Chapter 21

It wasthe longest night of Kit’s life.

She didn’t think she’d ever forget the horror, the spike of terror deep in her gut, when Fawkes and Titsworth carried a body through the front door, covered in blood.

Thorne.

Kit, running down the stairs because she’d heard her name called, had sat straight down, knees refusing to participate.

“Wh—?” she began, but Fawkes had met her eyes. “He’s alive, Kit,” he’d barked out. “He just fainted.”

“Fainted.” Her whisper was dazed as the man carried her love toward her.

“Aye, fainted,” his cousin growled, “and ye can be certain I’ll be reminding him of that on a daily basis. Go ahead of us, lass, and prepare his bed.”

Meanwhile Titsworth had been snapping orders, acting nothing at all like the elderly man he pretended to be. Glad for a direction, Kit gathered the skirts of one of her new gowns and hurried up the stairs ahead of the trio.

By the time they reached Thorne’s chambers, she felt more in control—of herself and the situation. Issuing orders helped keep her calm, but it wasn’t until she pressed her palm to Thorne’s chest and felt his steady heartbeat that she was able to breathe a sigh of relief.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

“Yer father happened.” Fawkes’s expression was grim as he helped undress the supine Thorne. “He was waiting in the carriage and tried to shoot me. This noble idiot threw himself in front of me.”

The bullet had gouged a line across Thorne’s skull over his right ear and forehead. Less than a half-inch to the left, and he’d be dead.

Staring down at his helpless form, Kit shuddered. Fawkes’s hand covered hers.

When she looked up, the other man—with the nose and smile so like Thorne’s—nodded gently. “He’ll be aright, Kit. Thorne has a thick head.”

Her lips twitched slightly and her gaze dropped down to the man she loved. “Aye, he does.”

When she leaned over to kiss his cheek, he was reassuringly warm, and she held onto that knowledge when she was in danger of losing control again.

It was the last quiet moment for a few hours. Kit oversaw the cleaning of the wound and as she finished the doctor arrived. He decided Thorne needed stitches, and unfortunately the poor man woke during the application.

His cursing told Kit his lungs were working fine, at least.

Thank goodness she had experience with men’s clothing; as the surgeon left she listened to his instructions, sent Fawkes off to reassure his wife, and undressed Thorne, listening to his complaints the entire time.

“Do you want something to eat?” she finally demanded to shut him up.

Thorne glared mulishly at her. “If I say aye, are ye going to feed me weak broth?” His eyes suddenly opened wider. “Actually, if ye clasp me to yer bosom and spoon the soup into my mouth while staring lovingly into my eyes, muttering sweet nothings, I might no’ mind it that much.”

She snorted, a reluctant grin surprising her. She was exhausted and sore, and half sick with worry, but he could always make her heart lighter. “Actually, I was thinking some hearty meat and veg, something to fill you up and help you sleep.”

His blue eyes glittered eagerly. “Some of that leftover ham would likely help replenish my blood supply.”

Shaking her head in amusement she dared not let him see, Kit headed toward the door. But his words stopped her.

“Hang fire—ye’re no’ a footman anymore, love.”

Her hand was on the door knob, and she stared down at it.

She wasn’t a footman.

She wasn’t even Thorne’s valet anymore, was she? Oh, she knew her way around his chambers and his clothing better than anyone, but she hadn’t accepted a salary for a fortnight. She wasn’t wearing trousers. She was wearing a gown.

She was just…his. And he was hers.

Kit swallowed, then nodded and opened the door, issuing the request to the footman who waited out in the hall. The man nodded respectfully and hurried off.

It was in a strange frame of mind that she returned to Thorne. Who was she?

The master of the house had asked her to marry him, and with each passing day she became more certain she’d made the wrong decision in denying him. Aye, on paper she was all wrong for the Duke of Stroken… But she was right for Thorne.

He needed her.

He needed her to tell him no, I’m not fetching the whisky, you idiot, the doctor said no spirits until the skin heals as she fed him the ham sandwich the footman returned.

He needed her on his arm to protect him from all the conniving Society women who wanted their claws in him.

He needed her to take control in the bedroom, so he could let down his barriers and not have to be so strong all the time.

He needed her to help him focus in his study.

