Chapter 5

Kit frownedat the pale green silk in her hands. The material in this waistcoat likely cost more than her monthly salary, and she was expected to care for it? She held it closer to her nose, trying to keep her stitches as small as possible.

Grazie a Dioshe didn’t have to worry about laundering such fine clothing…but it had been a shock to discover she was otherwise in charge of the Duke’s wardrobe.

Thorne dressed better than she ever had, even when she had been pretending to be a fine lady!

You were a fine lady. Governesses, deportment, dancing lessons, silk ball gowns. Remember?

Well, yes.

She’d been as much a lady as Society would allow her to be, as the illegitimate daughter of an opera singer on the road.

Luckily, part of her upbringing had been learning to wield a needle. Old Maude had been the first to teach her how to make quick adjustments to costumes or to mend seams. Then a series of well-meaning tutors in the womanly arts had taught Kit how to embroider useless flowers on silk.

Rather like the silk of Thorne’s waistcoat.

Frustrated, she yanked the damned thing away from her nose and stalked toward the window, hoping more light would help.

It didn’t, and once there she became distracted by the view of the manicured garden behind the house.

Thorne had said he didn’t host balls, which was a shame, because the gardens of the Stroken House were made for illicit rendezvous and hidden kisses. The assembly he was attending tonight…would it have a garden like this one? Would he sneak out into it with a lady who caught his eye, and woo her—or more—in private?

He was a rake, a charmer, a man who didn’t take life seriously.

Until he’d become the Duke.

Now the world rested on his shoulders, and he wasn’t having any fun at all. He’d complained about attending social events like balls; where he used to enjoy them, now he dreaded them.

Did he dread tonight’s event?

Did he think of last night’s event?

Sighing, Kit dropped her forehead to the smooth glass, trying not to wince.

Last night…last night she’d been proud to help him. Glad she’d been able to relieve some of his stress. But what did he think of it?

He’d fallen asleep in her arms, safe and protected. This morning, she’d woken the same way, snug in the circle of his arms…with his arousal pressing against her arse.

The realization had sent her pulse vibrating and her stomach knotting…lower, desire had flooded her core as she did her best not to press back against him. He hadn’t known she was awake, judging by his comical attempts at silence as he removed himself from the bed and stomped out of the room.

He hadn’t wanted to wake her—hadn’t wanted confrontation of his arousal?

Kit was no virgin; she knew how to take fun as she found it, and how to ensure there’d be no lasting consequences. Innocence was something she’d left behind long ago. Hopefully, last night had proven that to him. She couldn’t deny her attraction to Thorne, nor the way his touch—his existence—aroused her.

But the problem was a big one: He thought her a man. And he thought her too young for what he had in mind.

On the one hand, knowing he was speaking with her about sexual relations made her arousal spike all over again… But on the other, knowing he thought her a boy confused the hell out of her.

Was he only attracted to her because he thought her a lad? Or in spite of it? Or did her gender not matter, and he was attracted either way, and it was merely her age and position in his household which held him back?

With a groan, Kit lifted her head from the glass just enough to drop it back down again.

Dammit. Maybe I should’ve glued on a mustache so he thinks me at least old enough to shave!

Behind her, the door opened.

She whirled about in time to see Thorne stop suddenly just inside the room, staring at her.

Oh. Oh good.

Apparently we’re making this awkward.

Frustrated at the way her heart had leapt at seeing him, and with him for not being able to pretend nothing had changed between them, Kit held up his waistcoat, still trailing the needle and thread, and scowled.

“You can’t wear this waistcoat to the ball tonight. I’m sorry, but I’m having a hell of a time mending it so the tear isn’t visible.”

She saw the moment Thorne decided to pretend as if torn silk was the most important thing in the world. As if he hadn’t slept with her in his arms. As if he hadn’t avoided her since. As if he hadn’t tugged his cock last night and spent in front of her, all at her command.

His shoulders rolled back, his arms relaxed. His gaze went from wary to focused, and he moved across the carpet with all the skill and grace of a ballet dancer.

“Let me see it.” Thorne stepped close enough to take the silk from her hand. “Blast, ye’re right. And my stitches arenae as small as yers, so I’m useless.” He knew how to sew? “Well, I suppose I could choose—nay, Lady Stallings specifically asked me to wear green.”

