Chapter 18

“Would you care for a whisky,Your Grace?”

Titsworth’s quiet question yanked Thorne’s attention from the marble tile in the foyer. Damnation, had he been pacing again? He scowled at his butler. “What?”

“You look as if you could use a restorative.” The not-quite-elderly man’s hands were behind his back, his gaze locked over Thorne’s head, his back stiff enough he could be picked up and laid across small streams as a viable footbridge. “Perhaps something to calm your nerves?”

“I dinnae need a restorative,” Thorne spat, spinning around on his heel to pace away again. “My nerves are fine.”

“Are they, Your Grace?”

Unbidden, Thorne’s gaze darted to the top of the stairs. There was still almost a half-hour before they needed to leave for the Stallings assembly, having decided they would arrive late and leave early.

But aye, he kept waiting—hoping—for Kit to appear.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, admitting the fault to his butler.

To his surprise, he heard the man sigh behind him. When Thorne turned, Titsworth offered him a gentle smile.

“Your lady is certain to be beautiful, Your Grace. And equally nervous.”

Thorne snorted and tugged at his waistcoat—the green one he and Kit had chosen the last time he’d been expected to dance with Lady Emma. Tonight, though…tonight he’d be dancing with Kit. As a woman.

“I cannae imagine her nervous about anything,” he finally confessed, allowing his butler to see just a grain of his worry. “This was her idea, ye ken.”

“No, I do not actually know anything about why you keep having these secret meetings, Your Grace, or why you hired your lover as your valet.”

Thorne raised a brow. “I didnae ken she was a woman when I hired her.”

“Yes, Your Grace, and that was a topic of much discussion among the staff, I can tell you.”

There was a twinkle in the older man’s eyes which had Thorne frowning. “Dinnae say ye saw through her disguise? Bull’s been ribbing me for a week!”

“I did not exactly, Your Grace, but I had my suspicions. Even I could tell young Pastorino was something remarkable. One day, will you tell me why Master Bull was required to dress in a gown?”

Thorne’s lips reluctantly curled. “Likely no’. Let us just pretend the lad’s admiration of fine quality materials and patterns extends to ladies’ wear as well?”

Without missing a beat, Titsworth bowed his head regally. “Yes, that is indubitably the answer.”

Thorne’s gaze dragged back up to the top of the stairs. “He’s up there with her right now, ye ken. I appreciate ye dragooning Betty and Other Betty into helping Kit dress, but Bull insisted he be allowed to oversee the process, in case the gown needed any last-minute alterations.”

“I am certain the lad will do splendidly,” the butler intoned. “And you will notice I have not asked where young Master Bull acquired a ball gown on such short notice.”

“Likely for the best,” Thorne muttered, turning away to pace once more.

“And Betty and Other Betty were delighted to help, despite having no experience as lady’s maids. I believe they were just pleased to be allowed out of the kitchen for the evening.” When Thorne glanced at him, Titsworth smiled. “I told you, Your Grace, the staff is loyal and glad you have found happiness.”

Thorne muttered, “Have I?” and resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair. After all, it had been difficult enough to get it to lay correctly without help. “I’ve never had to get dressed for a ball by myself.”

“And you did a splendid job, Your Grace.” Thorne shot his butler a suspicious glance, but Titsworth was beaming innocently. Too innocently. “I took the liberty of examining Your Grace’s buttons, and they all appear to be evenly matched, and your shoes are only a tad scuffed.”

Thorne was glancing at his feet before he realized the butler was teasing him. “I’m no’ completely useless. I managed the fiddly bits myself.”

“Oh, bravo, Your Grace.”

“Look, does a man of yer age have anything better he could be doing? Soaking yer feet? Resting yer back? How’s yer lumbago?”

To Thorne’s surprise, Titsworth—despite his usual attempts to appear older—didn’t jump on the opportunity to complain about his age. Instead, his eyes softened a bit around the edges.

“You will do splendidly this evening, Thorne.”

Thorne blinked, his jaw dropping just slightly. Titsworth had been with him for years, and had rarely called him anything other than My Lord, up until he’d inherited Stroken. For the last six months, the butler had delighted in tossing “Your Graces” in every other breath.

