Page 129 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Groaning good-naturedly, Thorne scrubbed his hand over his face. “Will I ever live that down?”
“I think she’s flattered, truthfully,” Danielle admitted with a cheeky smile. “And she seems to be reveling the title ofDowager Countess, despite having avoided it for so long.”
Thorne—and Kit—now knew the truth; Gloria Pastorino had avoided Britain all these years because of herhusband.
And neither of them could blame her.
Kit’s mother had arrived a fortnight after Blackrose’s death, and after the initial reunion, had sat them both down to explain. Apparently Thorne’s letter to her to watch herself had been enough to convince her she needed to tell her daughter the truth.
I fell in love with him, darling. Oh, he was so handsome, so suave. I know now he was that way with everyone, but I wanted him as much as he wanted me. But I refused to become his lover; I saw theway he was, and I knew I wanted more than just a night or two with him. I wanted his heart, the way he held mine.
The memory of that lovely voice confessing such details made Thorne sad. Kit, who’d been holding her mother’s hand, had smiled softly. “So you married him?”
At the risk of embarrassing us all, I refused to sleep with him until we were married. I knew he was the younger son of an earl, but I did not know the details. I did not care; to me, he was merelyWilliam. He left when you were younger than two, claiming business back in England. A few months, and he would return, he said. I soon understood what he meant. He sent money, but it came with a caveat. I was never to claim his name, nor acknowledge our relationship. He said it was important to his business for the Crown that no one know he was married, and if he ever heard rumors, he would move to silence them.
The way the famous singer had shivered had left little doubt in Thorne’s mind what Blackrose had meant. He’d threatened to silence her if she spoke of their relationship. The bastard had clearly regretted the marriage, but short of killing Gloria—and she was remarkably agile, always moving from theatre to theatre, town to town, country to country—the best he could do was assure her silence.
Thorne and Kit had managed to convince Gloria that she was safe now, and the Crown had exonerated them all so they could live in peace. Last Thorne had heard, his new mother-in-law was planning on moving her permanent residence to London to be closer to Kit, although she would continue to tour as long as she was in demand.
Thorne hoped she’d be satisfied with only occasional proximity to her daughter, because he’d planned to keep Kit in the Highlands as long and as often as possible. He loved it here, and as he’d predicted, so did she. The wide open spaces appealed to her American sensibilities, and his suspicions whenever she sped through his paperwork were realized: she had a talent for estate management which far surpassedThorne’s. Now that she was in charge of both Stroken and Bonkinbone, he vowed to honor her skills.
“Why are you all hiding over here?” demanded averypregnant Olivia, as she waddled up on her husband’s arm. Effinghell was silent, as always, but his eyes twinkled with humor when he nodded to Thorne as his wife continued, “Your bride is clearly desperate to be rescued, Thorne. Fawkes, I found your daughter wrestling with a dog in the foyer.”
“Aye,” intoned Fawkes solemnly. “These things happen.”
“Merida is seven,” Danielle explained, “and thus has negative interest in her Uncle Thorne’s wedding but unlimited interest in animals. How is your sister, Alistair?”
The hulking duke nodded to the pair whirling about the dancefloor, and Thorne huffed a small chuckle.
“Even Kipling is wearing his colors. And ye look smashing in the Kincaid kilt, Effinghell, even if ye’re tall enough that far too much of yer thighs are showing.”
Bull snorted. “As if ye’re one to judge another man’s knees, Thorne. But does anyone else think it interesting so many of yer friends are Scottish?”
“Scottishdukes,” Olivia corrected.
“Scottish dukes who are also ex-spies,” offered Danielle.
“Scottish, ex-spies who also happened to unexpectedly and rather suddenly inherit dukedoms,” Bull smirked.
Humming, Thorne looked around the room, his eyes landing on his friends. Rourke. Demon. Griffin. And here was Fawkes and Alistair with Olivia.
“Nay,” he finally said. “Nay, I guess I never noticed. What a surprise.”
Giggling, Olivia shoved him toward the dancefloor. “Go collect your wife, you dobber.”
With a grin, Thorne complied, the laughter of his friends and family followed him.
Kit tookspecial care to hang her gown so it wouldn’t wrinkle. It was the finest ball gown she owned, and now it was her wedding gown, and Bull had made it very clear that she was to bloody well treat it right, no matter if Thorne kept trying to distract her with his kisses.
“At least the kilt is easier to maintain,” she grumbled as she returned to the master chambers in her new home. “Fewer small buttons.”
“Aye, and easier access,” he murmured, bending close enough to brush his lips across her bare skin as she presented her back to him so he could unclasp the Stroken jewels from around her neck. “Remind me to show ye.”
As she released her corset with a sigh, Kit arched her back slightly, pressing her arse against his hardness. “I think I can guess.”
The weight of the necklace released, her new husband chuckled. “Still, a practical demonstration might be in order.”
They’d done this many times, by now. It had been months since her father died, since she’d taken on this new role. She loved that Thorne still relied on her, still treasured her music. She loved that he still willingly gave her control in the bedroom—and that he hadn’t found a new valet.
