He did not look away. That look—her crumbling under his hands—appeared to ignite something in his eyes.
“You want to destroy this marriage now?” he breathed, his head crouching even lower. His teeth grazed her nipple through the soaked chemise as his fingers pressed deep enough to cause her hips to shift toward him, craving more. She trembled, unable to respond—couldn’t do anything but go deeper into the sensation.
He drew back, his fingers playing at her entrance, but not giving her what she needed. “You do not wish to marry me?” he breathed.
She was unable to speak. She pressed against his hand instead, a silent request.
A curve of amusement drifted over his mouth. “No, no, no.”
And then—nothing.
He pushed back completely, still holding her wrists against the wall.
Her stomach dropped. How could he—how could he leave her like this?
A low, dark laugh shook in his chest. “What? You want more?”
Her hips twitched involuntarily toward him, her body betraying her.
That satisfied him.
Taking the hand that had just been between her legs, he drew his fingers to his mouth, sucking them in slowly. He savored the taste, his lids heavy as he watched her reaction.
Fire coursed through her, settling deep in her belly.
Then, his free hand slid to her throat, fingers pressing just enough to make her pulse hammer, to make the ache betweenher legs unbearable. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Stop trying to run from this marriage.”
And then—just as he had unraveled her—he let her go.
Kitty had barely time to draw breath before he stepped back, a sneering expression on his face as he took in the flushed skin of her face, the open mouth.
Then he turned around and disappeared into the hallway.
Thirteen
Norman had been awake for nearly an hour, before the sun initially dared to peek above the trees outside his window.
The darkness of the early hours had descended like dust over his rooms, only to be interrupted by the sporadic creak of floorboards or the faint whispers of servants making breakfast ready.
He had risen without rousing his valet—a rare exercise of independence that spoke volumes for his temper—and dressed quietly, the rustle of cloth abnormally loud in the stillness.
His fingers fumbled over the cravat. The first attempt pulled it too tight, the linen slicing into his throat like a rebuke. He loosened it with an irritated yank, then over-compensated—the second knot flapped loose, limp and undecided.
His reflection was a study in dissonance—the crisp lines of his waistcoat against the furrowed brow above, the polished face ofhis pocket watch against the dark circles beneath his eyes. Those eyes—their intensity so usually kept in check—were sharper this night, the blue in them almost feverish.
He pressed a hand against the glass of the mirror, as though he could rub out the giveaway marks of his sleeplessness. The cold glass snapped him back.
Systematically, he adjusted his collar. Then his cuffs. Then his collar again. The ritual usually steadied him, but today the neatness sounded forced. Outside, the first true dawn light crept over the cobblestones, golden light covering the world’s edges.
Norman stood by the window and let it come, unchanging, his reflection streaking out as the room warmed around him.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” his voice was raspier than he had anticipated.
“Your Grace? Your tea.”
He didn’t turn. “Leave it there.”