He needed her.

And Kit…Dio Benedetto, Kit needed him.

Needed him like she needed breathing.

It was well after midnight when she finally climbed into bed with him, wearing one of his shirts instead of a nightgown. She propped her back against the headboard and gathered him in her arms, like she had that very first night she’d held him after talking him through to orgasm.

He let out a little sigh which caused her heart to clench, but she stroked his arm gently, willing him to sleep. To allow her to care for him.

“Thorne?” she finally murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t do this again.” When Kit took a deep breath his heavily bandaged head, pillowed against her small chest, moved as well. “Don’t frighten me like this.”

“We’ll take down yer father, love,” he said sleepily. “It willnae happen again.”

That sick feeling rose in her stomach again.

Her father had done this. He’d pointed a weapon at Thorne, at Fawkes, and tried to kill them. It wasn’t an accident, but an attempt to quiet them both, according to what Thorne had described.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice caught on a small sob and she tightened her hold on him, pulling him closer. “I’m so sorry.”

Thorne tried to lift his head, but she wouldn’t allow it. “Dinnae fash, Kit,” he assured her, slightly muffled against the linen she wore. “I’ve endured worse.”

“Not at my father’s hands,” she swore.

He was quiet for a moment, then finally confessed, “Nay. Blackrose never tried to kill me directly. But Rourke, and Demon, and Griffin and Fawkes…Hell, even Olivia, since her brother was loyal to the bastard…they’ve all suffered.”

Kit swallowed. “And they’ll be here to help you tomorrow. As will I. I’m not going to let him hurt you or anyone ever again.”

She could see his eyelids were getting heavy, so she loosened her hold on him and stroked his skin again, her fingertips dragging goosepimples behind them. He sighed and settled closer.

“Love ye, Kit,” he murmured, eyes closed, and her heart caught in her throat.

Tell him.

Weeks ago, a lifetime ago, she’d quoted Twelfth Night to him, when she’d been playing a role as Cesario had been.

In the play, Cesario moons over Duke Orsino, who can tell “the lad” is in love with someone:

What kind of woman is’t?

And Cesario replies, Of your complexion.

She is not worth thee, then, the clueless duke offers. What years, I’faith?

About your years, my lord.

And Orsino still did not get it.

Kit’s chest and stomach ached with emotion. Anger, at her father. Fear, at what had happened to Thorne, and how very close she’d come to losing him.

And love.

Oh, Dio Benedetto, so much love.

She leaned closer and pressed a kiss atop the bandage, where Thorne’s life’s blood had been seeping mere hours ago. Then she moved her lips to his unmarred cheek. It wasn’t until she saw a tear fall on his nose that she realized she was crying, huffing slightly at the knowledge.

“I love you, Thorne,” she whispered. “So much.”

Blue eyes opened briefly, but they were clouded from sleep and pain, and she doubted he was truly seeing her. Doubted he understood.

Then he sighed softly, as if in contentment, and snuggled closer.

Kit wrapped her arms around him and stared at the opposite wall, devising ways to make her father pay for this crime.

It was a very long night.

Thorne’s head pounded,but it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t ignore it. All in all, a small price to pay, considering how close he’d come to death last night.

Groaning, he rolled to his side and pushed himself upright. He was a little surprised Kit wasn’t still beside him in the bed, but a glance out the window showed it to be almost noon, and her side of the bed was rumpled.

Her side.

He would’ve rolled his eyes at his foolishness, if he could be certain it wouldn’t spike his headache.

Kit slept beside him in the massive bed. Her gowns hung in his dressing room, and she dined with him and Fawkes and Danielle each evening, telling them stories about the theater to make them all laugh. She lived in his heart, it was undeniable. She lived in his house.

She was everything he wanted in a wife, and last night…

Frowning, he plucked at the bandage around his head.

Last night…

There’d been something important. Last night. Something she’d said, something he’d meant to do…

The newspaper!

Cursing loudly, Thorne thrust himself to his feet, only to grab his head as the ache became dizziness washing over him. Groaning, he tipped to one side as the door opened.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Kit bustled in, holding a tray and looking delectable. “Are you hungry? Of course you are.”

