He picked up another mallet from the ground, positioned a ball in front of him, and began again. “Now, watch. You aim like this, keeping your stance firm, and—” His mallet struck the ball, sending it straight through one of the hoops.
“How thrilling,” she was watching him through lowered lashes as he demonstrated the stroke—the way his shoulders flexed beneath his coat, the precise control of his wrists. A traitorous warmth pooled low in her belly, and she quickly schooled her expression into one of bored amusement.
Norman exhaled slowly. “Would you prefer a lesson in fencing instead?”
Kitty’s head lifted. “Oh, infinitely. Do you have swords?”
“No,” he said, deadpan. “And you are playing Pall Mall.”
Kitty sighed. “Very well then.
“You can dislike it,” Norman said, turning away. “Just so long as you win.”
Kitty’s face creased in a frown. “That doesn’t sound very sporting.”
“Ah? So, then you’d rather do it yourself instead of merely being a most attentive listener?” Norman’s voice had the slightest edge of testiness, though there was still a twinkle in his eyes.
This is absurd,she thought,gripping the mallet too tightly. He’s just a man. A frustrating, arrogant, impossibly handsome man.
Kitty tilted her head to one side, buying time to steady herself from the emotions stirring inside her. “Well, I should hate to rob you of the pleasure of expounding further, but since you do make such a thing of it…”
She raised the mallet with practiced grace, looking for all the world like a model pupil—until her swing sent her ball careening directly into Lord Huxley’s, knocking his polished wooden sphere into the shrubbery with a most satisfying thwack.
“Miss McGowan,” Norman sighed through his nose as the older gentleman sputtered indignantly.
Kitty blinked up at him with angelic innocence. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“That was?—”
“Perfectly within the rules,” she finished sweetly, leaning in to whisper behind her fan. “Lord Huxley was leading by two hoops. Really, you ought to thank me.” The scent of him as she neared his ear made her pulse stutter, but she forced herself to pull away with a conspiratorial glint in her eye.
Norman’s jaw worked. “Your grasp of strategy is... unsettling.”
“Why, Your Grace!” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m simply applying your own lesson—one must politely discourage one’s opposition.” Her next swing sent another opponent’s ball veering off course, this time with surgical precision.
Shocked murmurs rippled through the party. Eleanor bit her lip to suppress a giggle.
Norman massaged his temple. “I said discourage, not declare war.”
Kitty twirled her mallet idly. “Then perhaps you ought to demonstrate this fabled subtlety of yours.” She nodded toward Lord Pembroke, who was lining up a winning shot. “That is, unless you’d prefer to…lose?”
The choked sound Norman made—somewhere between outrage and reluctant amusement—sent triumph curling through her. When he stepped closer to adjust her grip—his breath hot on her neck as he growled—she decided pall mall might just be her new favorite game.
“Kitty.” His voice was all patience and entirely no patience at all.
“Yes?” she turned her head and flashed him a wide smile.
Kitty’s breath shallowed as Norman’s blue eyes tracked her movements with unnerving precision. That gaze—sharp as cut glass and just as transparent—seemed to peel back every carefully constructed layer of her nonchalance.
His attention wasn’t merely observation; it was assessment. As if he could see the frantic rhythm of her thoughts, how she’d lain awake replaying their kiss, how the scent of him clung to her memory like perfume. The realization made her fingers tighten around the mallet handle.
Her mallet struck the ball with a little too much zest, sending it flying—not just across the lawn, but way out of the house’s bounds.
Silence.
Then Norman let out a breath through his teeth. “Just…splendid.”
Kitty winced. “I think I may have hit that one too hard.”
