Page 81 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
“Well that’s daft. He has plenty of people to help him run Stroken, and we’re all here to take down Blackrose.”
“That’s what I’ve told him, but he has this stupid idea—”
“I can hear ye,” Thorne growled at his reflection in the window. “Although I suppose that’s the point.”
“Yes,” agreed Kit cheerfully. “We’re trying to distract you.”
“Yemight be trying to distract him,” Fawkes said, “but I’m trying to insult him.”
“Get in line,” Thorne muttered.
“See? That’s what I mean,” Kit sighed. “He’s worried. I could fetch my violin?”
“That does seem to help him.”
Kit hummed. “He says it helps him think—”
“Oh, for fook’s sake,” Thorne blurted, swinging about. “I’m fine.”
Fawkes and Kit were both grinning at him, and Thorne realized he’d played right into their teasing. Rolling his eyes, he dragged his hand through his hair again.
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
And the thing was…hedidfeel better. These two people meant the most to him, and it made him feel better to know they cared about him as well.
He wasn’t alone, just as Kit had always told him.
The tension in his shoulders slowly eased, and he felt his lips twitch in response to the knowing smile Kit had turned on him.
He suspected, with her at his side, he was beyond “fine”.
Thorne opened his mouth to tell her so, but was interrupted by Titsworth clearing his throat. The butler stood in the doorway.
“Your Grace, the Duke of Lickwick begs an audience, along with the Duchess and her sister and their…accoutrements.”
“Accoutrements, boorish pissnozzle?” came Demon’s growl from the foyer. “Did ye hear that, love?”
“Yes, dear, hold the basket of nappies, please.”
“Malodorous turd-turnips, the man needs a lesson in manners!”
Thorne pressed his lips together to hide the grin that came at Demon’s expense. His friend hated to leave his secluded home and travel hundreds of miles, so it was no wonder he was grumpier than usual in London…but Demon hated pomp and circumstance even more.
So Thorne, of course, had to out-pompous him.
“The Duke of Lickwick, ye said, Titsworth?” Thorne tapped his chin, as if trying to recall the name. “Did the man bring a calling card?”
“A calling card?” roared Demon’s voice from the foyer.
“I am devastated to report, not, Your Grace,” Titsworth intoned. “Do you suspect the rogue might be lying about his identity?”
“Ye can never be too certain these days, Titsworth. Hobble back out there and ask the dobber if he brought any sort of identification. Decline any money he offers ye.”
“Pusillanimous spunkmuffins!” growled the short-tempered Demon as he tried to push past Titsworth, “get the fook out of my way, auld man!”
Although unintentional, theauld mancaused the butler’s eyes to glint in pleasure, and he bowed carefully. “Your Grace, welcome to Stroken House. Allow me to assist your wife with her bags.”
Unaware he’d just made a friend for life, Demon stomped into the sitting room. “She’s no’ abag, she’s my daughter!” He halted in the middle of the room and spun back to glare at the butler. “Dinnae hide any of the bags, she needs them all!”
