“The same.”
“And why, in the name of God, are you doing such a thing?”
Norman took a seat across from him and leaned back, brandy in hand. “Because I was caught with her. In the gardens. After fending off Grewin from her.”
Andrew’s smirk faded. “You fought Grewin?”
“He tried to force himself on her. I intervened. And unfortunately, half the ton seemed to be within eyesight the moment I helped her up. Her father arrived. You can imagine the rest.”
Andrew whistled low. “And now you must marry the girl to preserve her reputation. You do know that sounds remarkably like the beginning of a farce?”
Norman didn’t smile. “It’s done. The banns will be read within the week.”
Andrew sprawled deeper into the cushions, studying him. “Well, this is unexpected. I thought if you ever married, it would be to some frigid lady of rank, the sort with icicles for lashes and a heart for property acquisition.”
Norman drained his glass and set it aside. “I never intended to marry at all.”
Andrew gave him a mock look of astonishment. “How come you agreed to marry that girl? It cannot be simply duty.”
Norman drained his glass and set it aside. “It was the right thing to do.”
Andrew raised a brow. “So you find Miss McGowan tolerable, then?”
Norman hesitated.
Images flashed unbidden behind his eyes—the gleam of Kitty’s dark brown hair in the moonlight, the defiant tilt of her chin, the way her voice trembled but didn’t break when she stood her ground. The rage he’d felt at Grewin, and the sick twist in his gut when he saw her frightened.
“She’s... spirited.” Norman finally spoke.
“That means beautiful,” Andrew grinned. “You like her, don’t you?”
Norman shot him a look. “It means she is not dull. I appreciate intelligence in a woman.”
“Ah yes, because your bed will be so enlivened by chess.”
Norman rose and paced to the hearth. He stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the dying embers though there was no fire lit.
“It will be a marriage in name only,” he said at last.
Andrew straightened, losing some of his usual levity. “Does she know that?”
“Not yet.”
“You intend to tell her?”
“When the time is right.”
Andrew studied his cousin quietly. “You sound as though you’re trying to protect her. From yourself?”
Norman remained silent. The truth of Andrew’s words settled between them like dust motes in a sunbeam—undeniable, yet too frail to grasp. There was no time to dwell on what might have been with Kitty under different circumstances, no luxury to entertain impossible fantasies. Duty carved its demands into his bones with familiar precision that being the Duke of Wharton required. He must uphold centuries of tradition, and armor their honor against any stain.
A clock ticked somewhere in the room.
“I saw what love did to my father,” he said eventually, voice low. “When my mother died, he withered into a shadow. He was the strongest man I knew, and she brought him to his knees.”
He looked down, jaw tight. “He loved her so deeply he stopped living after she was gone. I remember standing at his bedside as he wasted away, month after month. So much grief.”
It was that grief that blinded him—led him into reckless investments, desperate wagers. He thought he could rebuild something, maybe feel alive again. But all it did was ruin him.
