Chapter 3

If someone had told Kit,only a few months ago, that she would be able to identify whether or not the master was home based purely on the mood of the household, she would’ve scoffed.

After all, she and Mother had lived in plenty of fine households over the years. Father’s stipend had been moderate, but it had been Mother’s skills which had eventually—after she’d become known—paid for impressive living situations. Kit had never bothered to pay attention to what the houses felt like; she’d been too busy practicing and rehearsing and studying.

But on the other hand, she’d never had to work in one of those households either.

In the weeks since she’d been promoted to the Duke’s personal attendant—what else to call a person who not only dressed the man, but also stood in his study and played for his enjoyment for hours on end?—she’d absolutely become attuned to his home.

And the moment the Duke of Stroken returned home, it was as if everything settled once more.

Kit was puttering around his suite, brushing down one of his formal cloaks and reflecting on the fact Old Maude—who wasn’t really that old, but who’d worked backstage the longest—would be proud of how well Kit remembered her instructions on the upkeep of wool, when the door opened.

And yes, she was smiling when she turned to see the Duke stepping through, carrying a bottle and two glasses in one hand as he loosened his necktie with the other. Stopping in his tracks, he raised a brow, one side of his lips curling upward.

“Dare I hope that smile is for me, young man?”

Young man. Lad. Boy. It was a reminder how he thought her a child still. But that was the point, wasn’t it?

She shrugged, pretending nonchalance as she crossed to him. “Now you’re finally home, I can tuck you into bed and go have some fun myself.”

He held his arms out from his sides, so she could snake his necktie from around his neck and undo the top buttons, before snorting. “A pipsqueak like ye? Yer idea of fun is warm milk and an exciting magazine. Och, would ye like recommendations? I have an entire shelf in the library—”

“Yes, I know,” she shot back wryly, going to hang up the neckcloth. “I used to dust in there, remember. The one called A Harlot’s Guide was quite educational.”

His chuckle had a bit of a maudlin ring to it. “I give you permission to borrow it as often as ye’d like, Kit.”

When she returned to see him kicking off his boots and sinking into one of the chairs by the cold fireplace, her sarcastic retort died on her lips. He looked…comfortable, but ill at ease. The whiskey bottle dangled, almost forgotten, from his fingers, but the glasses were on the table beside him.

Thinking to leave him alone, she bent to scoop up his boots, and surprised herself by asking, “What’s wrong?”

He blinked, as if he’d been thinking of something else, and hummed in answer.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as Old Maude used to say. As Kit tucked the boots into their place in the closet, she called out, “You seem…melancholy. My lord. Your Grace. Whatever,” she added under her breath.

“My melons are perfectly uncholeric, I’ll have ye ken,” he retorted. When she snorted, the Duke called out, “And I was merely considering something. Might I ask ye a favor, young Kit?”

Her world for the last fortnight had revolved around caring for this man. She’d been unable to further her search for her father, because she’d been so busy with the Duke of Stroken. But in that moment, Kit realized she didn’t resent it; the thought he needed a favor from her sent her hurrying back to the sitting area. “Anything, Your Grace.”

The man was studying her. Then he blew out a breath and straightened, reaching for the glasses. “Might I request that ye call me by my name? And that ye dinnae mention it to Titsworth?”

Kit blinked, vaguely noting he was pouring two glasses of whisky. “Titsworth?”

“The man has a handbook of how to butle, Kit, and if ye tell him I told ye, I’ll deny it. Very firm opinions about what’s done, is my point. My uncle kept a skeleton staff here, so I moved my staff from my auld townhome, and he’s been with me for ages…but good God, dinnae cross him. Whisky?” He held out one of the glasses.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, Kit tried to follow his explanation. “Titsworth only just finished beating it through my skull that I’m supposed to call you Your Grace instead of”—she flapped one hand helplessly—“whatever titles you English lords make up. I think he would object to me calling you…?”

“Thorne, please. And I’m Scottish.” He waggled the glass. “I’ve been Thorne much longer than I was ever a Your Grace. Well, actually, my Christian name is Octavius, which is ridiculous. Thorne fits me much better. Are ye going to join me for a drink?”

