Chapter 8
“I likely should’ve askedthis sooner, Thorne, but where exactly are we going?”
Kit was sitting beside him again in the dark interior of the carriage, trundling through London. She felt as if she were flying, her blood still buzzing with excitement.
The opera had been magnificent.
They’d purchased tickets, which meant they’d sat in the stalls of the Royal Opera House rather than up in the boxes with the rest of Society. Thorne’s simple suit—hers as well, for that matter—didn’t mark them as people who belonged up there, and had allowed them anonymity.
It had allowed them to clutch at each other’s hands, as Violetta sang her love for Alfredo. The sheer magnitude of Adelina Patti’s talent had caused a lump in Kit’s throat, and when she’d glanced at Thorne, it was to see tears on his cheeks.
Yes, the opera had been magnificent, and brought back so many happy memories. But it had been the opportunity to share it with Thorne which had made it so incredibly special.
And now?
Now they were heading someplace to dance, Kit’s heart thumping wildly in anticipation, her palms itching.
Perhaps Thorne felt the same way; his knee was bouncing up and down. But at her question, he stilled, then made a little noise of exasperation. “Och, have ye been sitting over there, worrying? My apologies, Kit. We’re going to a music hall near Drury Lane. I thought ye wouldnae mind the company of theater folk tonight, after that performance?”
She chuckled, and used the momentum of the carriage to disguise the way she shifted closer to him. “I’m just excited to be out.” With you. “Seeing Patti perform was a dream come true, and I appreciated not having to sit with Society.”
He clucked his tongue, and—assured of their privacy—reached for her hand. “Ye dinnae want to come face to face with yer father?”
So she shrugged. “I want to observe him, but on my terms. Frankly, there’s not much chance he’d recognize me dressed like this.”
“As a valet?” Thorne hummed. “If ye ever want to borrow a fancy suit—”
This time her laughter was louder, and she nudged him with her elbow. “I’m your valet. You can’t lend me clothes! I’m the one that cares for them, remember?”
His laughter sounded rueful. “Aye, apologies. I suppose ye’re far too small for my clothing. Och, well, Bull is brilliant at pulling what ye need from his arse, and even better when it comes to fashion, so we can ask him—”
“I don’t think I need anything from Bull’s arse, but thank you.” At his snort of laughter, Kit leaned her shoulder against his. “I’m delighted to be going to a music hall, Thorne, especially in the theater district, and I’ll be forever grateful for the opportunity to attend the opera. With you.”
When he rubbed his thumb against the back of her hand, she realized neither of them were wearing gloves. That should’ve been a sign that they weren’t going anywhere fancy; that, and the fact that Thorne was dressed in a simple suit no finer than the one she wore.
Just two friends, on their way to listen to some music.
But…friends didn’t clutch each other as if Thorne’s hand were a lifeline. Friends didn’t rest their temples against Thorne’s shoulder. Friends didn’t dream of climbing atop Thorne’s lap and kissing him again.
She’d touched herself last night, thinking of him, gasping for him, and it hadn’t been enough.
What was it about this man? Despite having seen every inch of him in the last weeks, she didn’t know him, did she?
“How did your meeting with your cousin—and Bull—go?” she asked over-loud, to drown out her doubts.
“It was good to see them.” Thorne lifted her hand, placing it on his thigh so he could caress each of her fingers. “They…saw some things I hadnae seen.”
They’d been speaking of things Kit didn’t understand—a black rose and a poisoner and a trap. “I find it hard to believe that there were things you hadn’t seen.”
His chuckle sounded forced. “Och, believe me, I can be dense sometimes. They claimed I’m wooing ye.”
Kit froze.
The wild thumping of her heart seemed loud in the sudden silence brought on by her lack of breath.
“Are you?” she managed.
“I dinnae ken. I suppose it would depend on how open ye are to being wooed.”
“I’m—Thorne, you can’t woo me like this.” She sat upright, but couldn’t bear to pull her hand from his. “I’m…” You think I’m a man.
“Believe me, it’s no’ how I imagined my wooing going either. I thought I’d marry, father children, continue on the line…” He gave a sad little huff which might’ve been a laugh. “I’ve had a lot to think about today.”
