Chapter 1

Katherine Pastorino,known to family and friends as Kit since the day she was born, tried not to stare at her employer’s penis.

“Good lord, lad, if ye blush any pinker, ye’ll burn yer necktie!” With a teasing grin, Thorne Cumming, the Duke of Stroken, snatched the towel from her hand and wrapped it around his trim waist as he climbed from the tub. “Ye’d think ye’ve never seen a naked man before!”

Ah.

That, of course, was the unintended problem with cutting one’s hair and donning trousers. Lads were expected to know what penises looked like. Lads were expected to have penises, and presumably to have played with them regularly.

Kit had not.

Obviously.

Oh, she’d seen penises before, and even knew what to do with them. It wasn’t hard—uhh, difficult, once one had the basics. But she rarely had the opportunity to play with them.

Although, if she were being honest with herself, her employer had one she wouldn’t mind playing with, not one bit. How in the hell did a lazy, entitled, spoiled rake like the Duke of Stroken—because yes, she’d heard his reputation, even newly arrived in London—manage to keep so fit? He looked as if he could have modeled for Michelangelo—who’d known a perfect male specimen when he’d seen one—with those abdominal muscles that slid into a vee which seemed to point her gaze to—

“Drain the water, would ye, Kit?” the Duke called over his shoulder as he strolled into his dressing room. “Then come help me choose a waistcoat for tonight.”

“Yessir,” she mumbled, pleased for the reprieve, glad he hadn’t realized the real reason her cheeks had heated.

Knowing well his impatience, she hurried to drain the water from the tub and wipe up the bubbles from the porcelain. It had been bad enough having to stand there with a stack of towels, but when he’d asked her to scrub his back—

Let’s just say that her blush had started somewhere around his right flank, and was still threatening her blood pressure.

“Kit!” he called as she tossed the towel into the hamper.

“I’m coming, Your Grace!”

At least she was getting better at remembering to call him that, instead of Sir, which was what her American-born mother had instilled in her. Titsworth had drilled her incessantly in Kit’s first week in the Stroken household, and although she sometimes forgot, she was getting better. My lord apparently wasn’t good enough for dukes, either.

Not that this particular duke seemed to care one way or the other, she thought as she all but skidded into the dressing room to find a half-naked man holding two waistcoats.

“No, no,” he quipped, without looking up. “I’m Cumming, you’re arriving.” He shot a grin over his shoulder, but not the sort of grin which inspired confidence. More like he was waiting for a laugh, so she offered a weak one.

That’s what servants did, didn’t they? Laugh at their master’s terrible jokes?

He’d already turned back to his clothing selection. “Now, I realize ye’re no’ a fashion expert, and are here mainly so I dinnae have to do all the fiddly buttons myself, but which looks better with my hair this length? The purple or the sky blue?”

Oh hell.

The Duke now turned, holding both waistcoats up by a broad expanse of chest, and Kit panicked. How was she supposed to answer this? Knowing your way around London fashion hadn’t been on the job description when she’d applied for the role of footman.

Her role here in Stroken House had just been the coverup she’d needed to allow her time to look for and spy on her father. Waistcoats had not been relevant.

“Um…the sky blue. Your Grace.” She busied herself scooping up the man’s trousers from the wardrobe and picking imaginary lint away so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. “Matches your eyes.”

The man hummed speculatively, and when she risked a peek, was staring at her.

Damn it!There went her blush again! She pretended great interest in the wool trousers.

“Ye’ve noticed my eyes, Kit? I’m flattered. Ye’re right, blue it is.” He tossed the purple over a handy chair. “And I can’t help noticing ye missed my joke earlier. Cumming. As in—”

“Yes, my lor—Your Grace!” she bleated, tossing down his trousers and swinging her eyes toward the back of the closet as she began to dig through his collection of small pants. “I got it.”

Christ Almighty, she was going to have to stand here, still all hot and bothered thinking of him naked in that tub, and listen to him make sexual innuendos?