Having a drink with her employer couldn’t be much worse than calling him by his name, could it? Numbly, not quite sure what was going on, Kit took the glass from him then stood there awkwardly, cradling it, studying him.

Trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Dinnae tell him about the whisky either,” he mumbled, slouching back in his seat. “A handbook, I swear to Christ.”

Actually, Kit could believe that about the butler, who tried to be stodgy but clearly had a kind heart, as evidenced by the fact he’d praised her playing to her employer. The Duke. Thorne.

As a peace offering, she tried, “Thorne suits you better than Octavius.”

“Both of them were my father’s name, God rest him. They called me “Little O” when I was young, which would’ve been the worst, except when I grew taller than him, he began to call me “The Big O” and frankly, no man should have to hear that from his father. Are ye going to sit down, or loom over me all night?”

Cautiously, Kit lowered herself to the leather chair opposite him, but perched on the edge, in case she needed to run.

And he noticed. “Oh, for fook’s sake, I’m no’ going to bite ye,” he grumbled, gesturing with his whisky glass. “I’m also no’ a monster, to force ye to socialize with someone ye dinnae like, or if ye dinnae drink…”

“I like ye fine,” she blurted, then hid her wince by lifting the glass to her lips. The whisky burned, but not as badly as the rotgut the stage hands used to pass around back home.

When she lowered the glass, his gaze was locked on her lips. Unconsciously, she flicked her tongue across them, to catch the last drops, and his eyes darted across the room.

“Good,” he stated roughly. “Good, we’re finally getting somewhere.”

Were they?“So, why are you in a mood tonight, my—Your—Thorne?”

His lips twitched as he sipped his whisky. “I had an interesting afternoon.”

“With your guests?” She’d heard the commotion in the front hall.

“With one of them. His ideas—his thoughts are…exhausting. Then I saw him home. He’s the younger brother of a friend, and now the stepson and son of another two.”

Before she could think better of it, the question slipped from her lips. “So you prefer to spend time with young lads?”

The Duke of Stroken choked on his whisky.

Kit realized she was smirking, and again lifted her own glass to hide it.

“Bull is only seventeen, for fook’s sake! I mean, I dinnae even ken if he swings that way—”

“Do you swing that way, my—Thorne?”

His grin was suave, self-assured. “Darling, I swing every way, and if ye were aulder, I’d prove that. But I draw the line at someone as young as ye. Ye’re what? Eighteen?”

I’m not a child. And if I had more ballocks, I’d prove that to you, Your Grace.

Instead of saying that, however, she sat back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. Wearing trousers were her favorite part of this subterfuge, truth be known. Comfort. Movement. Pockets. It almost made the discomfort of binding her small breasts worth it.

With a slow smile built entirely in confidence, she said, “I’m three and twenty.”

“Bullshite,” he threw back, smirking. “Nineteen at most. But ye are a delightful little liar, and no’ completely horrible when it comes to pressing my shirts.” As she toasted him in thanks, Thorne cocked his head. “I should introduce ye to Bull. It’s possible he does swing that way, and ye’re his age.”

She rolled her eyes, and the Duke—Thorne chuckled. “It’s not like you’re so very ancient, Thorne.”

“I’m at least a dozen years yer senior, pipsqueak. Let me ken when ye’re ready to learn to shave, aye? I’ll give ye some pointers. Bull shaves regularly now, but only because he’s remarkably proud of his sideburns.”

It was remarkably fun to tease him right back, telling him the truth when she knew he wouldn’t recognize it, parroting his words. “I’m at least five years Bull’s senior.”

Thorne’s laugh seemed more natural, less maudlin. She sipped her whisky as he settled back to study her.

“So tell me, Kit, why a promising young lad like yourself—beyond talented with a violin, clearly intelligent and witty, happy to lie to my face, able to handle yer drink—has never pursued a career on stage?”

It was time for Kit to choke on said drink. Coughing, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as Thorne said, “Forget what I said about handling yer drink. Would ye like a cigar instead?”

“I was on the stage, actually,” she managed. “In America.”