She swallowed. “I…can’t marry you, Thorne.” She was a nobody; the illegitimate offspring of an illegitimate relationship. Also, supposedly, a male. “But strictly out of curiosity, how does this wooing work?”
This time, his snort of laughter seemed more natural. “Well, I suppose we’d start by learning more about one another. I ken ye have secrets—yer father’s name, for instance—but so do I.” His thumb continued to skim over her skin. “So we just sort of agree to avoid those topics. Tell me about yer mother. Tell me of yer adventures together.”
It was a safe subject, and a joyful one, at that.
Kit spent the remainder of the journey to Drury Lane reminiscing about performances and people she’d known. Not quite to her surprise, Thorne was an engaged audience, asking knowledgeable questions, offering insights and jokes. He knew some of the same people she did—at least tangentially—and they had fun swapping stories.
Fun.
Yes, that’s what it was. Being with Thorne was fun. Which was remarkable.
“Do you know everyone?” she teased, even as the coach rolled to a stop.
“Aye, I like people,” he said simply, reaching for the door. “I like meeting them, learning their stories, and I dinnae care where they’re from. They’re still interesting.”
She watched him climb out of the carriage and turn to offer his hand, as if she was a fine lady. “I think you must be the most remarkable man I’ve ever met, Thorne Cumming.”
His laughter buoyed them into the music hall.
She’d visited music halls before, of course, but this one was unusual. Instead of the sedate Society audience she expected, this room—the building—was filled with…well, everyone.
There was a lively band playing on a little dais in the corner, rather than an orchestra upon a stage. Arranged around the edges there were tables and chairs where people sat and drank concoctions sold at a bar. And in the middle of the room, people danced.
And oh how they danced!
Currently the band played a polka, and in the middle of the room, couples swept through the steps, as a joyous energy filled the space.
The couples weren’t who she expected, either. There were finely dressed men and women, and a few men wearing the clothing of laborers. And more than a few women whose gowns were pulled just a little too low in the front to be proper.
Along the walls, there were more couples laughing and standing—or sitting—together, of all combinations. Women sat too close to men for good propriety, and in the shadows of a large fern, two men appeared to be whispering at one another and laughing. A pair of women sitting in chairs near the band held hands as if their lives depended upon it, and one group of two men and a woman seemed perfectly content to all hold one another.
“What is this place?” Kit laughed, raising her voice over the music as Thorne led her to a free table.
“This, darling, is freedom!” He grinned down at her. “Here people can be themselves, and we’re near enough to the theater district that no one judges anyone else. I told ye I wanted to dance, aye?”
“Aye,” she laughed, sweeping her arm wide as she took a seat. “And there’s plenty of opportunity to do so!”
His hand lingered on her shoulder, but then he was gone, heading for the bar. She watched him make his way through the crowd, responding to people who called him Thorne instead of Your Grace, happily at ease here.
A truly remarkable sort of duke, Kit could admit. A remarkable man. A remarkable soul.
Thorne was full of such enthusiasm and delight, and he wanted those around him to be happy.
He has a darkness in his past, remember.
Yes, but perhaps that’s why he was full of such desperate light now.
He was laughing when he returned with a pair of ales and plunked down beside her. They both scooted their chairs closer together, and when they realized what they’d done, shared a smile.
“This way we can continue our conversation.” This close he didn’t have to yell.
Kit sipped from her ale and shook her head. “I want to hear about your family now. And your childhood. You said you traveled?”
His gaze was on her lips, and she wondered if he was remembering that kiss in the dark carriage. But he reached out and gently swiped his thumb across her upper lip. She felt the tingle of bubbles, and realized the foam had given her the mustache she’d needed.
“My parents were homebodies,” he began, “and I was quite the spoiled little lad. I didnae really travel until Blackrose began to send me on missions, after I finished my education. As a child, I never wanted to leave home.”
There was that name again—Blackrose. And what sort of missions? Kit pushed the questions aside, focusing on what he could tell her. “Spoiled? You?”