Although that one had been so blatant it was likely an out-uendo.

Chuckling, the Duke straightened, shaking his head. “No’ if ye’re blushing like that. But I like a lad who can catch naughty japes like that.” When she flashed a cautious glance his way, he winked. “I dinnae mean coming as in finding sexual pleasure, Kit. Cumming’s my clan name. We’re descended from the traitorous Comyns, did ye ken?”

With that, the man untucked and dropped his towel, and Kit made a noise somewhere between a yelp and a gasp as she whirled around. As she searched about for something to occupy herself, neck burning, she heard him bending to pull on his smalls.

Thank God.

“Ye’re going to have to get over this missishness, lad,” he teased. “A man’s valet is in charge of his wardrobe and dressing him.”

The purple waistcoat! She could hang that up! “I—I’ve never valeted before, Your Grace,” she managed to choke out, her attention on the waistcoat until she could be certain he was covered. “I’m just a footman.”

A technical lie.

Nay, a complete and utter lie. You’ve never been a footman before either.

“Well, ye’re no’ a footman any longer. Choose me a shirt, would ye?”

Relieved that most of the Duke’s shirts were a similar style, and she knew to look for formal cuffs, Kit turned back to see him stepping into his trousers, his stockings already in place. Apparently he was not done with his musings.

“And I chose ye for my valet because at least ye have some idea of fashion, even if it’s no’ as extensive as mine.”

No one’s knowledge is as extensive as yours.

It wasn’t until the man laughed that she realized she’d muttered aloud. Groaning, Kit dropped her head to the wardrobe which held his pressed shirts. Well, perhaps he’d merely demote her instead of firing her.

But he surprised her. “Ye havenae met my friend Bull. Now that lad can dress, but I swear to the Christchild, if ye tell him I said that, I’ll make ye iron my smalls.”

Wide-eyed, she swung around to find him smiling teasingly—the man loved to tease. Reluctantly, Kit allowed her lips to tug into a grin.

“Och, there we go, I kenned ye could smile. It’s true though, lad, I dinnae need a valet. I just find myself liking the company. So I’d appreciate it if ye could get over this embarrassed snit ye keep finding yerself in every time ye have to dress me, and start talking to me like—”

He bit off his words, and Kit was surprised to see him blushing. What had he been about to say? Talking to him like…a fellow male? An accomplished valet?

A friend?

Unlikely.

“Fook it,” he muttered. “Hand me that shirt.”

Mutely, she stepped close enough for him to snatch it, and for the first time, she allowed her gaze to drop below his chin.

The Duke of Stroken was remarkably well appointed in the chest department. And the stomach. And the arms—both upper and lower. She had to admit; she’d always had a weakness for corded forearms, and seeing him slip the silk over them sent a surprising shock of disappointment through her.

Don’t worry, you can still look at his nipples.

Oh, yes, his nipples were lovely, weren’t they? As she watched, they hardened into little pebbles. Likely from the air.

Or the fact you’re staring at them.

Kit’s gaze snapped back up to the Duke’s face to find him staring at her lips. “I—” she began, then realized she had no idea what to say.

Luckily he wasn’t unexperienced with awkward situations, apparently. A rueful sort of smile tugged at his lips and he blew out a sigh. “Och, lad, if only ye werenae my servant.”

Her eyes widened. “If only I what?” She winced at the rudeness. “Uh, Your Grace?”

He chuckled wryly and stepped forward, his arms held out from his side, so she could begin to button him. “The verra fact ye cannae guess my meaning proves how young ye really are, Kit.”

Older than you think.

Kit kept her head down, concentrating on the buttons. Still, she could feel his gaze—and his breath—on the top of her head. Her blasted curls refused to stay contained, and she’d used enough pomade to glue a horse to a wall. Still, she imagined each of his exhales caused little flyaway hairs to quiver.