“Really? How delightful.” He had pulled two cigars from his pocket, and was focused on clipping them. “What part of America?”

“Actually…” Her gaze landed on one of the framed landscapes across the room. “Every part. I was mostly raised in New York City, but we traveled often. My mother was quite well-known.” A wry smile tugged at her lips. “New Orleans might be my favorite.”

“Mine too.” When she glanced at him in surprise, Thorne grinned and shrugged. “I traveled often as well, in my previous life. I was sent to New Orleans twice and enjoyed every moment of it.” A shadow crossed his face. “Almost every moment.”

Interesting. What had he meant by his previous life?

“We also traveled around Europe. I find I like the wide-open spaces of America better.”

He snorted, placing one cigar beside her. “Wait ‘til ye see the Highlands, laddie. They’ll put yer American mountains to shame.” He began the ritual of lighting his own cigar, puffing as he asked, “So if…ye were on…stage…why come to England…become a…footman?”

Kit cradled her glass in both hands, considering how much to tell him. He’s a duke. He’ll likely be able to help. If she pitched it in a way that he’d want to help, without telling him the full truth.

“I came to London to…find someone,” she finally admitted, stomach twisting at the vulnerability the revelation brought. “A man. A nobleman. I don’t flatter myself to think he’d want to know me, but I wanted to learn more about him. I thought working in the homes of the upper crust would be the best option.” She shrugged. “And I knew enough about footmanning to get hired.”

“How?” he asked, seeming genuinely interested as he began the complex maneuverings required to pour himself another glass of whisky while holding a lit cigar. “Had experience in between yer stints on stage, did ye?”

One corner of her lips curled upward in a smirk. “Because we had several growing up.”

And because Mother would’ve never allowed her to travel to a city like London and become a maid.

A woman alone has no protection in life, my dear. This is why you must always wrap yourself in a cloak of certainty and aloofness. Make them believe you could not possibly be alone.

That, and the fact when Kit bothered to follow Mother’s advice on fashions, she looked remarkably like the older woman. Father would almost certainly recognize her, were she to show up on his doorstep dressed as a lady, looking out at him through her mother’s eyes.

Being a man offered her more freedom, more protection, to learn what she needed to know.

Thorne’s brows were hidden by his shaggy hair, obviously still reacting to her casual confession of status. “Good Lord, really? Ye used to be wealthy, and yer family had a reversal of fortunes, and ye took the stage in despair?”

She couldn’t help it; her laugh slipped from her, and she readjusted herself to match his slouch, balancing the whisky. Men. They sat so…so untidily. “My mother and I grew up quite wealthy, thanks to the allowance my father sent. The finest governesses and tutors for me, deportment and etiquette lessons.” Mainly so Kit would know what not to do. “She is still very much in demand—she’s in St. Petersburg right now, I believe—and our household, including myself, traveled with her.”

“Pastorino…Pastorino…” Slowly, Thorne sat up, cigar in one hand, glass in the other, both ignored as he stared at her. “Good lord, your mother isn’t Gloria Pastorino, the soprano?”

Kit’s grin grew as she nodded.

“Holy hell, Kit, I’ve seen her perform—” Thorne shook his head. “I dinnae ken how many times. I think I fell in love with her when I was younger than ye are now.”

She shrugged and fiddled with her glass. “You’re not the only one.”

“Clearly,” he snorted, still staring at her as if she was a miracle. “No wonder ye’re so talented! With a mother like the great Gloria Pastorino…” He downed the rest of his whisky and reached for the bottle again. “Remarkable. And yer father—nay, wait. He’s who ye’re in London looking for. Am I right? Ye said he was a nobleman?”

Kit had frozen, her glass half-raised, and now she stared slightly panicked over the rim. He’d guessed?

Noticing her reaction, Thorne smirked. “Dinnae tell me I’m wrong. There’s nae shame in being a nobleman’s by-blow, lad. I’m no’ going to ask his name, because ye dinnae have to put up with that sort of question from me. But I imagine yer mother was in as much demand years ago as she is now.”

He was likely thinking everyone knows what they say about opera singers and their easy virtues.

