“And as it stands now, Your Grace,” said Mr. Wrenley, peering over his spectacles with the proud air of a man who bore good tidings, “the final dividends from the railway shares came in just yesterday.”
The words finally pierced through the fog.
“Given the current state of your portfolio and the successful liquidation of those shipping bonds, I dare say you’ll be rid of Mr. Brown and his frightful demands by the end of the month.”
The solicitor’s voice held the sharp clip of finality, but for a moment Norman only blinked at him, as though the words were a foreign tongue.
“Come again?” he said, his voice quieter than expected.
Wrenley adjusted his papers with immense care, slipping them in his bag slowly, one by one. “You’re in the clear, Your Grace. Not flush with riches, not yet, but out of danger.”
Norman’s breath left his lungs slowly.
Relief arrived not as a loud exhale but as a gradual uncoiling in his shoulders, a sense of weight shifting off his chest. He leaned back in his chair and let his head fall against the leather rest.
“Thank God,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Wrenley chuckled softly. “Indeed. Though I would advise we keep up with the current pace. We’ve only just pulled ahead.”
Norman nodded vaguely, already rising to his feet. Gratitude coursed through him, warm and raw, and he extended his hand. “Thank you, Wrenley. Truly.”
They exchanged a few more words, perfunctory and cordial, and then Norman escorted the man to the front door, exchanging a few more pleasantries while sunlight poured through the tall windows of the front hall.
When the door finally shut behind the solicitor, Norman lingered a moment longer in the silence of the house. The air felt lighter, as if the place had exhaled with him.
He made his way back to his studio.
The door clicked shut behind him, and he sat heavily in his chair, as though his legs could no longer bear the weight of all he now felt.
Relief, yes. A grand swell of it. But alongside it, something darker. Quieter. Less welcome.
For months he had lived beneath the looming specter of Brown—Brown with his cunning eyes and his leering promises and his threats cloaked as suggestions. The debt had hung over Norman’s household like a storm cloud, and the thought of Eleanor—dear, gentle Eleanor—being dragged into ruin by his father’s mistakes and his own incapability had nearly hollowed him out.
But now… now there was hope.
He could see the path clearly again. Brown would be dealt with before the month was out. Eleanor could have the Season she’d dreamed of since she was a child, the ballgowns and the dancing and the dainty gloves and everything a girl like her should have. He would make sure of it.
He would be free to arrange the wedding, to pay the vendors, to write the letters, to assure Kitty?—
Kitty.
He closed his eyes.
The thought of her hit him again, like a gust of cold wind. And with it came the memory of the night before, unfolding before his eyes.
Her soft breath. The sound she made when he’d touched her. The shock in her eyes that melted slowly—painfully—into something else. Something that had made his blood turn molten.
He opened his eyes quickly and stood, as if the sheer act of movement might shake the thoughts away.
It had been a mistake. He knew it the moment his lips had pressed to hers. A terrible, selfish, reckless thing. What had he even intended? To prove a point? To assert some measure of power over her?
No. He had wanted her.
And that was the most damning part of all. He had wanted her so badly he’d lost sight of what was proper, of what was wise. It had begun with discipline, a lesson meant to restore order, and it had ended with him nearly begging for the taste of her mouth.
He dragged a hand through his hair and paced to the far end of the studio, then back again.
She drove him mad. Every expression, every sharp-tongued deflection, every moment she flinched from him—it all settled beneath his skin like splinters. But he had begun to notice the other things, too. The faint tremble in her breath when she was caught off guard. The way her hands moved when she wasn’t thinking, like she didn’t know what to do with them. And that strange kind of courage she wielded, even when she clearly wanted to be anywhere else.
