Kitty looked at him. “A little,” she admitted. “I was expecting some grand drama of wounded pride. Perhaps even a dramatic vow never to lose again.”
Norman sighed a small laugh. “I will admit, my pride is often quite insufferable. But today, I am content with the outcome.”
Kitty tilted her head. “And why is that?
Norman held her gaze on his, his expression unreadable. “Because,” he said, his voice softer now, “it is pleasant to see you happy.”
Eleven
The sun hovered low on the horizon, staining the sky in strokes of gold and rose as it dipped lazily behind the grove of elms. Norman stood at the edge of the lawn, one hand behind his back, the other idly swirling a glass of brandy he did not intend to finish. The soft din of conversation floated toward him—laughter, the clink of china, the rustle of blankets—and at the center of it all, he saw her.
Kitty.
Seated beside Eleanor on a patchwork quilt, her bonnet tucked beside her and her gloved hands resting delicately on her lap. She wasn’t laughing, not precisely, but her lips quirked whenever Eleanor said something amusing, and she nodded along with a polite, too-well-rehearsed interest that made his throat tighten.
She hadn’t looked at him once.
Not even when he arrived late to the gathering, having stayed back to sign off on a stack of correspondence from London. Not when he passed behind her on his way to retrieve a drink. Not even when Eleanor had shouted his name—twice, loudly, like a child trying to summon a distracted governess. Kitty had merely adjusted the fold of her skirt, as if she hadn’t heard.
Norman took another sip of his drink and scowled into the horizon.
“Well, well,” came a voice beside him. “Brooding at sunset. How very romantic of you.”
He didn’t have to turn his head to recognize Andrew’s irreverent tone. “Go away.”
“Charming.” Andrew stepped beside him, folding his arms and surveying the gathering with a lazy grin. “You do know you’re terrifying everyone. That frown makes you look like you’re plotting a duel.”
Norman remained silent. His gaze drifted once more to Kitty. She leaned toward Eleanor to whisper something, and the sound of her laughter—a real one this time—carried faintly through the warm dusk air.
Andrew gave a low whistle. “Good God, she really isn’t looking at you.”
“She’s talking to my sister.”
“And Eleanor is listening to her like Kitty is the most fascinating creature on earth.” Andrew paused, tilting his head. “Which she might be. But in your case, that’s very unfortunate.”
Norman inhaled slowly. “She’s avoiding me.”
“No! You don’t say?” Andrew feigned shock. “Whatever gave you that idea? The way she pretends you’re a decorative hedge every time you walk by?”
Norman’s hand tightened around his glass. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to help,” Andrew said brightly. “I’m here for the comedy. And possibly to watch you suffer.”
Norman shot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“Oh, immensely.” Andrew clapped him on the back. “The mighty duke, brought low by a slip of a girl with clever eyes and a spine of steel. It’s practically Shakespearean.”
“She kissed me back,” Norman muttered before he could think better of it.
Andrew blinked. Then grinned. “She did? You rogue.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Was it soft and tender, or did she try to bite you?”
Norman closed his eyes briefly. “I shouldn’t have kissed her. I told myself I wouldn’t. And now she’s punishing me by pretending I don’t exist.”
“Well, you did threaten to break her, remember?” Andrew sipped from his own glass, then said cheerfully, “In fairness, you’re doing such a good job ruining yourself.”