“At least he took responsibility, Kit,” Thorne offered in a softer tone. “Ye said he sent ye an allowance?”

“I never knew him. But…” She shrugged. “I want to know more about the man. Without having to knock on his door and wait for a hug.”

Thorne’s smile flashed. “Nay, no’ likely to work. But if he sent ye money all these years, he at least kens of ye, acknowledged ye. Which is better than some nobleman can say, especially from the other side of the Atlantic.”

Yes, twenty-four years ago Mother was a rising star, when a suave British second son had seduced her. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not quite ready to sing his praises yet, my lord. Thorne.”

Chuckling, Thorne finished off his third glass of whisky and leaned back to puff on his cigar. “Well, I’m no’ kenned for the parties I throw—more likely to go out and find one, aye? But if I do ever throw one and the man is on the guestlist, I’ll make sure ye’re…” Lazily he blew a smoke ring. “I dinnae ken, serving canapes or playing in the orchestra or something.”

She considered the offer. Would serving Father a stuffed mushroom or a glass of champagne really be what she wanted? It would allow her to observe him, to determine if she wanted to get to know him better. It was doubtful he’d recognize her or acknowledge her, but…

Mother had told her it was useless to try. In fact, Mother had done her best to discourage Kit’s scheme altogether.

But six months ago, all the papers had been full of Father’s name, and Kit had been struck with the need to learn more about the man who’d sired her, then left her and her mother. He’d settled into his new estate and was making plans to find a young, fertile wife.

And before that happened, Kit wanted to look into the man’s eyes and find the answers which had haunted her for years.

Who was he? Who was she?

And why hadn’t he loved her enough to stay?

Thorne had slid lower in his seat, the cigar’s ash dropping into a tray on the table, his eyes half closed. With languid movements, his other hand stacked behind his head, he considered the frieze at the top of the wall.

“I dinnae have any by-blows, as far as I’m aware. Quite good at preventing that sort of thing.” He wasn’t mumbling, but he sounded as if those three glasses of whisky were catching up to him. “But I’d like to meet them, if I had any. Always wanted children.”

Kit’s brows rose. “Then why fight against marriage?”

He shot her a surprised look, still slumped in his seat. “It’s no’ that I dinnae want a marriage. I just want one on my terms. My parents were happily married, my friends are all deliriously in love—I take credit for at least three of those marriages, by the way.”

Realization dawned. “You’re a romantic?”

He scoffed and lifted the cigar. “Dinnae expect me to huff and posture and deny it, laddie. I want love, not an arrangement. Nae matter what the world might try to tell ye, it does no’ weaken a man to admit he believes in love, and wants the kind of happiness a healthy, equal marriage can bring.”

She hummed. “But not with a Society woman?”

“I dinnae want to marry a woman who only wants a duke. I want a wife who wants me, who sees me.” His gaze flicked toward her lips, then away. “I could be happy with any number of people, Kit.”

Ah. He thought her a male, after all, and was hedging his bets. She decided to set him at ease. “I’ve never known a marriage to be anything but heartache, my lord, so you’ll not catch me proponing it.”

“Then I’m sorry, lad,” he muttered, studying the tip of his cigar.

“But I believe that plenty of fun can be had outside of marriage.”

A wry chuckle, and he met her eyes. “A refreshing attitude. I’m certain, in a few years, ladies will be throwing themselves at ye and—”

“I don’t prefer to have fun with ladies.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and her shocked expression must’ve mirrored his own. They both began to chuckle, until Thorne waved her away and sat forward—wheezing from the smoke—to reach for the bottle once more.

“Direct and to the point, Kit, eh? Well, I believe A Harlot’s Guide has a few entries for lads like ye.”

The book, written centuries ago as a sort of illustrated catalog of sexual positions, had any number of entries for a woman interested in obtaining pleasure. But Thorne thought her a man.

He gestured to her to bring her glass closer, and when she did, refilled it before refilling his own.

“Haven’t ye had enough, Your—my—sir?”