“Anything I wanted, I got.” Grinning, he drank from his ale. “My parents never told me I had to be proper, and anything I showed an interest in, they jumped at the chance to give it to me.”
“Like what?” she challenged.
“Fishing? Father took me to the wharfs every day one spring to help pull in the nets. Ballet? They hired a private instructor. And when I wanted to learn to do back handsprings, they brought in a circus acrobat to teach me. That same woman taught me pugilism, now that I think of it.”
Now it was Thorne’s turn to have the ale-residue on his upper lip. Without thinking, and still chuckling at the stories of his childhood, Kit reached out to wipe her thumb along his upper lip.
But when she went to pull back, he caught her wrist. Holding her gaze, he brought her hand back to his mouth, and closed his lips around her thumb.
It was as if an electric shock had gone through her.
At her little gasp, his lips twitched into a smirk, and he released her. She glanced about to see if anyone had noticed the intimate interaction between two males. No one seemed to care.
She realized that, were she an actual man, this would be the ideal place to be seen touching Thorne.
But she wasn’t a man, and she was tired of the pretext. At least with him.
The fact he’d admitted to wanting to woo her, despite not imagining himself with another man, told Kit that whatever this was between them…it was honest. He liked her for her, not because of her body or what she looked like. If anything, he liked her despite it—he was a duke, and dukes needed heirs. It was the most honest attraction she’d experienced…and the least she could do was be honest with him.
But how?
After this long, how to tell him Oh by the way, I’m actually a woman?
Best just to get it said. “Thorne, I—”
A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Thorne reacted faster than she’d thought possible, whirling about and breaking the stranger’s hold. But his eyes lit up when he saw the heavyset older woman standing behind him.
“Molly, love, how are ye?”
Her smile was full of genuine fondness. “I thought you’d forgotten us, dearie. I hope you still remember how to dance?”
Molly didn’t give Thorne time to say no, pulling him from the table. Laughing, he sent Kit a shrug and followed the woman out to the dancefloor.
Kit grinned as she watched them go. Yes, she’d been enjoying Thorne’s company, but she couldn’t deny that he’d wanted to dance, and watching the pair was an education.
Thorne had said he loved to dance, and his happiness was obvious. He spun, he twirled, he stomped, keeping time in an elaborate dance with the larger woman. The pair had clearly danced together before, each of them taking turns leading and following, and chatting when they were together.
And Kit found she didn’t mind watching them, nor the others in the room. The dance hall was full of people who were genuinely enjoying themselves, and there was something uplifting in that. This was so unlike the staid and stuffy Society events Mother had dragged her to over the years to bask in the honors from some opera-loving sponsor, where Kit could barely move in the corsets and bustles.
Her knee was bouncing, her fingers tapping along with the lively fiddler, and she realized she was jealous. She wanted to dance as well.
You only know the woman’s part.
Yes, but that would be a problem here.
“Come along, darling!” The voice at her side caused Kit to jerk sideways, her reaction far less smooth and seamless than Thorne’s. “You must dance at least once!”
The hand which grabbed hers was larger, but the nails were manicured. Kit’s gaze followed the arm until it reached the cheerful smile of the woman standing over her. Molly’s opposite, this woman was slender and tall, her dark hair swept into a style a few years out of date.
She tugged, and Kit found herself rising. “Apologies, madam, I don’t dance,” she said stiffly with a little bow.
But the woman—her hair was almost too dark to be natural, her face heavy with makeup—merely tsked and pulled Kit toward her. “Impossible. This is a dance hall, darling, and your escort has been rude enough to leave you. So you’ll dance with me. I’m Evie.”
Kit was certain her brows were near her hairline as Evie yanked her forward, plastering her against the taller woman. “No, I— Sorry, I can’t—”
“Hush, darling,” Evie commanded, placing her hand on Kit’s shoulder, waiting to be swept into the rousing two-step the band was playing.
Kit felt herself flushing again, and she lowered her voice to a hiss. “I don’t know this. I don’t know the steps.” I don’t know the man’s part.
Something like interest flickered in Evie’s eyes, and she switched her hold, dropping her hand to Kit’s hip and pulling her closer. “I’ll lead, darling, try to keep up.”