The way the man was smiling now, you’d think he was Thorne’s father, amused at a lad’s first time escorting a lady.

“Ye think I dinnae ken that?” Thorne straightened, yanking on his waistcoat once more. “Of course tonight will go splendidly.”

No matter if it was Kit’s first appearance in Society.

No matter if it was her first time confronting her father.

No matter if it was his first time seeing her dressed as a woman.

Any of those would be terrifying enough. But Thorne was afraid he was in very real danger of blurting something romantic and idiotic the moment he saw her.

Something like I love ye, lass, or Be my wife.

Again.

Tonight he’d appear at a ball with a Mystery Woman on his arm. He might introduce her as the daughter of the noted soprano Gloria Pastorino, but only three people present would know her true identity: Thorne, Kit, and Blackrose himself.

And the whispers would start. She would be lovely, she would be graceful, and she would be on a duke’s arm. None of the match-making mamas of Society would be able to look at her and think he could possibly be interested in their daughters; not with the way he was looking at Kit.

Like a man in love.

She was going to save him, and he was using her. Again.

In the days since Kit had met her cousins and they’d decided on the plan to trap her father, the two of them had discussed the nuances at length. In between speaking of their pasts and—very carefully—their plans for the future, Thorne had found himself remembering all the foolish things he’d dreamed of as a child; a loving wife, a house filled with laughter…children.

She’d held him between her rather perfect breasts and assured him he’d have all those things, one day.

And then he’d spilled inside her, again and again, defying God to make her the mother of those children.

He was playing with fire, and although he was terrified Kit would be the one to be burned, couldn’t seem to stop himself.

And now, worse of all, the scheme depended on Kit revealing her parentage, and so the carefully planned conversation Thorne had intended about what he had found—the marriage certificate, that her illegitimacy wasn’t true…that had to wait.

It burned within him, but he had to follow the plan. Griffin, Fawkes, Demon, Rourke, their wives and children…they were depending on him. On Kit. On the woman he loved.

“Your Grace, when one escorts a young lady to a ball, I believe it is customary to present her with a trinket of your affection.”

Thorne wheeled on Titsworth. “A what?”

“A trinket, Your Grace. A token.”

Dinnae make a dick joke, that’s no’ what he means.

“I…” Thorne shook his head. “Are ye suggesting I woo her?”

The butler nodded stiffly. “Despite what the two of you share, Your Grace, every lady appreciates being reminded of her place in your heart.”

In his heart?

Aye, that’s where Kit lived! “Flowers! Is it too late for flowers?” He shot a glance at the longcase clock in the foyer, then up the staircase once more. They had to leave within ten minutes. “Blast.”

But Titsworth stepped to one side, revealing a large—comically large, one might say—vase on the table behind him. It was stuffed to overflowing with a riot of blooms of every color, size, shape.

Exuberant, it was.

Tasteful, it was not. “Titsworth, what in God’s name is that?”

The butler glanced in surprise over his shoulder. “Cook’s largest stock pot, Your Grace. There were no vases large enough in the house. I had the flower shop send one of everything.”

Hiding his fond smile, Thorne stalked across the tile. He pulled a bloom from the collection—small and white, with a yellow center. “Too plain.” He tossed it over his shoulder, then reached for a rose. “Too typical.” Tossing that over his shoulder, he pulled another. “Good God, man, is this a tulip? What is a woman supposed to do with a tulip? And this, unless I miss my guess, is begonia.”

He turned a glare on the butler, who was eying the flowers strewn across the marble tiles. “Did ye empty every hothouse in London? Nay, dinnae answer that; none of these are sufficient.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Titsworth intoned. “I shall send a footman to fetch some chocolates forthwith.”

“Nay! Nay, Kit isnae chocolates. She isnae delicate blooms. She’s—she’s…” Frustrated, Thorne turned to scowl at the vase, which—aye—had been quite thoughtful of Titsworth to fill. “She’s strength. And control. And calm. And—and…and sweet melodies. And…” His voice fell to a whisper. “She’s twined around my heart, whether she likes it or no’.”

Almost in a daze, his hand reached toward the outrageous collection of blooms, and he pulled out a vine. It likely had been included to offset the other flowers, to hold them together…but it was perfect.

