Chapter 15

Things weresilent in the hired hackney on the journey home. One of Thorne’s coachmen drove the conveyance in different livery, in an attempt to add verisimilitude to “the Honorable John Smith” being new in town. Kit and Bull hadn’t raised any brows when she’d collected her “sister’s” wrap and hurried them out the door, Bull loudly complaining of a headache, fan all a-flutter.

They’d climbed in the carriage, swung around the corner, and found Thorne lurking in the shadows. Now he sat beside Kit, his hand clutching hers, unusually silent.

Kit didn’t mind. She wasn’t certain she wanted to speak either, and definitely wasn’t ready to face her thoughts about her father. She’d shaken his hand, she’d looked in his eyes…

And she’d known, instinctively, that he was as evil as Thorne said.

Perhaps when she was home, she’d be able to discuss him…

Home. The elaborate house she’d been in tonight, escorting Bull…that might have been home, had her father chosen to accept Kit as part of his family. She might have had cousins and a loving household.

Kit shuddered. No, Thorne’s house was far more of a home to her now.

But would it be in the future? In the future, when he married another and had children running about? When he shared his meals with the wife who loved him?

No, she couldn’t be there for that. More than anything, she wanted him to be happy. She wanted to be the one to make him happy, but also knew that dukes must marry, must produce heirs with their wives. Since Kit was an illegitimate child of an earl and an American opera singer who’d spent the last months masquerading as a man, she wasn’t fit to be that wife.

She was going to have to leave eventually.

Groaning, she dropped her head back against the squabs.

“Soon, love,” Thorne whispered, tightening his hold on her fingers. “Soon we’ll be home.”

It wasn’t really that late, thank goodness. Titsworth’s reaction to Bull, when the lad swept through the front door, was positively worth it. “Good heavens, Your Grace, you never said you’d be bringing home such a beauty!”

Since the butler had grabbed his chest in shock—Kit suspected it was entirely manufactured, considering he’d been there to see part of Bull’s transformation—she made a show of grabbing for his elbow before the footman could.

“Easy, Titsworth. A man of your advanced years can’t take too many shocks. For the love of God, don’t let her kiss you,” she scolded, as Bull batted his eyes outrageously. “Kisses have been known to kill servants in this house. Here, Titsworth, have a sit down.”

“Yes, Titsworth,” Thorne ground out, locking his hand around Bull’s elbow. “Kit and I are taking ‘her’ upstairs to get her out of this gown.”

The butler moaned theatrically and even the footman looked shocked. Bull, of course, giggled flirtatiously and blew the man a kiss.

Hiding her smirk, Kit latched onto Bull’s other elbow and helped gather his bustle as they hurried up the stairs.

Turned out, it was far easier to get Bull out of the gown and hair pins than it was to dress him.

It was a chaotic process, and all three were laughing by the time Bull stood there in just his smalls, prancing about in mimicry of some of the nobles they’d seen that night. In exasperation, Kit tossed him his trousers and Thorne waggled the lockpick roll before he shoved it in his jacket.

“At least without pockets, I ken ye’re no’ pilfering anything. I’ll keep these.”

“Thank ye, my good man,” intoned Bull imperiously, as he smoothed down the wool of his trousers. “Ye’ve caught me in dishabille.”

“Yer nipples are showing,” Thorne deadpanned. “Put on some clothes so I can take ye home before yer mother kills me.” He turned to Kit, reaching for her hand. “Ye dinnae mind if I run Bull home?”

She squeezed his fingers, strangely relieved not to have to think about the feelings this evening had caused just yet. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Thorne didn’t even change out of his all-gray “cat burgering” clothing—as Bull called it—before hustling Bull back down the stairs. For her part, she took her time peeling off the fine suit of formal clothes the lad had procured, making certain to hang each piece beside Thorne’s.

Stepping back, she studied her waistcoat. It was as fine as the pale green one she’d helped Thorne choose and purchase for the ball where he’d been expected to woo Lady Emma. Apparently the lady had chosen an earl instead of a duke…or perhaps she’d just seen Thorne’s disinterest.

Kit’s waistcoat was smaller, yes, but the embroidery was finer. From something Thorne had said, she’d had the impression Bull himself had made it, likely for himself at first, then resized it for her. The lad had surprising talents.

She cocked her head as she studied the clothing around her.

