Page 8 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
He’d finished all the correspondence, read through last month’s reports from his stewards, and was finally able to tackle the social issues he’d been looking forward to. This article, written by the Duke of Effinghell and originally published in the reform paperThe Daily Movement,was particularly interesting.
Or at least, he assumed it was.
Focus.
Aye, focus.
Sighing, he scrubbed his hand across his face. Perhaps he’d been focusing for too long, and that was the problem. He genuinelydidcare about Effinghell’s thoughts on child labor in the mines in Yorkshire, but the words seemed to blur together.
The music slowed, and when it reached the natural end of the movement, stopped.
When it didn’t begin again with a new piece, Thorne realized he was resting with his head against the back of his uncle’s leather chair, and peeked one eye open.
“Why’d ye stop?”
Kit froze in the instant he’d been lowering his instrument, those adorable pale eyes going wide. “I thought you were asleep.”
Thorne’s lips twitched. Helikedthis American of his. He liked the way the lad didn’t bow and scrape, but treated him as…well, not a friend, not yet, but as someone who deserved a truthful answer. His instinct was not to lie, even for politeness. He liked that.
With another sigh, he pushed himself upright.
“Nay, no’ asleep. Just…resting my eyes. That was Vivaldi, aye?”
The lad looked surprised. “Aye—I mean, yes. I…” He hesitated, then lowered his eyes.
Thorne was becoming used to the way his valet thought. “Aye, laddie?”
“I didn’t expect you to recognize it. Most people just hear pretty music.”
Thorne burst into laughter.
At Kit’s look of surprise, the older man waved away the explanation and pulled open one of the drawers to his side. Pulling out a folio, he beckoned Kit over before flipping it open.
His valet gasped at the sight of the sheet music stacked inside. He held his violin and bow in one hand and reached for the paper. “I didn’t know you played, my lord.”
Thorne snorted. “I don’t. I just appreciate music.”
Kit had found the Vivaldi—notLa Primavera,which he’d just played, but another of Thorne’s favorites. “There are pencil notations on these.” Pale eyes turned his way as if he’d learned a daring secret. “I’ve never known someone toappreciatemusic this way who didn’t play! My lor—Your Grace.”
It was really quite charming, the way the lad couldn’t seem to remember the honorifics. After the first few days in Kit’s company, Thorne had given up correcting him, because honestly, he couldn’t care less what he was called. After a lifetime ofmy lord, it was difficult to remember he was suddenly aYour Grace. Neither title really mattered to him.
Being asirto an American? Fine by him.
But truthfully, he would preferThorne.
The youth was still staring at him, so Thorne shrugged, not as gracefully as he would’ve liked, and stacked the papers back together.
“I learned to play the piano when I was a boy,” he admitted, fingers lingering over the clef and key signature and notes. “I had a little talent for it, but I found the sheet music…pleasing.”
“Youreadsheet music?” Kit blurted. When Thorne scowled, his valet merely shook his head, as though attempting to rid the confusion from his mind. “You read it for enjoyment—not for playing?”
That wasn’t really so remarkable, was it? It wasn’t as if he read them forfun. He had a shelf of naughty novels for that sort of thing.The Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Artsdidn’t have a plot, but it was more fun to read than sheet music!
But aye, the neat arrangement ofcrotchetandquaversoften helped calm his mind.Still...
Thorne pulled the folio from under the lad’s hand, closing it up. “I told ye, I dinnae play.”
“But I do.”
