by Andrea Kane
An angry flush spread up Tragmore’s neck and suffused his face. “Don’t toy with me. If you’ve sought me out, it’s for a reason.”
“Why do you assume I’ve sought you out? Perhaps our encounter is no more than mere coincidence.”
Tragmore wiped beads of perspiration from his forehead. “When you’re involved, there are no coincidences.” He lowered his silver-white head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It was you who bought that bloody note, wasn’t it?”
“Which note is that?”
“The only one of mine you had yet to acquire, damn you. The one held by Liding Jewelers.”
“You owed Mr. Liding a considerable sum. Not to mention the fact that you were three months late with your payments. Liding was on the verge of calling in the full amount.” A sardonic smile twisted Pierce’s lips. “Perhaps you should view my purchase of the note as your salvation.”
“I view it by another name.” Tragmore’s fists clenched. “Why have you come here today, Thornton? To gloat? To remind me that you own me, body and soul?”
“Harwick? The horses are lining up.” A woman’s tentative voice reached their ears. “You mentioned that you didn’t wish to miss the onset of the race, so I thought perhaps—”
“A moment, Elizabeth,” Tragmore fired over his shoulder. Tight-lipped, he turned back to Pierce. “My wife and daughter accompanied me today. Therefore, if you’ll excuse me.
“Excellent! I’d enjoy meeting your family.” Pierce squinted, ignoring the marquis’s furious sputter. “Is that the marchioness over there? The lovely woman with the flowered hat who’s waving in our direction?”
“Thornton, Elizabeth knows nothing about—”
Withdrawing his pocket watch, Pierce declared, “We have just enough time for an introduction.” Snapping the timepiece shut, he strode through the congested pavilion to the box where Tragmore’s wife and daughter awaited.
Left with no option, Tragmore swallowed an oath and followed.
“Lady Tragmore?” Pierce asked, inclining his head in her direction.
“Why, yes. Do I know you, sir?” The woman who stared solemnly at Pierce, her fingers alternately gripping and releasing the brim of her hat, had obviously at one time been extraordinarily lovely. It was evident in her still-smooth skin, the fragile lines of her features. But, like a small broken bird’s, her beauty was faded, her eyes listless and surrounded by lines of suffering and sadness.
Both of which had been caused by the brutality of one heartless bastard.
Pierce’s gut gave a savage twist.
“Elizabeth, this is Pierce Thornton.” The marquis was reluctantly performing the introduction. “Mr. Thornton is,” an uneasy cough, “a business associate of mine. Thornton, may I present my wife, Lady Tragmore.”
“Delighted, Madam.” Pierce bowed.
“And my daughter, Lady Daphne.” Tragmore reached out to guide his daughter from behind the eclipsing wall of her mother’s headpiece.
“Lady Daphne, ’tis a pleasure.” Pierce caught a glimpse of tawny hair and readied himself, with more than a touch of curiosity, to inspect Tragmore’s only child.
His inspection was limited to the golden brown mane that flowed gracefully down her back.
Head averted, Daphne appeared to be scrutinizing the grounds, as if thoroughly fascinated by something or someone in the crowd, and was thus oblivious to her father’s introduction.
“Daphne!” Tragmore snapped, his fingers biting into her arm.
Like a frightened rabbit, she jerked about, her face draining of color. “I’m sorry, Father. What were you saying?”
“I was performing an introduction,” Tragmore ground out, indicating Pierce’s presence. “This time I suggest you listen. Carefully.” Fury laced his tone, blazed fire in his eyes. “Pierce Thornton, my meditative daughter, Daphne.”
“Mr. Thornton, I apologize.” Turning in Pierce’s direction, Daphne bowed her head, the pulse in her neck accelerating with the blow of her father’s reprimand.
“I should hope so,” the marquis berated. Thornton, forgive my daughter’s behavior. At times she is inexcusably—”
“No apology is necessary.” Pierce raised Daphne’s gloved hand to his lips, revealing none of the rage that coiled within him like a lethal spring. “In truth, I can guess just what dilemma occupies Lady Daphne’s thoughts.”
