Page 22 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
Coming all over himself while the lad knelt at his feet had been the step after that.
And then, falling asleep as his valet scratched his back? That was absolutely the last step. The last step off a cliff.
It was safe to say the employer-employee relationship had been irrevocably changed.
Christ, what hadhappenedlast night? Aye, the whisky had lowered his inhibitions, that was a fine excuse. The promise he’d made not to debauch the lad had seemed less important in the face of Kit’s confident lie that he was twenty-three, and how knowledgeably he spoke of the world. Spoke of sensuality.
Spoke toThorne.
Dear God in Heaven, the story he’d painted…Kit’s imagination was as talented as his fingers on the violin strings, and he’d reached into Thorne’s brain and saidexactlywhat he’d always yearned to hear.
Last night…he’d given up control in the most satisfying way.
The mostundukelyway.
Thorne managed not to groan as he scrubbed his hand over his sleep-addled face, but it was close.
It was suddenly vital henotbe here when Kit awoke. Vital he not have to face the lad until he figured out what this was all about.
Once, many years ago while working a mission with Rourke, his partner had hefted him atop a narrow brick wall, expecting him to scurry along it to the guardhouse and affect an entry. There’d been four-inch spikes set every six inches atop the bricks, so Thorne had no choice but to move along a wall the width of a single brick, placing his feet down in between the spikes, at a dead run.
If he could do that, he could damn well get out of this bed.
Exhaling softly, he rolled toward the edge of the mattress and dropped, catching himself on his fingers and toes, then popping his head over the top of the bed to confirm Kit still slept.
Excellent.
Still balancing on his fingers and toes, Thorne crept toward the dressing room, certain he was making no noise. Once there, he was able to close the door softly and breathe again.
Excellent. Now the simple matter of attiring himself.
But still, it was the quietest bloody dressing in the history of dukely dressing.
And he had to do all the little fiddly buttons himself.
Gathering his boots in his hand, Thorne tiptoed from his chambers, one eye on the door, one on the still-sleeping Kit.
Metaphorically of course. Otherwise he would’ve been cross-eyed.
Silently cursing himself, he padded lightly down the corridor,surprising an upstairs maid when he pressed his finger to his lips and ghosted by.
Food. Food would help. Food would make this whole strange situation…well, not lessstrange,perhaps, but at least it would make more sense.
Well, no, not that either. But at least it would help his headache and sour stomach.
Settling himself in the breakfast room, Thorne ignored the footmen and pulled on his own damned boots. By the time he straightened, he was faced with a plate of normalcy, and inhaled deeply.
Ah.
Eggs, kippers, toast, and averystrong cup of tea. This morning’s copy ofThe Daily Movement,and his upsettingly numerous correspondence.
Just what he needed to feel normal.
But as he delved into his breakfast, there was a part of himself still scowling at his idiocy.
He was the sort of man who enjoyed others’ company. All sorts ofothers. But thoseotherswere divided into very distinct categories:
