“It’s not him,” she lied. “It’s the absurdity of it all. Forced into a marriage neither of us wants, pretending for society’s sake?—”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Jane joined her at the window. “Come on. We have to go downstairs.”
Without another word, Kitty followed Jane out of her room, into the hallway.
Ten
Norman was waiting at the foot of the stairs, looking just as unruffled and inscrutable as ever. His eyes traveled over her, assessing, before he nodded. “You are late.”
“So I have been told,” Kitty replied, ignoring Jane’s covert elbow in the ribs.
“Come,” he said, turning away without more ado. “We are going to the yard.”
“Why?” Kitty wished to know, falling into step beside him despite herself.
“A Pall Mall match.”
Kitty almost tripped over her own feet. “Pall Mall?”
“Yes,” Norman said, glancing at her. “Surely, you know the game.”
Kitty hesitated.
She had, of course, heard of it. But she had spent a great part of her life abroad, and the opportunity to learn had never presented itself. “I… may not know it thoroughly.”
“She has never played,” Jane contributed unhelpfully.
Kitty shot her a glare.
Norman slowed his pace, then swung fully around to confront her. “You have never played Pall Mall?”
Kitty lifted her chin. “I don’t see how that is of any importance.”
“It is of great importance,” Norman smoothly returned. “I cannot have my future wife, the Duchess of Wharton, ignorant of the game. I shall teach you.”
“Oh, that is really not necessary—” Kitty began, but Jane seized the moment before she could finish.
“A splendid idea, Your Grace,” Jane said cordially. “I’m sure Miss Kitty will greatly benefit from your instructions.”
Kitty shot her a glance of sheer betrayal, but Jane merely smiled.
Norman held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Kitty placed her fingers lightly atop his with perfect decorum. “How kind of you to ask, Your Grace.” He led her to the far end of the yard, where mallets and balls were already arranged. The grass was still damp from the morning dew, and there was a slight breeze that carried the scent of wet earth and distant roses.
Norman grabbed a mallet and stood in front of her. “The game is simple. The objective is to strike the ball through the iron rings set into the ground, in as little strokes as one can. One also must navigate oneself around the course while impending one’s opposition.”
Kitty’s brow arched upward. “So, it is a game of sabotage.”
“It is a game of skill,” Norman insisted. “The first person done wins.”
Kitty glanced at the mallet in his hand. “And were one to, say, use the mallet on one’s opponent instead of the ball?”
Norman’s lips trembled, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “That would be very unsporting.” He managed to say.
“Ah. Shame.”
Norman’s chest hovered a hair’s breadth from her back as he adjusted her grip on the mallet, his presence enveloping herlike sunlight through glass—inescapable and entirely too warm. The crisp scent of his soap mingled with something darker, something inherently him that made her mouth go dry. When his fingers slid along hers to demonstrate the proper hold, the friction of his skin against hers sent an illicit thrill up her arm.