Instantly, Daphne’s fingers went rigid in his, her lowered gaze unconsciously darting to her father, gauging the degree of his anger. “No dilemma, sir. I was merely watching. That is, I was wondering—”
“Which horse to choose in the first race,” Pierce finished for her. “The choice is a difficult one, isn’t it, my lady?”
This time Daphne’s head came up, her brows arched in bewildered surprise. “Why, yes, it is.”
Pierce’s first unimpeded view of Tragmore’s daughter was a dazzling revelation.
Small and fine boned like her mother, but with a vibrancy clearly lacking in the marchioness, Lady Daphne was exquisite, emanating, not the glittering beauty that filled London’s ballrooms, but the classic beauty of a rare and priceless painting. Her hair, like rich honey, cascaded over her shoulders in a tawny haze—all but those few tendrils that had broken free and now trailed stubbornly along her cheeks and neck. And those eyes. The most amazing contrast of colors—a kaleidoscope of soft greens and muted grays with luminous sparks of burnished orange; delicacy offset by strength.
“The contenders are exceptional.” Pierce held Daphne’s hand a fraction longer before releasing it. “Perhaps if we compare notes we can together arrive at the winning candidate.”
A faint, uncertain smile. “You’re very gracious, Mr. Thornton.”
“Yes, you are.” The marchioness sounded vastly relieved. “Look, Harwick, the horses are lining up.” She urged her husband toward his seat. “Come.”
Apparently convinced that no irreparable damage had been done, Tragmore gave a curt nod. “Very well.”
“Mr. Thornton?” Elizabeth turned to Pierce. “Please, won’t you join us? Unless, of course, you’ve made other arrangements.”
Seeing the immediate opposition on Tragmore’s face, Pierce made a swift decision. “No, I have no other arrangements. I’d be delighted to join you.”
“Wonderful. We have an empty chair directly beside Daphne. I’ll take that seat myself, so you and my husband can discuss your mutual business dealings.”
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” Pierce declined. “The race is a social event. Your husband and I share a wide variety of interests, all of which promise to be ongoing for quite some time. Isn’t that right, Tragmore?”
“Indeed.” The marquis had begun to sweat.
“Good. Then tomorrow will be soon enough for us to arrange a meeting. For now, I insist you sit right up front beside your wife. I shall take the empty chair beside Lady Daphne. And, in the unlikely event that I think of a matter too pressing to wait a day, I’ll simply call out to you between races. How would that be, Tragmore?” Pierce’s smile could melt an iceberg.
“Uh, fine. That would be fine, Thornton.”
“Excellent.” Pierce gestured for Tragmore and his wife to precede him. “After you, then.”
The marquis seized his wife’s elbow and steered her into the box.
“Lady Daphne?” Pierce extended his arm.
“Thank you.” Daphne paused, her quizzical glance swerving from her father to Pierce, where it lingered.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” Murmuring the question for Daphne’s ears alone, Pierce held her stare, deftly tucking her arm through his.
Her smile came slowly, an action rooted in some private emotion more fundamental than cordiality or amusement. “Yes, Mr. Thornton. I believe it is.”
“Good.” Pierce guided her to her seat. “Then let us get down to the serious task of selecting the winner.”
“Us?” Daphne looked startled.
“Certainly us. I did promise to assist you in this ardu
ous task, did I not?”
“Well, yes, but I know very little about—”
“Have you attended the races before?”
“Of course, many times. But—”
“Surely you must, on occasion, have had a feeling about the potential of a particular horse?”
“I suppose so. Still—”
“Trust your instincts, then.” Pierce gestured to where the horses and their jockeys were poised for the first race. “In your opinion who exudes an aura of success?”
Hesitantly, Daphne leaned forward to study the contenders. A moment later her eyes lit up, reluctance transforming to eagerness. “Why, Grand Profit is running today! She’s that magnificent chestnut mare whose jockey is in green. I’ve seen her race several times before. She’s fast as the wind and graceful and—”
“That has little to do with whether she’ll win or not, my insipid daughter,” Tragmore snapped over his shoulder. “Thornton, pay no attention to Daphne’s inane meanderings. She has her head in the clouds, with no knowledge of the rules of the turf.” His voice dropped to a mutter. “Rumor has it that Profit’s jockey has instructions to fall behind in this race.”