“Thorne,” he corrected with a smirk. “And I’m a big lad, Kit. I ken when I’ve had enough. Tonight was…” He blew out a breath and slouched back, gazed across the room, brows drawn in. “Bull is smart. Too smart, I sometimes worry. He’s too far into all of this, and I worry he’ll be hurt when the time comes…”

“What time?”

“Danger is coming for us and I dinnae want him to be caught in it.”

It was such a simple statement, but Kit felt the weight of it, sinking into her chest with horror as she realized he believed it.

“I’m the only one left without a family,” Thorne continued. “Without someone to care for. Someone to worry for me.” He stared into the depths of his glass. “The others, they have people who’ll miss them. So it’s down to me. I started this, and I’ll end it, and I’m terrified Bull will insist on being in the crossfire.”

What in the hell was he talking about? “You’ll keep him safe, my lord.”

His expression was bleak when he looked up. “I cannae wager on that.”

“Look, what danger are you speaking of? And it’s nonsense to say no one cares for you.”

Thorne was shaking his head. “Everyone else is married, with bairns. It’s too much…”

Suddenly, Kit understood.

Thorne was sitting here with her, drinking himself into a stupor, because he was scared. He’d been thrust into this dukedom and he had no one.

No one to confide in, no one to rely on. No one to tell him he was doing a good job, no one to hold him when he needed support.

All of his friends had married, had children, and Thorne…Thorne thought he was stuck doing this all alone.

It was why he’d befriended her, wasn’t it?

“Thorne…” She began softly, pushing herself upright to watch him cautiously. “You don’t have to do this all alone.”

He scrubbed his free hand across his face and seemed to force a half-hearted twitch of his lips. “Aye, I do.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve shouldered so much responsibility in such a short amount of time.” Haven’t you? “You need…”

As she tried to find the words for what he needed, she realized Thorne was staring at her. Hard. Eagerly.

He wanted help.

He needed help.

Kit blew out a breath. Oh, hell. “I’m sorry, my lord, if I’ve overstepped—”

“I think we’ve gone past my lording, lad.” His thumb and forefinger were pressed to his temple and forehead, as if holding himself in place, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his other hand cradling the untouched whisky and cigar. “What do ye think I need?”

Dio Benedetto, was she really doing this? Really offering him suggestions?

“I think…Thorne. I think you need to give yourself the freedom to give up control. Give yourself the freedom to…let someone else command you. Not in your dukedom”—she hurried to assure him as he pushed himself upright, ready to object—“but in other parts of your life. You’re not alone, and you don’t have to be.”

Those lovely blue eyes were very carefully not looking at her as he made a production out of placing his whisky on the table, the cigar in the tray beside it. His movements were tight, controlled.

She would’ve said he was angry except…except in the oddest way, she thought he was radiating a kind of hope.

His accoutrements settled, Thorne sat back in the leather chair, laced his fingers in his lap and finally met her eyes. “What do ye have in mind?”

It wasn’t an argument, but Kit could see there was something off in the way he held himself. Not the easy grace she—and likely the whole world—was used to seeing from him. This was painful to watch, the way his muscles were so stiff, his jaw so hard…

Hard. Stiff.

Dear God, could that be it?

“You don’t have to be alone, Thorne,” she began quietly, placing her glass carefully beside his on the table. “You’ve said you want marriage.”

His breath caught, something like a chuckle huffing from his lips as he shifted. “Aye. No’ just a marriage, but a partnership.”

“With someone you love.” Kit leaned forward, planting her elbows on her knees and lacing her fingers together in front of her, holding his attention. “What would that look like?”

She could tell from his frown he didn’t understand.

“A partnership,” she elaborated. “A marriage where you kiss her on the cheek at the breakfast table, and go about your duties?”

“Separately?” He shook his head, his shoulders already beginning to relax. “I would want… When I fall in love, I’m no’ going to be able to let her go. I’ll want her at my side.”

“And if she’s the right woman—the right person for you, she’ll be pleased to stand at your side. But what about the bedroom?”

His chin jerked slightly, startled at the question. She knew she was treading dangerous ground here, but her pulse was humming with excitement, her throat dry. Quite opposite to between her legs…

She took a deep breath and sat back in the chair, hands gripping the leather arms, holding his gaze. “Will you keep separate chambers, Thorne?” Kit asked quietly. “Coming together only to beget heirs?”