A woman who had her own formal waistcoat and suit made by the bastard of a duke wasn’t a fit wife for a duke, no matter how much they both might wish it. If she were merely a bastard, but a well-raised and polite one, then perhaps they could have made it work. But if it was ever known they met because she took a position undressing the man…

Shaking her head, she turned away and continued her ablutions.

By the time Thorne returned, she’d washed the pomade from her hair and her curls were drying. She wore one of his shirts, the well-worn one which smelled of him and hung almost to her knees, and when she felt the house change with his return, she smiled and scrambled to her feet.

When he shuffled through the door, clearly exhausted and preoccupied, she was waiting for him.

Oh, my darling. “You look ready to fall over,” she murmured, going to him.

Thorne blinked down at her, and she could tell, whatever he’d discovered tonight had changed him, somehow. Her heart ached for him, and what her own father had done to him. Him, and countless others. Taking his cheeks in her palms, she drew him down for a gentle kiss.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” she whispered, and he didn’t object when she led him to the chair in his dressing room.

It was a comfortable sort of routine; her helping him undress. The clothing he wore was different than usual, but it didn’t matter; he was still Thorne. His body was one she knew intimately and would always hold in her heart.

Neither of them spoke; they didn’t have to.

But they touched. Her fingers lingered against his skin, offering him comfort. And his hand rose to brush the backs of his fingers along her jaw, then down her throat to her collarbone, sweeping her curls from her shoulder.

Kit swallowed, certain it was just the charged air around them which aroused her this much. She hadn’t even kissed him yet, but her breathing caught in desperation. Each time she stepped around him, her thighs brushed together under the tails of his shirt she wore, sending a thrill of need through her core.

At last he stood before her, naked save for his stockings, and she nudged him backward until he backed into the chair and sat heavily. With a wicked smile and a flourish, Kit grabbed the hem of the shirt she wore and pulled it over her head, leaving her completely on display for him.

His gaze didn’t leave her, blue eyes filled with a banked fire and some other emotion she couldn’t identify.

Uncertainty, perhaps?

Well, it was up to her to make him certain.

Kit placed her hands on his knees and lowered herself between them, slowly dragging her touch down his calves to roll off his stockings. He watched her closely, the entire time, Kit smiling teasingly to see how his cock had reacted to her touch.

The Supplicant Swan. That’s what this position had been called in Thorne’s naughty book, the one she described to him that very first night she’d held him as he’d let himself go.

Could she bring him to that point again?

Holding his gaze, she leaned forward, brushing the linen of her shirt against his knees as she reached for his cock. She didn’t allow him to look away until she lowered her mouth to him, and then she heard his reaction as she slid the thick head of his cock between her lips.

The little moan of surrender he made…Dio Benedetto, it was enough to send a flood of liquid desire to her core. Kit turned her own groan into a hum, which must have caused an interesting vibration, because Thorne jerked under her.

“Kit,” he rasped, one hand going to her head as his knees fell back. “Christ, Kit.”

She took that as a good sign.

Her fingers encircled his member, spreading her saliva as she pushed him deeper into her mouth. Her other hand cupped his ballocks, her longest fingertip exploring farther back.

She felt him tightening under her ministrations, building toward his release. She wanted that; she wanted him to let go. Let it all go, all his worries, all his fears, all his sorrows. She wanted to be the one to do that for him.

So Kit poured her love into her ministrations. She licked, she sucked, she fondled. Above her, Thorne’s breathing grew ragged, then seemed to stop altogether, as if he were holding his breath.

Her fingers continued their exploration, and his thighs opened wider, allowing her the freedom.

And then, when her lips were wrapped around the base of his cock, and she could almost taste his seed in the back of her throat, her fingertip pressed into the puckered star of his arse, and Thorne sucked in a sudden, desperate breath.

With a wordless growl, he dug his fingers into her hair and pulled, urging her off him and away from what was clearly an overly sensitive area. For a moment she thought he meant to push her aside, but Thorne only pulled her over him.

When her thighs straddled his, he held her hips steady and thrust upward, into her wetness.

The suddenness of it made Kit suck in a gasp, then release her breath on a moan as she sunk down atop him.

Her weight rested on her toes, but she’d always loved this position, the freedom it offered her.

