Kitty sighed, as if his very presence exhausted her. She set down her teacup with deliberate slowness and regarded him—not flustered, but with a brittle composure that was all the more piercing for its restraint.
“I had no reason to go,” she said, her voice cool. “It would be deceitful.”
Norman frowned. “Deceitful?”
She lifted her chin, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something too quick to name. “Would you have me sit there as if everything were perfectly acceptable? As if I were delighted to become your wife, when we both know I had no say in any of it?”
His jaw tensed. He fought the instinct to retort, to tell her she was being childish again—but something in her voice, the slightest tremble beneath her words, gave him pause.
“This has nothing to do with delight,” he said, quieter now, though the edge remained. “You and I are engaged. Regardless of how we arrived here, the banns will be read, and you will be seen with me. That is not up for discussion.”
Kitty let out a hollow, mirthless laugh and turned away from him. “Yes, of course. What better way to cement this farce than to march me into a pew beside you like a prize won at auction?”
She hesitated, then added more quietly, “I was…afraid of them—of their eyes, their whispers. You cannot imagine what it is to be watched like that. Judged like that.”
That gave him pause.
She continued, softer now. “I know what they’ll say. I know how they look. I’ve seen it done to others—women who were ruined by little more than whispers. I could not bear it.”
Norman’s breath caught in his throat. It was not something he had considered—not fully. Her refusal had seemed like rebellion. He had not thought it might be fear. The image of her, small and alone in the face of a cruel congregation, crept into his mind.
He stepped closer, voice low but sure. “Let them whisper. Let them stare. They do not matter.”
Her head tilted, just slightly. She was listening.
“No one will touch you,” he said, and his voice was firmer now. “No one will dare. You are to be my wife. My duchess. I will not allow anyone to harm you—not with words, not with looks. If they have something to say, they’ll say it to me.”
She didn’t turn around, but her shoulders loosened. The tension in her spine unwound an inch.
Still, her voice was barely audible when it came. “And if it is you I fear the most?”
His chest ached—an odd, unwelcome sensation. But he met it head-on.
Norman stepped closer, his boots scraping against the floor. She stiffened, her breath catching, but she did not turn to face him. “You will dress,” he told her, his voice even and low. “And you will accompany me. Right now.”
“No.” Her fingers closed around the armrest of the chair.
“Kitty.” He leaned in close, his voice now a whisper, but heavy with threat. She yanked her gaze back to him, breath catching, lips parting but no words coming out. A flush creeped up the line of her throat, breaking over the lean curve of the neck, up to her cheeks.
He was by no means oblivious to the way her hands went stiff, as if she’d meant to touch him and had thought better of it.
That response—that unguarded reaction—was all that was needed.
“Fine.” Her voice was softer, less forceful—obedient. “I shall go get ready.”
Norman allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, but the tension in his stance did not ease. “Good.”
Kitty got up, smoothing herself once more, though still refusing to meet his gaze straight on. She walked towards the door, when Jane came just then, her eyes scanning the scene with an intensity.
“I will come with you,” Jane said, her gaze flicking between them. “Of course.”
Kitty nodded curtly and went up to change, leaving Norman alone in the drawing room.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, frustration writhing tightly within him. She was impossible.
Obstreperous beyond reason. Impulsive, never caring about what was sensible, only ever driven by feeling.
And yet, the thought made him huff a soft, incredulous laugh—at least she was intriguing.