Truth be told, she always looked delectable. But since she’d begun wearing gowns more frequently, Thorne could admit he was partial to the way silk hugged her curves. Of course, he also loved to see her legs encased in trousers, knowing she was striding about confidently.

He suspected this was the way he liked to see her most of all; certain, determined, and in control. She strode over to him and placed the tray on the bedside table, nudging him with her hips as she did so.

Thorne told himself he allowed that meager contact to push him sideways back into bed, and not because he was so weak he couldn’t stand.

Tonight’s the musicale. Ye must be strong enough to face Blackrose.

Because yes, Blackrose would come tonight. He’d have to come, after he saw…

Thorne bit off that thought with a groan.

Tsking, Kit bent over him, arranging the pillows behind his head so he was upright. “How’s your head this morning?” she asked, brushing a kiss on his crown.

The movement brought her tits tantalizingly close, and Thorne inhaled her scent, helpless in the face of this onslaught.

And aye, a bit dizzy.

“Improved,” he murmured.

When Kit straightened, her pale gaze dropped to his cock, which was doing its best to push past the ache in Thorne’s head and pop up to say hello. She raised a brow. “You are feeling better, I can see.”

As much as he wanted to pull her into his arms and make love to her, first things first. Oh hell. “Kit, I have to tell ye something.”

“Is it that you’re sorry you scared me half to death last night?” She turned back to the tray to pour him a cup of what he hoped was rather strong tea. “And you’ll never, ever, ever jump in front of a bullet again, no matter who’s involved? I like Fawkes, but really!”

He winced at her acerbic tone, then groaned again and reached for his head, only to bump up against the bandage. “This thing is wound so tight it’s making my head hurt. Surely it’s stopped bleeding?”

His hopeful tone caused her to frown and plunk the tea pot back down. “Your head is aching because you were fooking shot, Thorne.” Without giving him time to dismiss her concerns, she reached for the bandage. “I’ll check.”

So he kept his complaints to himself as she carefully unwound the bandage, knowing he was being cowardly, avoiding what he needed to confess to her.

“Ye look lovely,” he murmured to her bosom, with her attention on his wound. She shot him an amused glance, which told him she knew what he was thinking.

“Thank you. Ellie and Bull are keeping me well-dressed.”

“Ye look like…” Like a duchess. Or a countess. He swallowed. “A princess.”

She hummed. “Thank you. I am determined not to embarrass you.”

“Ye could never,” he murmured fervently.

Was that a hint of blush stealing up her cheeks? “It has been helpful, to have Ellie…teaching me the rules of your Society.”

Danielle had been born an earl’s daughter, married a viscount…and now lived as the wife of a bastard chemist in seclusion in Scotland. Kit, on the other hand, had been raised the daughter of an opera singer, and would now be thrust into Society as an earl’s daughter…and perhaps a duchess.

If he had his way.

“I’m glad ye’ve found one another,” Thorne offered. “She’s a good lass, and I ken she’s happy to have a friendship with ye.”

Kit hummed. “I am too. I never thought about having family, not like her. Almost like a sister.”

He would’ve continued this conversation, except at that moment, the last of the bandage loosened and it was as if a vice had fallen away. Thorne couldn’t help the groan of relief which escaped his lips as he lifted his hand to his forehead to feel around.

All that was left was a wee padding around the actual wound. “Good Christ, that feels better.”

Kit was poking under the bandage, her tongue poking from between her lips. “At the risk of swelling your head any more than it already is, it looks like you might have been right. That bandage was quite snug.”

“Snug, hell,” he grumbled, rubbing his left temple. “I think I was in danger of my pate popping like a melon.”

Snorting, she shook her head as she straightened. “The wound is done bleeding. I’ll change the bandage—”

“Nay, foul fiend! Any other torture but that!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Thorne, don’t be a baby.” But she was grinning as she turned back to the tray. “You can keep it off for the rest of the day, but we’d better wrap it—no, not as tightly, don’t worry—before the musicale tonight.”

She handed him the tea, and he eyed her as he sipped at it. Thank God, it was like an elixir from heaven, and he could feel strength stealing through his limbs along with the warmth. “Are ye ready for the musicale?”

Kit settled herself on the side of the bed nearest him and was breaking apart a scone for him. “I am. I have the music chosen.”

