“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.
