Page 55 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
“Blackrose is hosting a betrothal ball in a few days,” the lad hadhissed at Thorne, his eyes dancing with excitement and his never-still fingers spinning a silver spoon across his knuckles. “He willnae ken everyone there, because Lady Emma will invite her friends. That’s our opportunity to get into his house and steal the information we need.”
Thorne’s immediate response had been to say no, but he was glad he’d clamped down on the instinct. As much as he hated to admit it, Bull wasright. Although it would put them in the heart of danger, with the number of people at Bonkinbone for the betrothal ball, Thorne should be able to sneak in without trouble.
“I’ll go,”Bull had said, and Thornehadattempted to quash that plan. Unfortunately, when the lad pointed out that Blackrose would recognize any of the rest of them, Thorne couldn’t argue with that.
We need someone good with disguises.
And Thorne had known who he needed to ask.
But how to ask Kit for help without telling her everything?
Simple. Ye tell her everything.
And why not? He loved her, didn’t he? He was hoping for a future with her. She deserved to know of the horrors he’d committed, the way his friend’s wives had learned everything.
Perhaps she’ll be able to help.
She’d spent years in the theater, and clearly had worn her own disguise for months. But even if she couldn’t help hiding Thorne’s identity at the ball, he found himselfyearningto tell her everything. He wanted her to know his past.
Even if she would condemn him for it.
Swallowing, Thorne lifted his head from the chair as Kit hit the last note, pulling her bow leisurely across the strings. Christ, she was beautiful with her eyes closed, swaying gently in place, a small smile on her lips.
As the note ended, her eyes slowly opened, and she waslooking right at him. When their gazes collided, he smiled and she returned it.
This felt right.
“Thank ye,” he murmured.
Still smiling, Kit lowered her instrument. “I couldn’t tell if you were falling asleep.”
“Nay.” He shifted into a more comfortable position and rolled his shoulders. “Just…thinking.”
She hummed as she placed her violin carefully into its case. “Do you know you mutter to yourself when you’re frustrated? Something about sheep?”
“Aye.” He slapped the back of his hand against the pile of papers on his desk. “There’s so much. I kenned there would be, it’s just…” He sighed and slumped once more. “I’m no’ a leader. I neverhadto be a leader.”
“And now you do,” she agreed in a soft tone, crossing toward the desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” Thorne brightened, and she scoffed. “Besidesdistracting you from your work.”
Since she’d said it so primly, Thorne could guess what she’d thought he’d meant, and chuckled softly. “Aye, if ye’re willing. Help me sort this pile. I confess I’m no’ the most organized.”
She snorted as she moved in front of the desk. “You’re talking to the person who has to pick up your clothing when you drop it every which way.”
It had been a fond sort of tone, but the reminder she was still acting as his valet made him a little uncomfortable.
What’s the alternative? She acts as yer mistress?
Wouldn’t that be easier?
She’d be exchanging sex for room and board then. Now she works for a living, draws a salary, and any fun ye have is on the side. Equal terms.
Aye, there was that.
“What are you looking for?”
He forced his attention back to the piles in front of him. “I think this pile is related to Stroken, and this is London. I mean, dinnae wager on it, because I’ve been muddling them. Can ye confirm each pile, at least, so I dinnae have to switch tracks with each new correspondence?”
She was already bent over the piles. “And within the London pile, I’m assuming you want personal correspondence separate from business separate from—See? This is a bill from your tailor. I’m putting it on top because youdefinitelyneed to pay him. I’m running out of shirts for you as it is.”