Eagerly, he leaned forward. Yes, a distraction from what he had to say, but it was part of the plan, wasn’t it? Important for him to know. “What pieces?”

She shot him a sly look from under dark lashes. “You’ll have to wait and find out like everyone else.”

He hoped she’d play some of his favorites, the ones he’d given her the sheet music for, but he could also understand if she’d prefer one of the pieces she’d memorized long ago.

Ye’re just putting off what ye need to tell her.

Aye, that was right. He needed to tell her before tonight, before her father—or anyone else—said something to her. “Kit, I really do need to talk to ye.”

“That’s what we’re doing.” She turned to him and jammed a piece of the scone into his mouth, smiling. “Talking.”

“But—”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she scolded, reaching for the tray. “I brought today’s newspaper. The doctor said you need to stay in bed, but we both know you’re not going to cancel tonight, so Titsworth and I are compromising. If you stay in bed until dinner…”

Her lecture trailed off as she lifted today’s copy of The Daily Movement.

“Kit…”

“Did you know about this?” she asked distractedly. “They printed about the musicale. Lord Bonkinbone’s Daughter to Triumph Tonight.” She glanced at him, then back to the paper. “They know I’m his daughter? Look, it says I’m playing here tonight at a private event, I guess that means the musicale. Who told them…?

She trailed off again as she read, and Thorne felt a pit open in his stomach. He placed the teacup and saucer on the table. “Kit, I told them—nay, no’ them. I told the editor.”

Her pale gaze darted to the masthead. “O. Wilson? You told him about the musicale and how we wanted my father to attend?”

He reached for her hand. “Olivia is the Duchess of Effinghell, but she ran the paper before she married, so she kept her byline the same.”

“Wilson,” Kit repeated in a whisper, eyes still skimming over the article. “I know that name. Her brother was one of my father’s loyal agents, yes? He tried to kill Griffin and Bull.”

Thorne nodded, head throbbing. “She’s been publishing the coded messages all along, helping us. I told her…everything, and she agreed making yer relationship to Blackrose public would shame him into attending tonight.”

When Kit looked at him, there were so many emotions warring in her eyes that Thorne grimaced, feeling sick once more. Confusion, aye, but also hurt and betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” he managed. “I should have spoken to ye first, I ken it.”

Kit looked down at the paper in her hands once more, reading in a dull voice. “Miss Katherine Pastorino, who impressed many at the Stallings assembly last week when she arrived on the arm of a certain eligible duke, is said to be a violin virtuoso.” She huffed slightly. “I hope my mother doesn’t read this, she’ll accuse me of bragging.”

“It was me, Kit, and I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand, his heart thumping painfully against his ribcage, desperate to get it said. “And that’s no’ all. It was why I went rushing out last night.”

But she was still reading. “Our mysterious artist, we can now reveal, has spent the first decades of her life raised abroad by…”

Kit’s mouth continued to move, but her voice had died to nothing more than a faint gurgle as she read the next words.

“Kit—”

She lifted her face, eyes blazing with fury. “Raised by Bonkinbone’s wife, the talented soprano Gloria Pastorino, Lady Bonkinbone.” She slammed the paper down none too delicately into his lap. “Why would you let them tell such a lie, Thorne?”

Christ, his heart broke at her helpless tone. “Love, I’m sorry!” He reached for her but she twisted away.

“Do you have any idea the consequences of such a lie?” she snarled, popping to her feet and planting her hands on her hips. “Lady Emma will be shamed, the Earl of Stallings will pull his support. That’ll piss off my father, who’ll turn around and take it out on us—as if getting shot in the head wasn’t enough! And all because you want him to attend tonight?”

“I need him to attend tonight!” Fook, this is not how this was supposed to go. Wincing, Thorne pressed his palm to his forehead. “Kit, now all of Society will expect him to be here, to support his daughter. Look, he’s even listed as the guest of honor.”

“Of course he’s the guest of honor! He’s my father, and I’m the shameful mystery he’s hidden away for years in another country!” She was so angry she looked ready to stamp her foot. “Thorne, this lie—”

“It’s no’ a lie.”

Kit stared.

