“Your Grace,” he started, but his voice cracked as Norman grasped the door of the carriage and pulled himself in without a word. He shut the door more forcefully than necessary and knocked on the panel to direct the driver.
“McGowan house,” he ordered.
The carriage lurched forward, and Norman leaned back in his seat, drawing slow breath in through his nose, running a hand over his face as the weight of his situation settled over him.
His sister. His debts. His imminent marriage.
And now, an engagement party he had no business throwing but was expected to host. The Egerton name carried expectations, and the moment word had spread of his betrothal, the invitations had practically written themselves.
He exhaled sharply, raking his fingers through his hair.
And yet, amidst the turmoil of it all, his thoughts kept circling back to her.
Kitty McGowan.
Utterly unpredictable, stubborn beyond reason, and, frankly, a little strange.
He should be frustrated. He was frustrated—this entire situation defied logic and upended his carefully ordered world. Yet beneath the simmering irritation, beneath the rigid discipline that had governed every decision of his adult life, something foreign stirred.
Norman shut his eyes, only for a vision of her to resurface. The way her chest had risen and fallen in rapid breaths when she stood before him earlier. The fire in her eyes...
God help him.
His jaw tightened.
Whatever this was, he would master it. Control it. He had no time to be distracted by an infatuation, no matter how tempting she was.
The engagement was a necessity. Nothing more.
Three weeks.
Three weeks until she became his wife.
The road jolted beneath the carriage wheels, pulling Norman from his thoughts. He reminded himself why he was here.
Does she think she can avoid me? That by hiding—by not attending—she can delay the inevitable?
But Norman had no patience for unreasonable delays. He was not interested in games, either.
The carriage slowed as they approached the McGowan residence, its tall stone front rising before them.
Norman sat up straight, rolling his shoulders once before rapping smartly on the carriage roof. A moment later, it came to a halt, and he stepped outside without pause, boots thudding into the ground with purpose.
He shrugged his coat into place, his gaze flicking briefly to the front windows of the house. The curtains didn’t move. No sign of her.
Good. Let her be caught off guard.
He mounted the stairs at a slow, determined pace and thumped his fist against the door. Once. Twice. A pause.
Then the door groaned open, and he was face to face with a shocked maid who immediately turned white at the vision of him.
“Tell Miss McGowan that her betrothed has arrived,” Norman said quietly.
Norman did not wait to be called. He charged through the front door of the McGowan house, his boots pounding against the highly polished floors with purpose, and he did not stop until he reached the drawing room.
There she sat, just as he expected to find her—Kitty, by the window, sipping her tea as if she had not just turned his entire morning upside down. The audacity.
“What in the devil are you doing here?” he snarled, his temper barely kept under control. “Why aren’t you at church?”