The way she was quivering as she focused on not touching him. Which was difficult. She’d learned that if she used only the tips of her fingers, she’d be able to slide the buttons into their little holes without accidentally brushing across his skin.

The last time that had happened, she’d felt as if she’d been seared. The heat had flashed up her fingers, up her arm, into her chest, causing her to gasp and pull away. Which of course had led to more teasing.

Easier to keep from touching him at all. Thank God he shaves himself.

As Thorne slipped into the waistcoat and allowed her to do up those buttons, he cleared his throat. “Ye’re doing fine for someone with nae valeting experience. I ken ye’ve only been in my household for a few weeks—hell, I’ve only been in my household a few months!” When she peeked at him from under her lashes, he grinned ruefully. “Then I dragged ye out of the kitchen and make ye perform like some monkey for me. And make ye do up my buttons, as if I’m unable to do them myself.”

Kit stepped back, pleased to see he was covered now, and watched him tuck everything where it needed to go. “Truthfully, sir, I don’t mind the performing. It’s easier than polishing silver, and I like it.”

He hummed. “And the valeting?”

She risked a small smile. “At least you know how to button your own trousers.”

The laugh which burst from his lips surprised the Duke as much as it did her, judging from his expression. Shaking his head, he reached for the necktie. “I am no’ that much a spoiled lordling, Kit. By the way, yer American is showing again, with that sir.”

Irritated at herself for forgetting, Kit gave an exaggerated bow. “Apologies, Your Grace,” she intoned blandly, causing him to chuckle again.

When she straightened, her master was standing before the mirror, tying his own necktie, his gaze on his reflection. “I became Viscount Thornebury at the age of seventeen. Long before then I’d figured out how to dress myself. And there were times, even while I held that title, when I had nae one to rely on but myself.”

Well, that sounded…ominous. Safely out of his sight, Kit frowned thoughtfully, wondering what kind of life a viscount would have to lead that meant he didn’t have servants and valets to shave him.

He shaves himself. Said he didn’t trust anyone near his throat with a knife.

Oh yes, he had said that, hadn’t he? Not ominous at all.

Kit had been raised in the theater district of any city where her mother toured. Mother’s parents had been poor Italian immigrants, but they’d scrimped and saved to send Mother to a conservatory, and she’d quickly gained fame for her striking looks and beautiful voice. Kit had cut her teeth on the wooden columns from Lohengrin and learned to read from the playbills. Her first friends had been men who knew how to fight, women who’d taught her how to protect herself when she could only rely on herself, and children who bobbed about in the eddy of the stage.

As Mother’s fame had grown, their accommodations had improved—Venice, Paris, Milan. But Kit hadn’t forgotten the lessons learned from those cheerful, and sometimes broken, people.

But what would a coddled viscount—now a coddled duke—know of that life?

So she hummed politely and went to find a pair of cufflinks. “You don’t have to worry about that, Your Grace. Dukes can rely on plenty of people.”

“Aye, that’s true.” He sounded pensive, and when she turned, he stood staring at himself in the mirror, looking almost…sad. “I’d never planned to be the Duke, ye ken.” As she approached, he snapped from his melancholy, sending her a too-bright smile as he held out one wrist. “Ye ken what the worst of it is?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “People who’ve called me Thorne my whole life are now trying to call me Stroken. Or worse”—he shuddered—“Stroke!”

A snort slipped from her nose before she could stop herself, and she bent closer to his cuff, trying to a) not actually touch him and b) keep from having to meet his eyes.

To her surprise, the damned Duke of damned Stroken lifted his free hand and patted her head. As if she were a dog! Kit froze, then felt the Duke’s touch linger, sliding across the stupid pomade toward the back of her neck, his touch feather-light.

It sent a shiver down her spine she wouldn’t acknowledge.

She hurried to hold up the other cufflink. “Wrist, Your Grace!” she blurted, too loudly.

His sigh was faint when he held out his other wrist. “I’m sorry.”