From behind him, Thorne heard the butler murmur, “Ah, honeysuckle. A perfect choice, Your Grace.”

A sound, an inhale, perhaps, had him turning.

There, at the top of the steps, waited Kit.

And oh Christ, she was magnificent.

Thorne’s feet were already moving, pulling him toward her as if she were an oasis in a burning hellscape. As if she were the only thing that mattered in this world.

“Kit,” he breathed, utterly mesmerized. It was a lucky thing his feet remembered the whole walking bit, because they climbed the stairs with absolutely no input from him. His head was tipped back, his gaze locked firmly on her beautiful eyes, as pale as mirrors.

Bull had managed a miracle. Aye, she was wearing orange, but not an orange as Thorne had ever imagined. This was an orange of the Highlands in autumn; nearer to red than a true orange. The silk was rich and sumptuous, bordered with delicate black embroidery Thorne wondered if Bull had managed himself.

Kit’s hair—normally loose around her shoulders or pulled back in a more manly queue—was piled on top of her head in an elaborate crown that had been peppered with small glass flowers. They were tiny and delicate, the opposite of Kit herself, and although difficult to pick out individually, caused her head to shine under the light from the lamps.

They were her only adornment. They were all she needed.

But her smile wasn’t right.

She watched him approach, a smile on her lips, but it wasn’t right. She looked…scared?

Nay, that wasn’t his Kit.

Thorne stopped on the step below hers, so they were eye to eye, and reached for her. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized he was still holding the honeysuckle, and it brushed against her gloved arm.

Glancing down, Kit’s expression softened, her smile turning more her. “Flowers?”

He swallowed. “Nay, no’ any flowers.” He raised the honeysuckle. “Do ye ken what this is?”

Kit plucked one of the blooms from the vine. “We had them growing near our home in New York.”

He watched as she deftly pinched the stem of the flower, pulling the delicate string from the bloom, along with a drop of nectar. The honey for which it was named.

“Honeysuckle is strong, resilient,” he told her in a raspy whisper, bending another flower from the vine. “It climbs high, and it doesnae break.”

Kit popped the drop of nectar into her mouth, her tongue darting out to swipe across her lips, catching the style. Thorne felt his trousers tighten.

“Just like ye, Kit.”

As she lowered the bloom, those evocative eyes wide with surprise, he reached up to tuck the flower he held in one of the swirls of hair expertly pinned in place with glass.

“Ye are beautiful, Kit, and strong, and ye dinnae break, or stop. Ye are determined, and capable, and delicious, just like the honeysuckle. And did I mention beautiful?”

“You did,” she whispered, two spots of color appearing high on her cheeks.

His hand fell to rest against the side of her throat. “Ye’re the most Goddamned beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Kit, and I cannae wait to dance with ye tonight.”

It was the truth; he’d been looking forward to dancing with her—vertically, in public—for days now, but the truth was also a reminder of what was to come.

He saw the change cross Kit’s expression as she realized the same thing. She settled her shoulders into a sort of ready position, taking a deep breath.

When Thorne offered her his arm, she settled her hand atop it, and allowed him to lead her down the stairs. They moved slowly, but he needn’t have worried about her.

Despite having spent the last months in trousers and men’s boots, this lover of his moved with all the grace of a dancer. Or a debutante, ready for her formal presentation.

Looking at her tonight, no one would believe ye hired her as a valet.

No one would believe she was anything but the legitimate daughter of an Earl.

And Thorne wished to Christ he had found the ballocks to tell her that before this damned plan.

They paused in the foyer for Titsworth to drape a wrap around Kit’s shoulders, for propriety’s sake. They were already skirting the edges of propriety by having an unmarried duke escort her, but they’d determined doing so would throw Blackrose out of step.

But to hell with propriety. To hell with a Society who said a duke needed to marry a simpering young miss bred for flirting and dancing and nothing more than fluff in her head.

Damnation, that’s not what Thorne had been bred for! He wanted a woman who was as resilient and special and strong as the honeysuckle she wore!

Kit turned a questioning look his way, and Thorne forced himself to get his shite under control. “Are ye ready, love?”

“Yes,” she murmured, slipping her hand through his arm once more and lifting her head, looking for all the world like a conquering queen. “Let’s go fook over my father.”