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“I lied.”
Her spontaneous burst of laughter obliterated Pierce’s tension, brought his mind back to the subject at hand—making Daphne his bride.
“Have I gifted my trust to a scoundrel then?” Daphne’s eyes danced with amusement.
“I fear you have, my lady.” Tenderly, Pierce stroked loose strands of hair from her forehead. “But bear in mind that this scoundrel has honorable intentions.”
“I shan’t forget.” She was suddenly utterly solemn.
“Take these two days,” Pierce murmured huskily, nudging her lips apart and circling them with his own. “Your father is away, so you’re safe. Stroll through the village, visit your vicar, do whatever makes you happy. But at night, alone in your bed, think of me, of us, of what happens when we’re together. Think of all I can give you, all we can give each other. Think of the real Daphne, the one who shows herself only to me. Think of what happens when she’s in my arms, when she lets the fire inside her rage free. Think of exploring every exhilarating nuance of passion life has to offer—and I don’t mean only those we’ll experience in bed. Although, God knows, I can’t wait much longer to have you under me. Ponder all that, my breathtaking snow flame. Then say you’ll be my wife.” Pierce kissed her deeply, hungrily, with all the possessiveness of a man who knew the woman he held belonged to him. “I’ll be back in two days for your answer. Then I shall deal with your father.”
10
DAPHNE DOUBTED SHE’D EVER sleep again.
Rolling onto her back, she stared at the thin stream of light filtering through her bedroom window, wondering whether it was daylight’s first rays or moonlight’s final vestiges she was witnessing. She prayed for the former, as it seemed an eternity since she’d extinguished her candle and begun her unsuccessful attempt at slumber.
Tonight’s sleeplessness was totally unexpected, though not inexplicable.
Normally her fitful nights were rooted in the relentless dread that any moment her father would burst in, and begin another painful session of “teaching Daphne compliance.”
But there was no threat of a beating tonight. Her father was away from Tragmore, which customarily assured Daphne of a tranquil and undisturbed rest.
Neither of which was forthcoming.
In fact, rather than reveling in her temporary reprieve, Daphne’s emotions were encased in turmoil.
Pierce.
He dominated her so thoroughly it was overwhelming. Her mind was consumed with the mystery of his secrets, her heart was haunted by the torment of his pain, her spirit clamored for the freedom he’d promised.
And her body burned for something only he could provide.
How could one man have such extraordinary control over her?
Contemplating the particular man involved, Daphne dismissed the question.
Her next question, however, was not so easy to dismiss.
Why did Pierce want to marry her?
Not some of his reasons, but all.
Oh, she didn’t doubt that what he’d told her had been the truth, or, to be more precise, a part thereof. He did want to protect her, did, somehow, know her father well enough to deduce his propensity for violence. And yes, there was that emotional pull between them, one that had been there from the start. Not to mention the physical pull. Daphne had never dreamt that one man could make her feel thus, as if everything inside her were pooling into a white-hot liquid knot of need.
But there was more. She knew it, just as surely as she knew there were dark caches of Pierce’s past that would test her, again and again, until he could put them to rest.
What had motivated the timing of his proposal? He was too practiced in self-control to blurt out such a life-altering question without forethought, too hardened by life to allow sympathy and desire to propel him.
He was enacting some plan, a plan that would destroy not only her father but, based upon Pierce’s hatred for the ton, countless other noblemen as well.
He was a nobleman himself now, a duke. That provided him with assets until now unheld, assets and obligations. Did the acquisition of a title impel him to seek a wife?
No. Not Pierce. He was too irreverent. He wouldn’t give a damn what was proper. Duke or not, if he chose to remain unmarried—why, if he chose to transport a half dozen courtesans to Markham to pleasure him on the front lawn for all to see—he would.
Then what piece of the puzzle was missing?
Daphne glanced at the clock on her mantle. Six a.m. That did it.