And just like that, Evie launched into movement, dragging Kit along…dancing the man’s part.
At least Kit knew this dance as a woman.
They swung past a laughing Thorne, who did a double-take when he saw Kit’s position. And then they were across the room, and Evie was leading the steps masterfully. Kit twirled out—which felt strange as hell in a suit—and back, and realized what it was that had struck her as so odd about the woman dancing with her.
“Madam,” she managed, in a slower part of the song, “your adam’s apple is showing.”
Instead of being surprised, Evie merely tossed “her” head back and laughed. “It is indeed, darling. I wondered how long it would take you to notice. And your ballocks”—Kit’s partner pulled her flush against the taller body—“are missing.”
Indeed, beneath the layers of petticoat Evie must be wearing, Kit could feel a bulge. And likewise, she knew Evie could feel nothing of hers.
Flushing again, Kit moved to put space between them.
“You’re a marvelous dancer, darling,” Evie cooed, “even if you only know the woman’s part.”
Kit cleared her throat, finding it easier to focus her gaze across the room than on her partner, who’d seen through her easier than anyone else. “Yes, well, can I be blamed?”
“Oh, don’t be cross!” Evie was leading her toward the back wall. “I only noticed because I am very, very good at looking for people like us.”
People like us.
But while Kit wore men’s clothing because she appreciated the freedom of trousers and pockets and not having to be considered a second-class citizen because of her uterus, this wasn’t who she was.
It wasn’t that she felt more herself when wearing men’s clothes, as she imaged Evie felt about her gown. It was just…simpler. A means to an end.
Unintentionally, her gaze slammed into Thorne’s, who was finishing his dance with Molly.
She wanted to tell him.
She wanted him to know the real her.
Evie hummed and swung her to a stop, though Kit’s head still spun. “You look as if you’ve come to a realization, darling.”
Kit opened her mouth, her gaze focused on the person in front of her once more. The person who’d been born one gender, but dressed as the other. And she closed her mouth again.
There was nothing to say, really, was there?
Smiling softly, Evie’s hand rose to cup Kit’s cheek. “Smooth as a baby’s bottom. Either Thorne has very specific tastes, or he’s completely clueless.”
“Clueless,” Kit managed to choke out, which caused Evie to burst into peals of very feminine laughter.
When Thorne jogged over, breathing heavily, perspiration at his brow, and smiling, Evie turned to him.
“Thorne, darling, your friend is delightful. Do bring him around more often!”
Evie brushed a kiss across Thorne’s cheek, and he returned the embrace, his laughing, questioning gaze still on Kit.
Then Evie was gone and Thorne was reaching for her just as the band slowed the tempo to a more sedate waltz. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to step into Thorne’s arms and rest her hand above his shoulder and place her hand in his.
But he didn’t sweep her away. Instead, he went through the steps of the waltz, holding her close, each moving no more than a few feet in either direction.
“Do you know…Evie?” she asked softly, a stupid question, considering the embrace.
Thorne’s little huff of laughter ruffled the little hairs around her ears. “In daylight, Evie is one of my solicitor’s men. Here, though, she can be herself.”
Be herself.
It seemed an important lesson, if only Kit could grasp it.
Tucked in the shadows at the back of the dance hall, leaving the energetic dancing to those on the dance floor, this position felt…intimate. Private.
In fact, Thorne’s movements slowed further until he was merely swaying in place, holding her.
Kit’s heart pounded, wondering what this meant to him. Was he as breathless in anticipation? Hesitantly, she stepped closer, wondering if she’d be bold enough to press her pelvis to his, to feel if he was as aroused as she was.
Or perhaps, when he spoke of wooing Kit, it wasn’t a sexual thing.
She swallowed, determined to discover the truth, and pressed herself up on her toes to claim his lips.
The little noise of surrender he made was worth it.
His hold on her tightened; his fingers spread across her lower back, pulling her closer closer closer until their chests touched. His other hand dropped hers and rose to cup the side of her neck, fingers digging into her hair, holding her in place.
And his lips…
Dio Benedetto,his lips!