Was it her imagination, or had his breath caught? He didn’t laugh, but shook his head without looking away. “If she’s mine, then I will be hers. Always. I’ll want her in my arms all night.”

“And before you fall asleep, you’ll seek your release?”

“My…” His lips slowly closed, as if uncertain how to repeat her words. She hadn’t said orgasm. She hadn’t said pleasure. She’d called it a release, because that’s what he needed, right now.

She knew. And she knew how to give him one.

“Imagine it, Thorne,” she whispered. “Your wife. The woman who has pledged herself to you. She’ll be pretty, yes?”

“The most beautiful woman in the world,” he breathed, fingers gripping each other so tightly, they were becoming white. “Because I love her.”

Oh good Christ, the man was a romantic.

No wonder he felt so alone.

“Your wife. Naked. On your bed, waiting for you.”

Thorne’s gaze darted toward his bed, across the chamber, and she saw him shift. As he did, his hands brushed against the growing bulge in his trousers. Kit exhaled slowly, a wicked grin tugging at her lips, relishing how her soft words had an effect on him.

“You’ll want to take her, Thorne, but not yet.” Those lovely blue eyes snapped back to her. “Because she’s yours, but you’re also hers, right? Which means you’ll do what she tells you.”

His tongue darted across his lips. His, “Anything,” sounded more like a rasp than a word, and she knew he was bordering on desperation.

“She’ll raise herself to her knees. Right there in the middle of the bed, her body on display for you. Only you.” The picture she was painting caused Kit to press her knees together, catching the persistent ache in her core. “And she knows she can command you to do whatever she wants.”

Thorne’s fingers were no longer laced together. His palms had turned over, and now he pressed them against his cockstand, which strained against the wool of his trousers. His breathing had sped up, his lids lowered halfway as he watched her in a sort of daze.

Kit had guessed correctly.

Here was a man who needed release, needed to be given permission, needed someone else in charge. Needed to know, to be told what to do.

“Take out your cock.”

When his eyes widened in surprise, Kit leaned forward, gripping her knees. “That’s what she’ll tell you. Take out your cock.” Oh God, she was going breathless now. “Touch yourself.” Her voice caught. “S-Stroke yourself.”

Stroke yourself, Thorne.

He’d frozen, staring at her.

Kit stared right back, the air between them charged.

Do it, she willed him. Lose control.

Give up control.

Finally, Thorne inhaled, suddenly and sharply. Perhaps whatever he’d seen in her face convinced him she was being serious, that judgment was absent.

He didn’t drop her gaze as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers and Kit dared not look away. From the corner of her eyes, she saw him free his cock, saw him wrap his hand around the hardness.

When he did, they both exhaled.

And Thorne seemed to relax, the muscles in his jaw and chest loosening. Good.

“Stroke yourself,” Kit whispered, realizing she was leaning forward in her chair. “That’s what your wife will say. She’ll love you, and she’ll want you to be comfortable, so she’ll tell you to touch yourself.”

And it’ll make her feel comfortable.

Thorne’s hand began to move, and Kit couldn’t help the way her gaze finally dropped to his lap. He’d sprawled back now, the fingers of his free hand digging into the wool on his trousers, while his other hand…

He knew what he was doing.

This man was not a stranger to a good hand-frigging, that was for certain.

Not for the first time, Kit wished she could thrust her hand down her own trousers and drag her fingers through the wetness she could feel now as her thighs slid across one another. She hadn’t been this aroused since…ever.

Thorne kept his jaw and throat clean-shaven; it was the only way she could tell his pulse was throbbing in beat to hers. There was a flutter under his skin along his throat, and the spot was so damned enticing, Kit had pushed herself out of her chair to the floor before she’d realized what she was doing.

She wanted to taste him.

But she wouldn’t.

Because this was about him. About what he needed.

So there she was, on her knees on the carpet, mere feet separating them, as his pace increased, his strokes coming faster and more powerful.

