Page 3 of The Duke's Mysterious Lover
This skittish footman of his paled once more. Perhaps he wasn’t used to his employers asking such personal questions. “S-Sir?”
“Yer neckcloth. Did ye tie it yerself? Do up all yer buttons? Shine yer shoes?”
Kit glanced down at himself, then moved the empty tray in front of his hips, as if he needed a shield. “Yessir. Your Grace sir. Who…who else would do it for me?”
Thorne grinned. “Who else, indeed? Well, I cannae seem to keep a valet alive for luck or money, Kit Pastorino, and if I’m going to be dragging ye away from yer footmanning duties—footmannish? Footing? Whatever. I might as well do it because ye’ve been given a new position.”
It was clear the lad wasn’t following. “Position, sir? Playing violin?”
“Valet, Kit!” Thorne boomed, smiling. “Try to keep up! Ye’re my new valet!”
Chapter 1
Katherine Pastorino,known to family and friends asKitsince the day she was born, tried not to stare at her employer’s penis.
“Good lord, lad, if ye blush any pinker, ye’ll burn yer necktie!” With a teasing grin, Thorne Cumming, the Duke of Stroken, snatched the towel from her hand and wrapped it around his trim waist as he climbed from the tub. “Ye’d think ye’ve never seen a naked man before!”
Ah.
That, of course, was the unintended problem with cutting one’s hair and donning trousers.Ladswere expected to know what penises looked like.Ladswere expected tohavepenises, and presumably to have played with them regularly.
Kit had not.
Obviously.
Oh, she’dseenpenises before, and even knew what to do with them. It wasn’t hard—uhh,difficult, once one had the basics. But she rarely had the opportunity toplaywith them.
Although, if she were being honest with herself, her employer had one she wouldn’t mind playing with, not one bit.How in the hell did a lazy, entitled, spoiled rake like the Duke of Stroken—because yes, she’d heard his reputation, even newly arrived in London—manage to keep so fit? He looked as if he could have modeled for Michelangelo—who’d known a perfect male specimen when he’d seen one—with those abdominal muscles that slid into a vee which seemed to point her gaze to—
“Drain the water, would ye, Kit?” the Duke called over his shoulder as he strolled into his dressing room. “Then come help me choose a waistcoat for tonight.”
“Yessir,” she mumbled, pleased for the reprieve, glad he hadn’t realized therealreason her cheeks had heated.
Knowing well his impatience, she hurried to drain the water from the tub and wipe up the bubbles from the porcelain. It had been bad enough having to stand there with a stack of towels, but when he’d asked her to scrub his back—
Let’s just say that her blush had started somewhere around his right flank, and was still threatening her blood pressure.
“Kit!” he called as she tossed the towel into the hamper.
“I’m coming, Your Grace!”
At least she was getting better at remembering to call him that, instead ofSir, which was what her American-born mother had instilled in her. Titsworth had drilled her incessantly in Kit’s first week in the Stroken household, and although she sometimes forgot, shewasgetting better.My lordapparently wasn’t good enough for dukes, either.
Not that this particular duke seemed to care one way or the other, she thought as she all but skidded into the dressing room to find a half-naked man holding two waistcoats.
“No, no,” he quipped, without looking up. “I’mCumming, you’re arriving.” He shot a grin over his shoulder, but not the sort of grin which inspired confidence. More like he was waiting for a laugh, so she offered a weak one.
That’s what servants did, didn’t they? Laugh at their master’s terrible jokes?
He’d already turned back to his clothing selection. “Now, I realize ye’re no’ a fashion expert, and are here mainly so I dinnae have to do all the fiddly buttons myself, but which looks better with my hair this length? The purple or the sky blue?”
Oh hell.
The Duke now turned, holding both waistcoats up by a broad expanse of chest, and Kit panicked. How was she supposed to answer this?Knowing your way around London fashionhadn’t been on the job description when she’d applied for the role of footman.
Her role here in Stroken House had just been the coverup she’d needed to allow her time to look for and spy on her father. Waistcoats hadnotbeen relevant.
“Um…the sky blue. Your Grace.” She busied herself scooping up the man’s trousers from the wardrobe and picking imaginary lint away so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. “Matches your eyes.”