Joy rose in her as she matched his kiss, his playful sorties and strategic retreats, until she was leaning against him. In one motion, he pressed her to him, lifting her feet from the floor, and whirled.
Kit had no time to be alarmed before her toes hit the ground again and she felt the wall at her back. When Thorne moved closer, the hand that had been at her back now pressed against the wood beside her, she smiled under his lips.
Yes, he’d trapped her between his body and the wall, but it allowed him to plaster his body against hers, and she could now feel the evidence of his desire. But as Evie had pointed out, Kit had no ballocks.
Time to grow some.
Kit wrenched herself away. “Thorne,” she gasped.
But then he was leaning toward her, pressing his forehead against hers, his breathing harsh. She forgot her words as they stood there in the shadows, sharing each other’s breath.
“I want…” Thorne groaned, eyes closed. “I want to take ye someplace private, Kit.”
The jumble of emotions in her chest burst into a wry chuckle. “I have full reign of your bed chamber, Thorne.”
His lovely blue eyes had opened, peering into hers, so close she wondered if he could really see her. “I like it when you call me that,” he offered with a small smile. “It’s like ye really see me.”
But then he took a deep breath and straightened just enough that he could see her truly. “I’ve never done this before.” As if to underscore which this he meant, he flexed his hips forward, and she wondered if he realized how beautifully his hardness nestled into the throbbing cradle between her legs.
“Done what?” She smiled wickedly. “Slept with a man?”
He grimaced. “Wooed one.”
“Well I have.”
Thorne blinked as if trying to make sense of the conversation. “Wooed a man?”
“Slept with one.” She likely shouldn’t tease him. She likely should just come out and tell him the truth. But Thorne was fun. And he liked her—was attracted to her—no matter how she looked. “And I must tell you, Your Grace, you’re very much my type.”
His lips twitched ruefully. “Well, never let it be said ye dinnae ken what ye like.”
Her chuckles burst free again. She couldn’t help it; the way her blood was thrumming made her feel delightful. “And I suppose I should be flattered that I’m the first valet you’ve wanted to sleep with.”
“I dinnae want—och, nay, I do want to sleep with ye, Kit.” He leaned closer again. “I want to hold ye. But first, I want to make ye feel the way ye made me feel. No valet has made me feel this way.”
Since his lips were less than an inch from her cheek, Kit could forgive herself for breathlessness when she asked, “What way?” and turned slightly so her lips were next to his.
His gaze darted across her face, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t kiss her. “I feel…as if every moment of every day, I’m focused on ye. My pulse is buzzing, my heart pounding for ye. Nae matter if ye’re no’ in the room, I still ken where ye are.”
Oh.
Oh, my.
Suddenly, the way he looked at her while she played for him made more sense.
Suddenly, her hand was in his, and he was pressing her palm to his chest. “Feel that, Kit?” he whispered. “Every beat is yer name.”
“I…I’m flattered…”
When he chuckled, it sounded almost pained, and yes, there was something wrong in his gaze. “Ye should be. I think I was yer age the last time I felt this way about someone, and she was ten years my senior.”
He wasn’t kissing her again. In fact, he seemed as if he was holding himself back. “So…” Kit swallowed. “Is it the fact I’m your valet that makes you hesitate?” she whispered. “It’s not because I’m…dressed as a man?” Thorne had embraced Evie for herself, after all.
“A man?” he snorted. “Yer’re a laddie.” His forehead dropped to hers again, a grimace tightening his expression. “Ye’re far too young. Even if I desperately wanted to be the one to debauch ye…”
“I told you, I’m twenty-three, and I’m not a virgin. What if I wanted to be the one to debauch you?”
As the words slipped from her lips, she knew they were the truth. Knew it was time.
His chuckle turned to a little sigh, and then Thorne was pulling away. “Cheeky little brat. Whatever yer past, lad, I’ll no’ push myself on ye.”
“I want you, Thorne,” she whispered, grabbing for his hand before he could step back. She took a deep breath. “And I’m not a lad.”
Heart in her throat, Kit pressed his palm against her chest, right over her right breast, and prayed she was doing the right thing.