That surprised her, and she glanced at him. One side of his lips twisted. “I’m sorry I thrust this position upon ye, Kit. I can see ye dinnae like touching me—perhaps touching anyone. And here I am, touching ye without yer permission.”

“I didn’t mind!” The words slipped free before she could think of them, but once they did, she was glad for it. She hadn’t minded his touch, not really. And honestly, touching him was the most curious mix of danger and desire.

But he merely shook his head. “If ye dinnae want the position, Kit, I’ll find another valet. I’ll no’ free ye from playing yer violin for me, because it has become the part of the day I look forward to the most. But I can place another advertisement for a valet—”

“No, sir—Your Grace.” Kit wasn’t sure why the thought of not being his valet—a position which surely brought more stress, arousal, and confusion than she knew what to do with—filled her with sadness. But hearing him praise her music had sent a warmth through her…the same as touching him. She swallowed. “I don’t mind. Truly.”

He was watching her, and whatever he’d seen in her face must’ve convinced him, because he nodded suddenly. “The diamond stick-pin, please. I’ll place it. Ye ken, Kit,” he mused, turning back to the mirror, “I wouldnae have asked ye if I’d had a more experienced candidate for valet.”

She could barely tie her own necktie, so yes, that made sense.

Holding his black jacket at the ready, she watched his reflection fuss over the placement of the pin. Just so. “I heard your last valet died, Your Grace.”

This time his laughter was vaguely sarcastic. “Aye, he died. As did the three before him.”

Kit sucked in a gasp, and the Duke met her gaze in the mirror, lips curling wryly.

“Aye, ye’ve heard the position is cursed? But likely nae one said how cursed. Now, all of them have been perfectly natural deaths—”

“They died of natural causes? All of them?”

It probably wasn’t done to interrupt a duke, but the man just shrugged, his attention fixed on the placement of the pin. “When a man falls from the fourth floor of a townhouse because he thought the pigeon roosting in the cornice bracket was stuck, then aye. Aye, splattering his brains across the sidewalk below is a natural cause.” He shook his head. “I told him being a bloody pigeon fancier would be dangerous.”

Kit’s brows rose.

“The one before that was Queuetee—

“Cutie?” she repeated, uncertain she’d understood the man’s name correctly, and frankly, too surprised by this entire conversation to worry about the fact she’d interrupted the man again.

In the mirror, Thorne dipped his chin once, smoothing the silk of his tie. “Indeed, Queuetee. The idiot decided to go ice skating on the Serpentine in late March with the lass he was courting.” Thorne winced, then sighed, holding out his hand for the jacket. “That was also a natural cause, seeing as how there were warning signs up about the ice being too thin. Puir lad, but at least his lady friend survived.”

She straightened the shoulders of the jacket, finding it easier to focus on the fine wool than the harsh realities of life. “And the others, my lo—Your Grace?”

“Then there was Lapp, who spent his one afternoon off a week practicing with a troupe of circus performers—I had nae idea.” The Duke examined himself in the mirror from a few angles. “His time was his own, o’course, I’m not one to pry. He choked to death on his own blade while practicing sword-swallowing.”

Kit must’ve made a little noise—a snort? An aborted laugh?—because the Duke’s gaze flicked to hers in the mirror.

“God’s truth,” he swore. “And before him was Tackett, who’d actually been with me since I became Viscount, a good man. An auld man, and when one of the upstairs maids gave him a little kiss on his eighty-seventh birthday, the happy bastard knew life would never be better. He keeled right over.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to contain the laughter. Not at the circumstances of the old man’s death, of course not…but rather because of the sparkle of mirth in the Duke’s blue eyes.

He kept his expression somber as he nodded. “A wonderful way to go.”

The chuckle burst from her lips before she could stop it, and she turned away to hide her response. But to her surprise, the Duke joined her. “We buried him with a smile on his face.”

Still smiling, she shook her head at his teasing. “You attended his funeral?”

