“Then do,” she whispered, because he had wounded her pride more than she’d like to admit, and she’d rather be the one to turn than be left again. “You already have—all morning.”
“No,” he agreed, voice tight. “I won’t.”
He reached out. She couldn’t say who moved first—only that suddenly his hand was cupping her jaw and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t polished or patient or practiced. It was breathless and raw and entirely too real, and it melted her bones from the inside out. Her mind, ever ready with cleverness, emptied entirely.
She was vaguely aware that her hands had gripped the front of his coat, pulling him closer, even as her head screamed at her to stop this—this thing that wasn’t supposed to happen.
Because it wasn’t supposed to. Because she wasn’t supposed to feel like this—so hot and cold and stunned and furious and wanted and utterly terrified.
But Norman was kissing her like he’d been waiting to do it forever.
And Kitty… Kitty let him.
His mouth moved against hers with a tension that seemed to war between hunger and hesitation, as though even now he didn’t quite believe it was allowed. The scratch of his stubble brushed her skin, and his hand slid around to the back of her neck.
He held her like a secret, one he was too afraid to say aloud.
Then, suddenly—too suddenly—he pulled away.
Kitty blinked, dazed, her lips tingling. Her fingers were still curled in his coat, and she felt the ragged rise and fall of his chest beneath her palms.
“This is wrong,” Norman said, voice hoarse. His expression had shuttered back into sternness, but there was something behind it—panic? grief? Shame?
Kitty stepped back, and the cold air rushed into the space he left behind. “I see,” she said, even though she didn’t. Her tone was cool, distant, and she hated herself for it. “Is this where you remind me that our marriage is meant to be in name only?”
His eyes closed for a moment, jaw flexing. “What we did yesterday—what just happened—it shouldn’t have.”
Kitty’s stomach dropped. She felt like someone had poured ink into her chest, dark and spreading.
“I thought—I thought you wanted—” She stopped herself and shook her head, cheeks burning. She shouldn’t have admitted even that much. “Never mind. You’ve made yourself clear.”
Norman’s brows drew together, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Kitty?—”
“No,” she cut in, the bitter taste rising in her mouth before she could stop it. “Do you regret it? Last night? Kissing me now? Was it all some misplaced sense of chivalry?”
His face twisted. “That isn’t what I said.”
“You said it was wrong.”
“Itiswrong,” he snapped, though there was no heat to it. “You deserve better than to be toyed with. I didn’t mean to?—”
“Towhat?” she demanded. “To make me feel like I was finally seen, only to withdraw the moment it frightened you?”
The color in his face darkened slightly. She couldn’t tell if it was anger or embarrassment, but she didn’t care. She was spiraling now, fury a thin veil over her aching pride.
“Or is this about Cynthia?” she continued. “Is she more suitable for this arrangement after all? You know, to carry on your family’s precious legacy, as your father would have wanted?”
She didn’t truly believe her own words but saying them aloud made the anger feel real—solid enough to grip onto while everything else spun around her. She squeezed her eyes shut for just a moment, willing the dizziness to pass.
Norman stepped toward her again, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “This has nothing to do with Cynthia.”
“You say that, but the man who kissed me isn’t standing here now.”
He said nothing.
Silence.