There was a muscle working in Thorne’s jaw, as if he fought for control. Not good enough. She wanted him to lose that control, to give it up.

So she planted her hands on his shoulders and straightened, arching her back so her breasts were on display. Holding his gaze, trying to show him how serious this was, Kit began to move.

She rocked atop him, riding him the way he pumped into her when they’d shared the bed. She controlled the pace, controlled the building pleasure.

And through it all, she didn’t allow him to look away.

His expression turned from desperation to tortured to surrender, and Kit knew he was ready.

“Come for me, Thorne. Love, give it up. Let me carry some of the weight. Let me help you.”

Her words, her commands, were accompanied by plunges, each one bringing her closer and closer to a climax. It wouldn’t be long, and she prayed he was right there with her.

Thorne’s brows drew in. “Ye—Kit, ye first,” he rasped.

If that would help him…

She slowed, concentrating on her own pleasure. The thrusts became deeper, slower. She rotated her hips, the sensations shooting sparks of sheer joy through her.

And then Thorne’s hands moved to the small of her back. It wasn’t a sensitive spot, but he was holding her. He was protecting her, caring for her.

That, more than anything, triggered her peak.

Kit’s eyes went wide, her nostrils flaring, as pleasure burst across her senses. Her thighs unconsciously tightened around his, her feet leaving the floor as white-hot ecstasy burst through her.

And through it all, he held her gaze.

“Thorne,” she gasped, rocking forward, into his hold. “Please. Give it to me.”

It triggered something in his eyes. His expression relaxed, he plastered her against him and almost lifted her with the force of his upward thrust. Once, twice—

He roared her name as he spilled into her. “Kit! Oh God, Kit!”

Her inner muscles still spasmed around him, each shudder sending pleasure through her in diminishing waves. But she felt the warmth of his seed as it filled her, seeping from her.

A sense of rightness settled around her, and with almost desperate need, Kit wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, until his head was burrowed in the crook of her neck, his arms tight around her back.

She felt him shuddering.

It was a long moment before Kit finally relaxed into his hold, and he exhaled, long and haltingly. Another dozen breaths before Thorne finally lifted his head.

There were tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kit.”

Her hold tightened. “Don’t you dare apologize, Your Grace. That was magnificent.”

“It was.” When he inhaled, it sounded close to a sob. “I shouldnae have—” He bit down on his words, then shook his head and buried his face in the crook of her shoulder again. “Christ, Kit, I should’ve been more careful. I’ve never before—I’ve never lost…I’m sorry.”

It suddenly dawned on her what he meant. Today was the first time he’d spilled inside her.

And she couldn’t be sorry. Wrapping her fingers through his hair, she tugged him up so she could capture his gaze. “I’m not sorry.”

He blinked, wariness flickering across his expression.

“Thorne.” She gave him a little shake. “That was incredible.” She squeezed her inner muscles and saw his eyes widen slightly at the sensation. “It still is.”

One of his hands spread open, his fingers warm against her back. “It was.” He swallowed. “Kit, that was…”

Magnificent.

Another shuddering breath as he looked away. “I shouldnae have been so selfish.”

Selfish? Is that how he viewed this, this perfect moment?

Of course that’s how he views this. This is how you were created, remember? Your father was an evil selfish bastard, and he didn’t think ahead when it came to being with Mother.

“Oh, Thorne.” Her hand found his cheek. “I don’t regret this. I don’t regret any of this.” She willed him to understand. “And if there are consequences, I won’t regret them either.”

“A child—” His voice was choked.

“Your child, Thorne.” She smiled softly. “I wouldn’t regret that. How could I?”

It was the truth.

It was the truth.

The noise he made then was somewhere between a growl and a sob. In one movement, Thorne stood, lifting her effortlessly. Before she had time to react, to even think of speech, he’d placed her on the bed and was fetching a basin and warm cloth to clean her.

His touch was gentle, soft. Caring.

Since the afternoon he’d asked her to marry him, he hadn’t spoken of his love again. But he didn’t need to, because Kit recognized it.

She recognized it, because she felt the same way.

When he tossed aside the cloth and pulled back the counterpane to slide between the clean sheets, Kit happily rolled into his warmth. His arms circled her and she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “It’ll be alright, Thorne,” she vowed. “I promise. I might be illegitimate, but my mother didn’t love me any less because of it.”