The Stallings were hosting the assembly. Did he know Lady Stallings personally?

He dropped the waistcoat by his side and blew out a raspberry. “Well, I suppose there’s only one solution.” His expression brightened with an enthusiasm which made her grin. “We’re going shopping!”

Just like that, her grin fell. “We, Your Grace?” she asked cautiously.

Thorne cocked his head. “Unless ye’d rather no’?” he asked, uncertainty making his words slower.

And she hated that she’d done that.

Spending an hour in his company outside of the house truthfully sounded like a dream, but she was surprised he wanted her. “I’d…like to join you,” she managed carefully, her gaze locked on his chin. “If you…wouldn’t mind my company.”

His snort was faint. What did it mean?

“It’ll be good for ye to visit my tailor. If I can manage to keep ye longer than the last three valets, ye’ll need to develop a personal relationship with the man.”

Well that dragged her attention to his eyes, which were sparkling with humor again. He was teasing her? “Your Grace, your last three valets died horribly.”

“Aye,” he agreed cheerfully. “Try to look both ways before crossing the street, eh?”

She couldn’t help it; her laugh burst from her lips, startling him as much as her, judging from the way his eyes widened.

“Do you take anything seriously, Thorne?” she teased.

“Fook me, lad, ye’re beautiful when ye laugh.”

The words fell between them, heavy and awkward. Except…except they weren’t. Kit found herself swaying forward, her fingers already itching to touch him. And Thorne was holding his breath, she was certain of it.

Fook me.

That’s what she wanted. It hit her with clarity. This attraction, this arousal…she’d been fighting it for weeks now, and there was no need. Last night had proven that.

She wanted Thorne.

She’d tried to make that clear.

The only reason he hadn’t taken her up on it was that he thought her too young. He thought her a mere lad.

Or maybe not. Maybe he likes you because you’re a lad.

Or did it not matter to him?

“Thorne,” she whispered.

He blinked and jerked away. “Shopping!” he cried, holding the waistcoat between them. “To the tailor!”

As she followed him from his chambers, Kit realized she was grimacing.

If she wanted Thorne, she needed to tell him the truth about who she was. But would that chase him away?

He wasglad he’d ordered the town coach brought round. The enclosed carriage was stuffy and dark, even with the windows open, but it afforded a bit of privacy to the occupants.

And Thorne wanted that privacy. He didn’t want Kit feeling uncomfortable, gadding about town with him.

On the way to Savile Row, Thorne had kept up a steady dissertation on the talents and benefits of different tailors. Luckily, a friendship with Bull—who seemed to understand fashion better than anyone else Thorne knew—had been enough of an unwanted education to keep his tongue flapping.

Although Thorne suspected the babbling was merely to keep from thinking of doing other things with said tongue.

Oh, for fook’s sake, make up yer mind!

Aye, he’d thought Kit a mere youth, but his words last night—and the knowledge those words were based on—told Thorne his valet was more than mature enough to understand what was happening between them.

Not only that, Kit had initiated it.

Christ, why was he bothering to be so noble? Clearly Kit was no innocent. And that meant...

The town coach pulled up to his tailor none too soon.

Surprisingly, the outing was…comfortable. Thorne was used to being charming; it was how he’d been able to make so many friends in so many walks of life. But what surprised him was Kit was equally affable. The lad teased Thorne and the tailor alike, until they were all chuckling.

Kit asked intelligent questions, proving he had an understanding of Society’s fashions and whims, and listened to the answers thoughtfully.

Not for the first time, Thorne was reminded this valet was the child of a lord and an accomplished, talented woman. Kit had been raised with every advantage, and had only taken a position as a footman to further his own goal of meeting his father, whoever he was.

And Thorne? He was taking advantage of that goal, wasn’t he?

Bah.

The reminder ruined Thorne’s good mood, even with the teasing and camaraderie—and Kit noticed, damn his eyes. The lad kept sending him concerned looks. Eventually, it was Kit who reminded them all Thorne had a social engagement to prepare for, and suggested they return to the coach.

For fook’s sake, the lad was a valet. Aye, a talented one who Thorne wanted at his side, his music soothing the headaches Thorne battled…but a valet nonetheless. A Duke wasn’t supposed to take his valet shopping, wasn’t supposed to laugh with him, wasn’t supposed to lean on the poor bastard because he was afraid what would happen if he was alone with his thoughts.

