Norman appeared in the doorway, his presence commanding an immediate, almost tangible change.
The air seemed to still, the tension thickening as all eyes turned to him. His tall, broad-shouldered frame filled the space, his expression unreadable but his energy unmistakable—quiet, controlled, and utterly commanding. Even Lady Mulberry, momentarily silenced, seemed to recalibrate her next move under the weight of his gaze.
“I’ve spoken to the parish priest,” he announced. “The wedding shall take place in three weeks, at my country house’s parish.”
Kitty’s breath froze.
“No,” she breathed, barely above a whisper.
She’d returned to London to find a match, yes—but one ofherchoosing, one built on tender courtship and mutual regard, not some cold transaction forced upon her by a man who’d seen her at her most vulnerable.
“Yes,” Norman said, unmoving. “It’s done.”
Kitty spun around him, her pulse racing. “You can’t just make this decision!”
And yet?—
The memory of Norman’s hands steadying her in the garden flashed unbidden—the heat of his grip, the low timbre of his voice as he’d demanded Grewin unhand her. Her skin prickled traitorously at the recollection.
“I can, and I have,” he answered, his voice even but with unshakable resolve as he moved towards her, each step slow and deliberate.
“You have no right?—”
“I have every right,” Norman cut her off, his eyes darkening. “I saw you. I held you. I know what I saw.”
Oh God.The way he said held—as if he’d memorized the shape of her beneath his palms. Her face burned, but worse, a treacherous warmth pooled low in her belly. She hated it. Hated him for making her feel it.
Her face grew hot. “You?—”
“This isn’t only about you, Miss McGowan.” His tone was gentler now, but no less determined. “Eleanor can’t have a brother who ruins a lady and doesn’t marry her. Believe me, I want this marriage less than you. I do not wish to have a love connection. But I have duties, which I must fulfill.”
Kitty breathed quickly, shaking her head.
This wasn’t happening.
The drawing room of Foxdrey House was drenched in late-afternoon sunlight when Norman stepped through its tall double doors. The air carried the faint scent of old books and sandalwood, a lingering relic of its usual occupant.
“You’re late,” came a voice from the window seat, where Andrew Pasley, Duke of Foxdrey,—and Norman’s most beloved cousin, reclined with the easy grace of a man who had never taken anything seriously in his life.
Norman shut the door behind him, his boots clicking softly against the polished oak floor. “I had business to attend to.”
Andrew arched a brow, tossing a grape into his mouth. “What sort of business requires the presence of His Grace, Duke of Doom, in the middle of a perfectly agreeable Thursday afternoon?”
Norman crossed to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy. He took a sip before replying, eyes fixed on the cut crystal. “I’m getting married.”
The room fell silent.
Andrew blinked once. Then twice.
Then, he started laughing. A deep, rich sound burst from his chest, echoing through the room with such unexpected mirth that even the candles seemed to flicker in surprise. His shoulders shook slightly as he dragged a hand down his face, fingers catching on the grin that refused to fade.
“To whom? The Queen? A duchess from some forgotten Bavarian province? Surely not someone alive.”
The laughter continued, rolling from him in waves. His amusement filled the space between them, bright and unguarded in Andrew’s typical way.
Norman smirked faintly but didn’t rise to the bait. “Miss Katherine McGowan.”
Andrew choked. “Miss—Miss Continent? That one? The one who just returned from her lifelong travels?”