“Really?” Pierce crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. “And have I your word on that, Tragmore?”
“You do.”
“How reassuring.” Pierce rose. “In that case I feel ready to place my wager.”
“My money is on Dark Storm,” the marquis hissed.
A mocking smile. “I’m pleased to know where your money is.” Pierce turned to Daphne. “Will you excuse me?”
“Of course.” Daphne’s nod was gracious, but the light in her eyes had gone out.
Swiftly, Pierce conducted his business, returning to his seat in time to see the horses speed around the first stretch.
“It appears Grand Profit has a considerable lead,” he commented.
“Yes.” Daphne sat up a little straighter, staring intently at the magnificent horse who was several yards ahead of the others.
“Dammit!” Tragmore leaned forward, hands tightly gripping his knees. “Hell and damnation!” he bit out long minutes later as Grand Profit crossed the finish line.
“A problem, Tragmore?” Pierce asked with apparent concern.
“Just a bloody poor informant.” The marquis slumped in his chair. “Sorry, Thornton.”
“It’s your money, Tragmore,” Pierce reminded him. “Remember?” Without awaiting a reply, Pierce eased back in his seat, turning toward Daphne.
What he saw made him grin.
Daphne’s eyes were sparkling, her chin tilted proudly in his direction. She looked exuberant and thoroughly pleased with herself.
“As I suspected,” Pierce murmured, brushing his knuckles across her flushed face. “Your instincts are quite good, my lady.”
She stared at his fingers as they caressed her skin. “I’m sure it was luck.”
“Perhaps. But good luck, nonetheless.” He ran his thumb across her soft lower lip. “Congratulations.”
Her breath broke in a tiny shiver. “I’m sorry you lost.”
“Ah, but I didn’t.”
“Pardon me?”
“Your enthusiasm was contagious, as was your logic. I placed my bet on Grand Profit.”
“You placed your…” Daphne shook her head in amazement. “All because of what I said?”
“A good gambler trusts his instincts. Always remember that.” Pierce winked. “Now, shall I choose the next winner or shall you?”
Daphne’s lips quirked. “I don’t believe in pressing my luck, Mr. Thornton, good or otherwise. I believe I’ll leave the rest of the day’s wagers to you. I suspect you are far more proficient at this than I.”
“As you wish,” Pierce agreed.
The remaining races were exhilarating, as was the extraordinary sum he won, but seeing Daphne blossom like a newly opened flower filled Pierce with more satisfaction than all his winnings combined.
That, and one thing more.
The sheer triumph of watching Tragmore squirm as his losses compounded, plunging him deeper and deeper into debt.
The indications of the marquis’s agitation were subtle, but, having survived thirty years on wits alone, Pierce knew just what to search for. He took in each bead of sweat on the marquis’s brow, each nervous quiver of his unblemished hands, each uneasy glance over his shoulder as he waited for the axe to fall, for Pierce to publicly expose him to the world.
No, you bastard, Pierce thought grimly. That would be too easy and too painless. Sweat. Die inside. Wonder if you’ll survive. Just the way I did.
Beside him, Daphne shifted. Pierce turned in time to see her peering over her shoulder, searching the crowd.
“Have you lost something?” he asked, leaning toward her.
Daphne started, pivoting around in her seat. “No.”
“I don’t devour innocent women.”
Those amazing eyes widened. “Pardon me?”
“You needn’t look so terrified. I’m harmless.”
Another hesitant smile hovered about her lips. “Are you? I think not, Mr. Thornton. In fact, I’m unsure why, but harmless seems the least likely word to describe you.”
Pierce acknowledged her assessment with a dry chuckle. “Uninteresting then? Given the fact that, since our introduction, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time viewing your back.”
She flushed. “Forgive me.”
“And you’ve done nothing but apologize.”
“I—”
“Don’t.” He covered her hand with his. “Just don’t.”