Aye, Thorne was afraid of crumbling.

And Kit was becoming an addiction.

Clambering into the coach, he sighed and tipped his head back against the squabs. Kit climbed in and took the seat beside him, so they were both facing forward.

Sitting in silence as the coachman cracked the horses into motion, Thorne could feel the body beside him. How easy would it be to reach out, to stroke Kit’s cheek? To confess the way Thorne felt, what he wanted?

To confess that he needed Kit.

To confess that he was afraid he was falling for Kit in a way he’d only expected to fall for the woman he’d one day marry.

Oh hell.

“You know, Your Grace, the point of this endeavor was to jolt you from your melancholy. Don’t fall back into it.”

Kit was back to calling him Your Grace, then. “I’m no’ melancholy, ye cheeky bastard,” he muttered, eyes still closed. “I’m pondering. Cogitating. Conundruming.”

The lad breathed out a chuckle. “Well, perhaps you should consider cancelling your engagement tonight, so you can cogitate in bed, with your eyes closed. Because you look ready to drop.”

Tonight in bed. Those were the only words that Thorne remembered. If he said yes, would Kit stay with him? Talk him through another release? Allow Thorne to curl around him and feel safe?

“I cannae,” he rasped, not in answer to Kit, but in answer to his own foolish longings.

Kit hummed. “Yes, I suppose you must go to the event tonight, since Lady Stallings asked you to wear green specifically. Your new waistcoat should be delivered in plenty of time.”

“She wants me to match her darling.” His stomach soured at the thought. “Lady Emma is wearing green, and I am no’ at all surprised her mother is hoping to match us in Society’s eyes.”

And he wasn’t the only one—and the distaste Lady Emma’s other suitor left him with…

“Ah,” Kit murmured, as if he understood. Perhaps he did. “And do you know Lady Emma well?”

“Nay, other than in passing. She’s the type of partner I avoid at these things.” Young. Innocent. Predatory.

Kit shifted in his seat. “Then how do you know she’s not for you, Thorne?” he finally asked quietly. “You’ve said you’re looking for marriage—”

“I’m looking for love,” he interrupted before he could think better of it. “I told ye that. And Lady Emma is currently vying for the attention of an Earl I despise.” Although she was welcome to Blackrose, if she didn’t mind becoming a widow young. “Any interest she shows to either of us is intended to make the other jealous.”

“So she’s not the kind of woman you’d want to love.”

Woman. It felt so strange to be speaking of women, and wives, when it was the young man at his side he wanted to gather into his arms.

But last night, Kit had spoken of Thorne’s theoretical wife. Had said all the things Thorne had dreamed of. His wife would love him, would care for him. Would know what she wanted in the bedroom, and ensure Thorne would give it to her. Demand it.

“Nay,” he whispered, eyes still closed, uncertain who he was answering.

The coach rocked around a turn, and Thorne swayed in his seat, pushing out one hand for balance. His palm landed against the leather of the seat, the last two fingers of his hand inexplicably resting atop another hand.

Kit’s hand.

Last night, Kit somehow crawled into Thorne’s mind, his heart, and wrapped him in warmth.

Unable to stop himself, Thorne crept his hand sideways until it covered Kit’s. And—miracle of miracles!—after a moment, Kit turned his hand under Thorne’s, until the lad could twine his fingers through his.

Somehow it was easier, here in the darkness behind his eyelids, to confess the truth.

“What ye said, Kit…” Thorne swallowed, hating the hesitation. “Last night. I want that. I want a wife who wants me. Someone who sees me.”

“I can understand that,” his valet confessed in a murmur. “I’ve no intention of marrying, but if I did, I would want someone who loved me for me. Not because of my role, or what I looked like, but…but because of my heart.”

Thorne’s hold on the man’s hand tightened. “None of my friends have married typical ladies, and they’re deliriously happy. Their wives are strong, and capable and intelligent, and all the other things I want. I dinnae want a woman who dances with me only because matching my waistcoat to her dress will improve her social standing.”

He heard Kit smile, which should have been impossible. “But you love dancing, Your Grace.”

“Aye,” he drawled, reluctantly grinning. “I do. But on my terms.”

“How about your wife’s terms?”

He snorted, acknowledging the point. “Her terms would be more important than mine.” A deep breath. “And when I find her, if I ever find her, I’ll hold her close, no matter what shite is happening around me.”