The Duke clicked his tongue. “I paid for his funeral, as well as his portion to his children. He—they all were good men, good fr—” He snapped down on the word, and when he spoke again, his tone was more direct. “The dancing shoes, please.”

Good friends. Kit would wager that’s what he’d been about to say.

What a strange man—a strange Duke. He was powerful, yes, but had only held this title a short while. She knew so little of him. Oh, she knew he’d moved from his townhouse to this mansion at the start of the year, when he’d inherited from his uncle. She knew he’d become his uncle’s heir presumptive with the death of his cousin a few years before. She knew he was considered a charmer, a happy-go-lucky sort of rake who Society didn’t expect to settle down.

She’d learned all that before applying for the position of footman, knowing a newly expanding household would be the best opportunity for someone with only forged and vague footmanning references. It had been vital she slip through the cracks, so she could keep her head down and study Father.

It had worked.

Then the butler had been impressed by her skills with the violin.

Then she’d played for the Duke.

And now she was dressing the man, forced to look at the man’s perfectly sculpted naked body on a daily basis. “These shoes, Your Grace?”

He shrugged. “They’ll do.” He threw himself into one of the chairs. “No’ as if I’m going to be doing much besides standing around, avoiding the dancing.” He lifted a foot.

Kit went down to one knee to place his foot on her bent leg, and slide the shoe on. The Duke had beautifully formed feet, strong and lithe, like the rest of him.

Can you hear yourself? You’re admiring the man’s feet?

Well, why not? Some people were into that sort of thing.

Well, yes, and I’m not kink-shaming, but he’s wearing socks. At least if you’re going to have a foot fetish, do it properly.

In an effort to block out her subconscious, Kit blurted, “You don’t like to dance, Your Grace?”

He snorted. “I love to dance. I love the freedom and the movement, it reminds me of—”

When he bit down on what he’d been about to say, Kit darted a glance his way to see him frowning at the ceiling. Dancing reminded him of what?

Likely something sexual in nature.

The Duke cleared his throat. “I love to dance. I dinnae love the rules and judgement that go along with these silly events. When I was merely Thorne, I could show up at these events, dance with a different lass each set, laugh and tease until my cheeks hurt, shock but not surprise the other guests with my bluntness, and go home kenning I’d made someone’s night a bit brighter.”

It sounded…maudlin. Tying his laces, she snuck a peek at the way he had one palm across his eyes, slouched as he was in the chair. “And now?” she ventured.

“Now…” He sighed. “Now I’m the bloody Duke of bloody Stroken. The Duke of Stroken cannae have fun. The Duke of Stroken cannae laugh and flirt and charm the lasses, because all the match-making mamas are waiting to trap him—me—in something salacious with their precious debutantes then cry scandal and make inane demands.”

Kit gently placed his foot on the carpet, and picked up the other. “Marriage?”

“Marriage, aye. Which is fine for some—hell, it would be fine for me. If I could find a lass who could love me for me, no’ the bloody title. I dinnae want to marry because some witch spreads a rumor about me dancing with the same lass more than twice. Or trips me into a closet so I’m caught in her arms. Or claims to be carrying my bairn to trap a duke.”

The bitterness in his words was hard to ignore. “Why do you want to marry, Your Grace?”

The question hung in the air between them as her fingers worked his laces, and she didn’t realize she was holding her breath until he abruptly sat up, startling her.

His grin suddenly flashed, too large, too bright to be real. “Why, love, Kit, love!”

He bounded to his feet, leaving her to scramble up after him, gave himself one more look in the mirror, and ran his fingers through his hair to achieve his typical windswept look.

Then he smacked her on the shoulder, gave her a little salute, and said, “Dinnae bother waiting up for me, laddie. I’ll see ye tomorrow.”

He scooped up his evening cloak and sauntered out, whistling between his teeth.

And Kit wondered if anyone else this evening would see through his good cheer to the pain he hid beneath.