Daphne twisted a loose strand of hair about her finger, glancing nervously toward her father’s seat. “Is it unusually warm today?” she blurted out.
“I don’t know,” Pierce responded quietly, making no move to pull away. “Is it?”
Yanking her hand from beneath his, Daphne swept her hair up to cool her nape. “Perhaps it’s the excitement of the race.”
“Perhaps.” Pierce didn’t bother reminding her that neither of them had been watching the horses run for the past quarter hour. Further, although he felt her confusion, her discomfort, it was his own myriad emotions that intrigued him: compassion for the fear that clearly imprisoned this enchanting young woman, hatred for the man he was certain inspired it, and something more, an odd combination of fascination and attraction.
Following the movement of Daphne’s hair, Pierce’s gaze fell to her throat, exposed now, and bare but for a small strand of pearls.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“What?” Daphne dropped her tresses as if they were lead.
“Your necklace. The gems are lovely.”
“Oh. I thought—I apologi—” She caught Pierce’s eye and broke into unexpected laughter.
“Your laughter is lovelier still.”
“And my parents are ten feet away.”
“I’m sure they already know of their treasures.”
Daphne’s laughter faded and Pierce had the irrational urge to coax it back, to make her glow the way she had when she’d chosen the winning horse. The vulnerability of her smile, the honesty of her laughter, were as tender as a child’s, but the resignation in her eyes was old, sad, tempered only by a small spark of inextinguishable pride. The combination was stirring, and Pierce, whose knowledge went far deeper than Daphne imagined, found himself strangely moved by Tragmore’s daughter. It was the first time he could remember feeling such empathy for a blue blood. In this case, however…Pierce’s gaze drifted slowly over Daphne’s delicate features, the alluring curves concealed by the modesty of her day dress. Lord alone knew what she must endure with Tragmore for a father.
The thought left him cold.
“Mr. Thornton, you’re staring.”
A corner of Pierce’s mouth lifted. “Am I? How boorish of me. I’m usually far more subtle in my approach.”
“Your approach? What is it you’re approaching?”
Again, he leaned toward her. “You.”
“Oh. I see.” She moistened her lips, venturing another swift glance at her father, sagging with relief when she saw he was absorbed in the last race of the day. “Tell me, Mr. Thornton, are you always so direct?”
“Yes. Tell me, my lady, are you always so naive?”
She considered the question. “Yes.”
A rumble of laughter vibrated in Pierce’s chest. “How old are you, Daphne?”
If she noted the informality of his address, she gave no sign. “Twenty.”
“And why is it, if I might be so bold as to ask, that no worthy gentleman has yet whisked you down the aisle?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Thornton,” she replied with artless candor. “I suppose none has found me pleasing enough to pursue.”
If her tone had not been so solemn, Pierce would have dismissed her comment as being intentionally coy. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes. However, in their defense, I’ve done little to encourage them.”
“I see. And why is that?”
“Many reasons.” Another furtive glance at her father, who was now heartily congratulating himself on a huge win in the final race. “Suffice it to say, I’ve been preoccupied with other matters.”
Pierce noted Tragmore’s glee from the corner of his eye. “Too preoccupied to seek a life of your own?”
Daphne paled at Pierce’s softly spoken question. “I’m perfectly content with my life, Mr. Thornton. But I thank you for your concern.”
If Pierce hated Tragmore before, the stark terror on Daphne’s face multiplied his enmity threefold. With visible effort, he retained his composure, settling back in his chair. “I fear we’ve missed quite a bit of the—”
At that moment Tragmore stood. “We should be taking our leave now.” It was a command, not a request.
Instantly, Daphne and her mother rose.
Slowly, Pierce came to his feet. “We have winnings to collect, I believe.”
“Uh, yes, we do.”
Pierce turned to the marchioness. “Your husband and I will settle our accounts and order your carriage brought around. Should I not see you again, thank you for your kind hospitality, my lady.”
“You’re quite welcome, sir.”
“Lady Daphne.” Pierce bowed, acutely aware of Tragmore’s presence beside him. “You’ve been most gracious, not to mention an astute wagerer. ’Twas a pleasure to enjoy the races with you.”