“She’ll watch you,” Kit whispered, dragging her gaze back to his. His eyes had never left her face. “She’ll watch you, because she loves you. She’ll climb from the bed and stand before you, proud of you, Thorne.”

His answer was a groan of surrender as his eyes fluttered shut and he sank lower in the chair, his lower lip bitten down. His hand, however, didn’t stop.

Kit felt safer to shuffle forward. And, knowing he couldn’t see her now his eyes had closed, she reached between her legs to cup her mound. Even through the wool of her trousers and the linen of her smalls, she could feel her own need.

She swallowed, grinding the heel of her hand against her clitoris, desperate for the rough sensation to relieve her.

“And when you’re ready,” she whispered, “when you feel as if your pleasure will choke you, your wife will sink to her knees in front of you.” Kit licked her lips as her free hand came to rest on the arms of his chair. When had she come so close? “And she’ll look up at you with trust and love.”

His breath caught on a sound which might’ve been a sob.

Kit realized she was breathing too quickly—yet not quickly enough. The heel of her palm worked small circles atop her pearl, her fingertips straining against the wool of her pants, pressing it into the damp heat between her legs.

“Your wife will reach for you to hold you steady, Thorne, and then she will lean forward.”

His movements became jerky, his eyes squeezing tighter, as her own pleasure threatened to peak.

“And she’ll close her lips around your cock.” Her whisper was ragged. “Not because you demand it, but because it’ll make her feel powerful, to bring you such pleasure.” Her hips jerked as her climax began, her voice going hoarser. “She’ll caress you with her tongue, urging you to give her your spend, and the whole time, Thorne…” Kit was panting now, her hips bucking beneath her hand as her orgasm swept through her. “The entire time, Thorne, she’ll be watching you, because she loves you.”

The noise he made when he came was halfway between a roar and a sob. A helpless sort of sound. The sound of a man giving up control.

His release sent a thick white rope of seed from the tip of his cock to land across his hand and thigh. The second spurt was less, and the third merely oozed across the fingers which gripped the head of his cock.

Kit watched in fascination, the tremors of her own release still pulsing through her.

That had been…

Dio Benedetto, she’d done that. She’d brought him to release using only her words, not her touch, not her body. She felt powerful.

Just like Thorne’s wife, in her story.

The reminder that this man—this duke—was destined for someone else had her swallowing, pulling her hand away from her crotch. She dragged her gaze back up to his face just in time to see his eyes open.

They were swimming in tears.

“Holy Christ,” he managed to rasp, and something else inside her broke.

She needed to take care of this man.

Pushing herself to her feet, Kit reached over his hand, over his mess, to where she knew he carried a handkerchief in his pocket. Because she’d been the one to fold it and slide it into place each morning.

With the handkerchief free, she opened it and dropped it on top of his lap. He snatched it from her and, blowing out a harsh breath, began to clean himself up.

She straightened and watched him take a deep breath, crushing the silk square in his palm, as if steeling himself. Finally, he looked up and met her eyes.

His cheeks were flushed, and the tears she’d seen in his eyes were gone. Instead, his lips twitched. “That was…unexpected. I suppose I can blame the drink.”

He had consumed three, almost four glasses. So she hummed and held out her hand. “I could do the same, Thorne.”

She’d had whisky and called him by his name and guided him to a release which had done wonders for them both.

Instead of handing over the soiled handkerchief as she’d expected, Thorne wrapped his hand around her wrist and leveraged himself to his feet. She wasn’t a small woman, although she was built much the same as him; tall, lithe, with arms honed from years of holding her violin.

Presumably he got those lovely muscles some other way, though.

Once upright, he swayed only slightly and didn’t release her arm. Instead he stood there, staring down at her, and Kit tried to ignore the way her blood thrummed at his nearness.

It’s likely only a response to what you just shared.

Yes. That was it.

“I should apologize, Kit,” he finally murmured in that lovely low voice of his. “But I willnae. I’ll thank ye.”

She swallowed, then dipped her head in acknowledgement. It was easier to stare at his throat when she said, “It’s my job to take care of you. Your Grace.”

There. The reminder of his position should put the walls back between them. And indeed, Thorne sighed and released her hand… But only so he could begin to undo the buttons of his waistcoat.

