Page 31 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Because he couldn’t be thinking aboutloveanddesire, 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 dukewasOrsino. And ViolawasCesario, 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 whatThornewanted?
How could he sit here, thinking of his future wife—hell,fantasizingabout his future wife—already half in love with his valet? The young man beside him was clearly trying to tellThorne 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 Ineeded. I was grateful to be able to turn to someone.” Carefully avoiding how fookingperfectit 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 feltgoodto 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 ofneedthrough 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 Goddamnbut 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 assmooth 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 Kitforever.
That thought terrified Thorne, and he jerked away just as the town coach rolled up to Stroken House. Kit was shaking, eyes downcast, and Thorneknewhe 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 inLa 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 withThorne.”
Because, in spite of his best intentions, Kit sawhim. And Thorne wanted that.
