Page 13 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
“Yes, I know,” she shot back wryly, going to hang up the neckcloth. “I used to dust in there, remember. The one calledA Harlot’s Guidewasquiteeducational.”
His chuckle had a bit of a maudlin ring to it. “I give you permission to borrow it as often as ye’d like, Kit.”
When she returned to see him kicking off his boots and sinking into one of the chairs by the cold fireplace, her sarcastic retort died on her lips. He looked…comfortable, but ill at ease. The whiskey bottle dangled, almost forgotten, from his fingers, but the glasses were on the table beside him.
Thinking to leave him alone, she bent to scoop up his boots, and surprised herself by asking, “What’s wrong?”
He blinked, as if he’d been thinking of something else, and hummed in answer.
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as Old Maude used tosay. As Kit tucked the boots into their place in the closet, she called out, “You seem…melancholy. My lord. Your Grace.Whatever,” she added under her breath.
“My melons are perfectly uncholeric, I’ll have ye ken,” he retorted. Whenshesnorted, the Duke called out, “And I was merely considering something. Might I ask ye a favor, young Kit?”
Her world for the last fortnight had revolved around caring for this man. She’d been unable to further her search for her father, because she’d been so busy with the Duke of Stroken. But in that moment, Kit realized she didn’t resent it; the thought he needed afavorfrom her sent her hurrying back to the sitting area. “Anything, Your Grace.”
The man was studying her. Then he blew out a breath and straightened, reaching for the glasses. “Might I request that ye call me by my name? And that ye dinnae mention it to Titsworth?”
Kit blinked, vaguely noting he was pouringtwoglasses of whisky. “Titsworth?”
“The man has a handbook of how to butle, Kit, and if ye tell him I told ye, I’ll deny it. Very firm opinions aboutwhat’s done, is my point. My uncle kept a skeleton staff here, so I moved my staff from my auld townhome, and he’s been with me for ages…but good God, dinnae cross him. Whisky?” He held out one of the glasses.
Shifting her weight from foot to foot, Kit tried to follow his explanation. “Titsworth only just finished beating it through my skull that I’m supposed to call youYour Graceinstead of”—she flapped one hand helplessly—“whatever titles you English lords make up. I think hewouldobject to me calling you…?”
“Thorne, please. And I’m Scottish.” He waggled the glass. “I’ve been Thorne much longer than I was ever aYour Grace. Well, actually, my Christian name is Octavius, which is ridiculous.Thorne fits me much better. Are ye going to join me for a drink?”
Having a drink with her employer couldn’t be much worse than calling him by hisname, could it? Numbly, not quite sure what was going on, Kit took the glass from him then stood there awkwardly, cradling it, studying him.
Trying to figure out what was wrong.
“Dinnae tell him about the whisky either,” he mumbled, slouching back in his seat. “Ahandbook, I swear to Christ.”
Actually, Kit could believe that about the butler, whotriedto be stodgy but clearly had a kind heart, as evidenced by the fact he’d praised her playing to her employer. The Duke.Thorne.
As a peace offering, she tried, “Thorne suits you better than Octavius.”
“Both of them were my father’s name, God rest him. They called me “Little O” when I was young, which would’ve been the worst, except when I grew taller than him, he began to call me “The Big O” and frankly, no man should have to hear that from his father. Are ye going to sit down, or loom over me all night?”
Cautiously, Kit lowered herself to the leather chair opposite him, but perched on the edge, in case she needed to run.
And he noticed. “Oh, for fook’s sake, I’m no’ going to bite ye,” he grumbled, gesturing with his whisky glass. “I’m also no’ a monster, to force ye to socialize with someone ye dinnae like, or if ye dinnae drink…”
“I like ye fine,” she blurted, then hid her wince by lifting the glass to her lips. The whisky burned, but not as badly as the rotgut the stage hands used to pass around back home.
When she lowered the glass, his gaze was locked on her lips. Unconsciously, she flicked her tongue across them, to catch the last drops, and his eyes darted across the room.
“Good,” he stated roughly. “Good, we’re finally getting somewhere.”
Were they?“So, why are you in a mood tonight, my—Your—Thorne?”
His lips twitched as he sipped his whisky. “I had an interesting afternoon.”
“With your guests?” She’d heard the commotion in the front hall.
“With one of them. His ideas—his thoughts are…exhausting. Then I saw him home. He’s the younger brother of a friend, and now the stepson and son of another two.”
Before she could think better of it, the question slipped from her lips. “So you prefer to spend time with young lads?”
The Duke of Stroken choked on his whisky.
