After a moment of quiet contemplation, and several critical glances in the mirror, he finally deemed himself appropriate for the meeting he had planned for the day.
He finally left his room, the click of the closing door echoing softly behind him, walking toward his studio, his footsteps muffled by the rug in the hallway.
He reached the solid oak doors, their dark grain worn smooth by years of use, the faint scent of beeswax clinging to their surface.
He placed his hand on the cool wood, feeling its weight before pushing them open, the hinges groaning slightly in protest, revealing the space beyond, and stepped inside, the familiar aroma of turpentine and clay washing over him.
The studio was already warm when he stepped inside. The light from the east-facing windows painted long amber bars across the wooden floor.
He sat at his desk, ready to confront the numbers.
Norman had summoned his solicitor two days prior. He hadn’t expected to feel this… disoriented when the day arrived. But then again, he hadn’t expectedlast night.
Kitty.
He forced himself to walk to the far side of the room, where the hearth was cold and a tray of untouched breakfast rested on a low table.
He could not stomach any of it.
His mouth still remembered the taste of her.
He was pouring himself a second cup of tea—more steaming than he usually preferred—when a knock came.
“Come in,” he called, trying for a steady tone.
The door opened to reveal Mr. Wrenley, his solicitor, a thin man with gray sideburns and an efficient gait, carrying a satchel overflowing with parchment and ledgers.
“Good morning, Your Grace. I trust you’re well?”
Norman gestured toward the table by the window, the space he reserved for anything involving ink and reality.
“As well as one can be before breakfast and numbers.” He placed his cup on the table with a clink. “Sit, Wrenley. Let’s begin.”
The man chuckled politely, settled himself, and set down his satchel with a groan as if the burden had grown heavier since their last meeting. He began to extract documents with the air of someone who preferred paper to people.
Norman settled into the chair opposite, his posture too upright, his hands restless against the arms.
“To begin,” Wrenley said, licking his thumb before flipping through the first folder, “we must address your portfolio—particularly the impact of the Southport shipping venture, which has not yielded the returns initially projected.”
Norman nodded once. He heard the words. He knew their meaning. But the moment Wrenley started with figures and percentages, Norman’s focus buckled.
He shouldn’t have kissed her to begin with. That was the truth of it.
But he had—he’d done it against all reason.
He had overestimated his ability to control himself.
And now, not only had he kissed her—he hadtouchedher, dragged her into something hot and bewildering, something impulsive and dangerous. It was supposed to be discipline, a reminder that he would not be trifled with.
She was reckless, infuriating, entirely too smart for her own good. She was also his betrothed. An arrangement, not a romance.
Yet somehow, in the rage of one simple moment, he had crossed a dangerous boundary he should never have even fantasized about.
It had felt like something else entirely.
“…of course, the sale of your Liverpool property has offset a portion of those losses,” Wrenley was saying, pointing to a line of numbers in neat, cramped script.
Norman blinked. “Yes. Right. Go on.”