His fingers fumbled, and with a small roll of her eyes, she pushed them out of the way so she could nimbly unbutton him. Undress him. Strip him. As she’d done a dozen times before.

Tomorrow, and the next day, she’d dress and undress this man, and she’d remember what his face looked like when he reached ecstasy.

And she’d be envious of the lady who would one day hold his heart.

Because when Thorne loved, he loved with everything he had.

He was swaying again by the time she picked his trousers up from the floor, so she nudged him back to sit on the bed. These would have to be laundered, so she tossed them in the correct basket. By the time Kit returned to the bed, the man was fumbling with his stockings.

Clucking her tongue, she grabbed his ankle and pulled first one stocking loose, then the other, and nudged him to roll his way up the bed.

He did so, with a sound which might’ve been a chuckle, and she had to smile. What would the world think to know even all-powerful dukes slept in their smalls and got drunk sometimes?

She nudged Thorne up the bed, so his head lay on the pillows, then pulled the counterpane from under him. He shifted with an appreciative grunt.

It was when she went to pull the covers over him that he caught her wrist.

Kit froze, her gaze immediately going to his face, wondering what this meant.

His blue gaze was clear, trusting, and gave absolutely nothing away. He tugged her closer, and holding her breath, she went, until her rear end landed on the mattress beside the pillows. Neither of them spoke, and in the waiting silence, Kit had to force herself to inhale.

His hold on her wrist twisted somehow, until his fingers were not-quite-entwined with hers. As she watched, his eyelids lowered to half-mast, and he pulled her hand closer. “Thank ye, Kit,” he said. No, he breathed the words, as exhaustion and satiation and the whisky finally caught up with him. “Ye take good care of me.”

Always.

The words stuck in her throat.

But when Thorne pressed the knuckles of her hand against his cheek, in what might’ve been the most intimate way she’d ever touched a man, she knew they were true.

She was in London to find her father, to find answers. That was why she’d come all this way, but somewhere along the way she’d allowed herself to be distracted by another man. A man who needed her, even if it could only be as a friend.

That piercing blue gaze slowly shuttered as his lids lowered. His hold on her loosened, and Kit knew he was falling asleep.

But unable to release him, release his hold on her, she moved her hand. Not away from him, but just to his temple. Then his hair. As her trimmed fingernails scraped along his scalp, he shuddered slightly and a little groan of pleasure slipped from his lips.

Smiling bemusedly, she moved her touch down his neck to his shoulders, alternating between scratching and stroking, as his sighs told her how much he liked the simple caress.

Not sure this was part of an average valet’s job description.

Not that she minded.

Kit lifted her legs into the bed beside him and crossed her feet at the ankles. Her back was propped by the pillows, and it was simple enough to use the knuckles of her right hand to stroke the base of his neck, where the muscles were tightest.

She focused on the way he shuddered happily when she raked her fingernails along his scalp again. He needed a haircut, and she was afraid that meant she’d be given the assignment—despite having paid approximately zero attention to men’s coiffure in the past, as evidenced by her own butchered hair.

As she scratched his back, his breathing deepened, and she sighed in…well, it was relief. Pride, perhaps? Tonight he’d needed her, and she’d given him what he’d needed, even if he hadn’t realized it.

Thorne was a man with the world on his shoulders, and had welcomed someone else taking command. She’d seen that, and yes, she could be proud of that.

Now that he was asleep, she could wiggle her way from the bed—

As she tried, Thorne grunted and rolled. She froze as he tossed his arm across her lap, pinning her in place, and settled his cheek atop her thigh.

Dio Benedetto!

Kit swallowed, then forced herself to breathe again. His breathing evened, confirming Thorne really was slumbering.

He’d fallen asleep. In her lap.

This definitely hadn’t been in the job description.

Still…

Her lips curved. She’d helped him tonight, she was certain.

Kicking off her own shoes, she settled lower against the pillows and began to gently stroke the skin of his shoulders, humming one of the lullabies her mother used to sing to her.

And when his arm tightened unconsciously around her, Kit just smiled.