Because he couldn’t be thinking about love and desire, not with Blackrose still on the loose. He wouldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t risk her.

Beside him, in the not-darkness, Kit took a deep breath. “My father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be—perhaps, were I a woman—I should your lordship.”

It was the stilted phrasing which told Thorne this was a quotation, and it took a long moment to place it. When he did, his eyes flashed open. “Twelfth Night! Shakespeare?” he asked, turning to his valet. Whose hand he held.

Kit smiled sadly. “One of my favorites.”

It had been years since Thorne had read the play, and longer since he’d seen it performed. “Viola says that line to Orsino?”

A quick shake of Kit’s head. “Cesario says it to the duke.”

The duke was Orsino. And Viola was Cesario, at least in that scene. But Thorne sighed and dropped his head back, still holding Kit’s gaze.

“Lad, I dinnae want to hurt ye.”

Kit surged forward with his other hand, but stopped short of reaching for him. Instead, he hovered on the edge of the cushion in the swaying carriage, his fingers squeezing Thorne’s. “You won’t hurt me, Thorne. I want this.”

But was it what Thorne wanted?

How could he sit here, thinking of his future wife—hell, fantasizing about his future wife—already half in love with his valet? The young man beside him was clearly trying to tell Thorne of his own infatuation, with that line from Shakespeare.

But Thorne shouldn’t be encouraging it, no matter how good it made him feel. He needed to focus on Blackrose. Danger was not for everyone.

“Kit,” he sighed. In the dim interior of the coach, the young man’s pale eyes shone brightly. “Last night…” Thorne shook his head. “Thank ye. Ye saw what I wanted—what I needed. I was grateful to be able to turn to someone.” Carefully avoiding how fooking perfect it had felt to wake curled around Kit, he hurried on. “But I dinnae want to use ye. And that’s what I’d be doing. It isnae right.”

Those pale eyes darted over his visage almost desperately. Kit hesitated, then licked his lips, unconsciously drawing Thorne’s attention to them. “I am—I am glad to help. It felt…it felt good to have someone rely on me. I like taking care of…” He swallowed. “Of you.”

Oh good Christ, just the sight of those lips forming those words sent a shudder of need through Thorne. He opened his mouth to respond—

And the coach rocked around another turn, throwing Kit against him. Instinctively, Thorne caught the smaller body against his, wrapping his free arm around the younger man.

And then Kit was kissing him.

Thorne, groaning in surrender, returned the kiss. As if he could do anything else.

Kit didn’t kiss like an innocent. He kissed like someone who knew what he wanted and went after it, and God damn but Thorne thought that was stimulating. After weeks of this young man touching him in only the barest of ways, while seeing him at his absolute worst, it was utterly erotic to feel the way Kit tugged at his lapels, as if trying to get closer—closer—closer.

Despite his claims to be twenty-three, Kit’s skin was as smooth as a lass’s, his lips smaller than Thorne’s. Kit was the one to brush his tongue along Thorne’s, to beg permission before he claimed Thorne, body and soul.

Thorne was lost. Completely lost, to this slight little man who held Thorne in the palm of his hand.

He wanted Kit.

Not as his valet.

Not just as a lover. Not just as a friend.

He wanted Kit forever.

That thought terrified Thorne, and he jerked away just as the town coach rolled up to Stroken House. Kit was shaking, eyes downcast, and Thorne knew he couldn’t hurt the young man anymore.

His fingers were still twined through Kit’s, and he raised the smaller hand to his lips, trying to ignore how thoroughly kissed Kit looked. “Come dancing with me.” The offer—command—rasped from Thorne’s lips, and surprised Kit as much as it had surprised him, judging from the pale darted glance. “Tomorrow evening. Adelina Patti is singing the part of Violetta in La Traviata, and I know ye ken opera. Come with me, then dancing after.”

Kit’s lips formed a little “oh” of surprise, and he ducked his chin so he could peer up through those spiked auburn lashes. “Dancing, Your Grace?”

“Nay.” He squeezed his valet’s fingers once before setting aside his hand. “Come dancing with Thorne.”

Because, in spite of his best intentions, Kit saw him. And Thorne wanted that.

After a long moment, Kit raised his chin and inhaled. “I would like that very much. Thorne.”