Thorne took a deep breath, strangely at peace now that the moment had come. He’d known it would come, and here he was. Here they were. “Kit, it’s no’ a lie. Blackrose did marry yer mother.”

Confusion slowly took over the fury on her expression, and he ached at the pain he was causing her. There was a pit in his stomach the size of Scotland, and he knew he deserved the worst punishment.

Christ. Do better. He began again. “That night we broke into Blackrose’s safe, I found a file marked with yer mother’s name. It contained receipts for the money he sent her over the years…” Another deep breath, as if that would help prepare him. “And a marriage certificate listing yer parents as married a year before yer birth.”

Her lips formed the words, “A year?” but no sound emerged.

“I left it there, but I ken enough information that we should be able to find a copy from the parish in New York if necessary.”

“My—married? They were married, in America?”

Thorne shrugged helplessly, the pounding of his head momentarily forgotten. “I didnae ken yer father back then, of course, but he always did plenty of traveling. It’s possible that, as a younger son, he thought he could set up a household in America.”

“Oh, he did.” Her tone turned bitter as the anger crept back into her eyes. “And like the ordered man he is, he kept the certificate. A certificate you found. You found it, with me standing right there in the room, knowing what I thought I knew about my parents.” Her pale eyes blazed now. “And you didn’t tell me.”

Ye deserve this.Thorne grimaced. “I didnae, not immediately. I thought if ye kenned—”

“What?” She’d turned away from the bed now, her hands thrown into the air as she began to pace. “What did you think I’d do if I knew the truth? Make more demands of my father?”

“Think I was trying to manipulate ye,” Thorne confessed quietly. When she turned an incredulous look his way, he sighed. “Kit, ye’d only just finished telling me ye couldnae marry me because ye were a bastard. I thought if I suddenly popped up with proof ye werenae, then ye’d think…” Another weak shrug. “I was afraid ye’d think I was pressuring ye. If ye dinnae want to marry me, that’s yer prerogative. I’m the one with the deadline, needing heirs and everything. If ye were illegitimate, ye need no’ worry about that sort of thing. Besides, this…this changes things. Everything. Your responsibilities, your direction in life—your place in the world. I didnae want ye to be burdened. I thought, if I could just protect ye—”

Her expression was difficult to read, but her fingers rested on her stomach as Kit slowly turned back to him from where she stood by the far window. “You expect me to believe you kept this a secret because you thought it was for my own good?”

Why couldn’t he say this properly? “Nay! I—fook.” In frustration, he went to drag his hands through his hair, bumped the injury, gasped in pain and ended up holding his head.

“I’m sorry, Kit,” Thorne mumbled, dropping his chin to his chest while still holding his head. “I was trying no’ to be self-centered. I thought this is what ye’d want.”

“For you to not be self-centered?”

He could barely lift his gaze. There was so much disgust and anger in her tone he felt like a dog who’d shat on a fine carpet. “Ye deserve to make yer own decisions. Discovering ye were the heir to the earldom—”

“What?” she snapped, and he winced again.

“Bonkinbone estate allows for the inheritance by daughters, Kit.” He forced himself to meet her eyes, to accept the anger blazing there. Anger directed at him. “As yer father’s legitimate child, ye will be the next Countess of Bonkinbone, unless he fathers a legitimate son.”

Kit snorted, hands still on her hips. “Unlikely. He hasn’t seen my mother in years, and he can’t remarry if—Dio Benedetto, he was planning on marrying Lady Emma! He was going to knowingly become a bigamist?” She shook her head. “This is…Thorne, I don’t know if…”

His chest ached at being unable to comfort her. It was obvious this news had rocked her, and he hated that he’d been the cause of her pain and confusion, and couldn’t take her in his arms and swear he’d make it better.

All he could do was whisper, “I’m sorry,” again.

She shook her head and turned toward the door. “Eat your food, Thorne. You have a big night ahead of you.”

There was anger and bitterness in those words, and Thorne groaned as Kit slammed the door behind her. He’d been terrified of this reaction, hadn’t been able to make himself tell her any sooner precisely because he knew what would happen.

But he should have been braver. He should have faced that fear…for her.

“Fook,” Thorne murmured, allowing his head to fall back against the pillows. “Fooking hell.”

What was he going to do?