And yet here it was, right in front of her. Not a fantasy, not a dream. Real.
She could imagine Jane scoffing at the scene. “A woman clinging to her husband in public—how unrefined.” But Kitty didn’t care. She was tired of refinement. Tired of pretending her heart didn’t want more than polite conversation and gloved hands at a waltz.
Watching Marina lean into her husband’s embrace, laughing at something only he could hear, Kitty felt something shift inside her.
Not jealousy—no, it was something deeper than that. A hollow kind of longing. A homesickness for a place she’d never been. A life she’d never lived.
She had not allowed herself to indulge in such fantasies for years. But memories of home pressed in upon her—London’s fresh air, the warmth of her mother’s sitting room, the rustle of silk dresses at a proper English ball. She had once dreamed of all those things.
And, all at once, she knew.
She had to go back to London.
Not because Jane was right. Not because of duty or pressure or some half-hearted idea of propriety. But because she had to find what Marina had. She had to at least try.
Somewhere out there, perhaps in a crowded ballroom or a sun-drenched garden or a dusty bookshop, was a man who would love her so fiercely he wouldn’t care what society thought of her.
Kitty raised her glass and drained it in one swallow.
“To love,” she murmured.
Marina blinked at her. “Did you say something?”
Kitty smiled faintly. “Yes. I think... I think it’s time I went home.”
Two
“Idare say, Your Grace, you have a remarkable knack for calamity.” Mr. Brown’s voice was like oil, slow-moving and unforced, wreathing the ends of his words like the curl of cigar smoke. “Are you quite sure you want to go on?”
Norman didn’t so much as blink at his creditor’s condescension.
“I must believe, Brown, that the only misfortune here is yours.” Norman’s fingers ran over the rim of his card, his expression as serene as ever. He had long since learned that displaying one’s mind at a gaming table was an open invitation to ruin.
Brown snorted, leaning back in his chair with an expression of feigned amusement. “Is that so? Shall we set the books straight, then? You arrived already in hock up to your eyeballs, and yet you have the nerve to risk what little remains of your reputation?” His lips twisted. “I must compliment your optimism, unfounded as it is.”
Norman took a slow breath in through his nostrils, ignoring the pickle of irritation along the back of his neck. He was accustomed to men like Brown—serpents, circling on the scent of desperation, of vulnerability. But he was neither vulnerable nor desperate.
“You are in error on one score, at least,” Norman breathed. He lifted the card between two fingers, paused for a heartbeat, and turned it over with a deliberate flick of his wrist. The King of Spades glared at them.
Brown’s sneer wavered, then vanished.
A silence.
Then another.
The candle flame danced as though the air itself had been disturbed.
“It would seem,” Norman allowed himself the slightest of smiles. “that fortune favors me this evening.”
Brown’s jaw tightened. He drew a harsh breath, as if to regroup, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him.
“Enjoy this moment, Your Grace,” Brown answered, his tone softer now, a whisper. “For it will be short-lived. “You may have won tonight, but a single hand at cards will not discharge your father’s debt. You owe me far more than this.”
The mention of his father’s ruin stung—a needle’s prick behind his ribs—but Norman did not flinch. A year of laboring under the old duke’s debts had hardened him. Brown’s smug insinuations were but gnats against armor—let the man sneer over the money. Norman was playing a longer game. Every pawn moved in silence—every debt would be answered.
The Dukedom of Wharton would not crawl. It would rise, even if he had to scorch the earth behind him.
Norman leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes as sharp as steel. “That debt, Brown, is not mine. You know it very well. It is time it was cleared.”