That illusive something flickered across his expression again, and he looked away. She assumed it was guilt, and hated that he felt that way.

“Oh, love,” Kit whispered, tucking herself against his shoulder. “I wish I could take some of your burden.”

He cleared his throat. “Ye said—earlier…” A deep breath. “I want to shower ye with words of affection. I want to tell ye what ye mean to me.” Why did he hesitate, then? “I ken that isnae what ye want, and I’m trying no’ to be selfish. But I will say that having ye in my life makes my burdens so much easier to bear.”

Praise—for anything other than her musical talent, which she knew was special—had always made Kit uncomfortable. Same with talking about feelings; it was much easier to change it into teasing.

So she nudged him and smiled against his bare skin. “Even if it’s just listening at doors while you break into safes?”

His arm tightened briefly. “That was helpful.”

“I have to admit, it was remarkable, being able to watch you work tonight. I know you’ve put all that behind you, but you are an impressive physical specimen.” To underscore her words, she dragged her palm across his chest.

“Aye, well, Blackrose was a demanding master.” A heavy breath, then he cursed. “Christ, Kit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for it all. I’m sorry I dragged ye into this, I’m sorry I cannae take away yer pain, I’m sorry yer father’s an arsehole—”

She’d sat up before his first I’m sorry was complete, pressing a kiss to his mouth to stop the litany. “I’m sorry my father is an arsehole too, Thorne. I’m sorry for the pain he caused you.”

“Kit.” His free hand closed over hers, pressing it against his abdomen. “I wish I could’ve been at your side tonight when you faced him.”

There was pity in his eyes, and instead of pushing aside the realization in defense, Kit forced herself to inhale, exhale, face it. “It wasn’t…he didn’t recognize me. He didn’t even look at us, not really.”

Thorne hummed, the pad of his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she spat, then realized she meant it. With a sigh, she sank back down to rest her chin on her fist, which she propped on his chest. “My feelings toward him have never been charitable. Yes, he sent my mother money to raise me, money I know now was ill-gotten. But I would’ve rather had a father in my life. I can remember asking Mother once why she didn’t marry so I could have one, and she laughed and told me there was no reason, not when she had fame and fortune and freedom.”

Thorne winced, his gaze locked on the canopy above him, as though he didn’t want to meet her eyes. “Is that how ye felt?”

Was it? Kit scowled at her own indecision. She loved Thorne, and while it was incredibly flattering for him to ask her to marry him for a second time, she knew his world wouldn’t accept her as his duchess. He knew it too.

“It’s not like I had loving parents as role models,” she pointed out. “Not like you. But…” She blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s not like I’ve ever cared for him, but finding out my father is genuinely evil…” Not liking the way her stomach had begun to clench, throwing off the pleasant stupor of post-orgasm, she rolled off Thorne until she was also staring up at the canopy. “I want to help you take him down. I want to help.”

“How?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know yet.” Although there’d been an idea, quietly festering in the back of her head, all evening. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “But I want to be there when he goes to prison. For you and Bull and your friends, but also for my mother and myself.”

“Kit—” he began, but she interrupted.

“Rourke and Demon and Fawkes—all the men you’ve talked about. The ones who have as much reason to take Blackrose down as you do. They’re married?”

A pause, then: “Ye ken they are. I’ve told ye all about them.”

She pushed herself up on her elbow again to frown down at him. “And don’t you think their wives want revenge on my Father as well?”

He didn’t answer, but his eyes had turned sad.

“Well, Your Grace”—she poked him in the chest with her forefinger—“I’m not your wife, but I am Blackrose’s bastard, so don’t you dare think that you can keep me out of this. You have to let me—let us all in. We can help you, and you don’t have to do this alone. You are not alone.”

In one sudden movement, Thorne wrapped his hand around hers, hooked his ankle around hers, and rolled them both until he was the one looming above her.

Those gorgeous blue eyes flickered across her face, as if trying to memorize it, before settling on her lips. “I dinnae think I could prevent ye from doing anything ye wish, lass,” he murmured. “Ye’re a determined and intelligent woman.”

Still breathless from his show of strength, Kit wriggled her hips under his and flicked her tongue over her lower lip. “And don’t you forget it.” His cock was already hardening again, the realization causing her heart to speed up.

“Never, love,” he murmured, lips dipping to claim hers. “Never.”