’s cravats. She reached to the back, groping about until she extracted the glittering sapphire they’d secreted there for safekeeping. “Do you think the diamonds could be larger than this?” she asked, fingering the stone.

  “Definitely. Several times larger, if they’re half as grand as Weberling boasts.”

  “Perhaps we should make sure—examine them at close range.”

  “A splendid idea.” Pierce climbed out of bed and strolled over to his wife. “Do you know, I just realized I have yet to initiate that handsome black cloak you gave me for Christmas.”

  “True. And I have yet to accustom my husband to seeing the mother of his children adorned by a mask.”

  “Just this once,” Pierce qualified in a dark whisper.

  “Just this once,” Daphne concurred, the essence of sincerity.

  Their gazes locked.

  And the Tin Cup Bandit smiled.

  Turn the page to start reading the follow-up to The Last Duke

  Prologue

  Farrington Manor, Dorsetshire, England

  June 1869

  HE SHOULD HAVE ANTICIPATED HER REQUEST.

  But he hadn’t.

  Maybe that was because of the enormous love that existed within his family. Or maybe his reasons had been more selfish, a fervent wish that the past could remain as it was, dead and gone.

  Still, Eric admonished himself, he’d been a damned fool.

  After all, this was Noelle. And when, in the dozen years of her young life, had Noelle allowed the slightest detail to escape her? When hadn’t she demanded to know the answer to every tiny, bloody question under the sun?

  And this involved far more than a simple question.

  This involved her birth, her lineage, the physical roots of her very existence.

  “Papa?”

  Abandoning his thoughts, Eric Bromleigh, the seventh Earl of Farrington, leaned back in his lib
rary chair, regarding his elder daughter with a dark scowl. “What, Noelle?”

  “I asked you—”

  “I heard what you asked me.” He made a steeple with his fingers and rested his chin atop them. “I’m just not sure how to answer you.”

  “You’re not sure how to answer me? Or you don’t want to answer me?” With her typical candor-bordering-on-audacity, Noelle met her father’s gaze, her sapphire blue eyes astute, assessing.

  “Both.”

  “I see. So you really don’t know his name.”

  “Not his name or anything about him.”

  “And you’re not the slightest bit—?”

  “No. Not even the slightest bit.”

  Noelle sighed, twisting a strand of sable hair about her forefinger—a childlike gesture Eric found greatly comforting, especially in light of the circumstances. Actually, he amended silently to himself, as Noelle grew older he was finding himself more and more grateful for the infrequent reminders she afforded him that she was not really a short, unusually straight-figured woman, but rather a normal, if extremely precocious, twelve-year-old girl.

  One whose mind and tongue were quicker than a whip.

  Heavyhearted, Eric cleared his throat, seeking his own essential answers. “Why are you asking me this—now, after all these years? Why are you suddenly curious about your real fath—about the man who sired you?”

  Something of Eric’s anguish must have conveyed itself to Noelle. Abruptly, her probing look vanished, supplanted by a flash of regret and a wealth of unconditional love. “Oh, Papa …” She jumped to her feet, rushing over to fling her arms about Eric’s neck. “You don’t truly imagine I consider that horrible man—whoever he is—my father, do you? You don’t think my question has anything to do with my feelings for you and Mama?”

  “No. But still, I have to wonder. …” Eric broke off, wishing he knew what the hell to say.

  “Good. Because you and Mama are my parents. My only parents.” Noelle hugged Eric fiercely. “I love you both so much,” she whispered. “If my interest in knowing who he is hurts either of you, I’ll forget the entire notion.”