Eighteen
“Good morning, Miss McGowan,” a woman’s voice trilled, its practiced cheerfulness slicing through the morning air like a silver bell.
Kitty stepped lightly down the staircase, her skirts brushing against the polished wood as sunlight streaked through the tall windows, gilding the banisters in gold.
“Why, good morning indeed!” The words leapt from Kitty’s lips before she could temper them, her laughter spilling over like champagne fizz.
She felt the faintest shimmer of delight in her chest, like the tremble of harp strings before the music began.
Today was the day. Rehearsals. With Norman.
She reached the drawing room earlier than anyone else, her pulse quickening with each step closer. The room was bathed insoft morning light, the scent of lavender polish lingering in the air.
She paused on the threshold, expecting to see him by the pianoforte or perhaps leaning against the fireplace with that ever-watchful look in his eyes.
But the room was empty.
Her shoes made a quiet tap as she crossed to the settee and sat down, smoothing her skirts over her knees, trying to tame the sudden fluttering in her stomach. Any moment now, surely. He must simply be late. She laced her fingers in her lap and watched the long shadows cast by the rose-draped windows crawl across the floor.
A footman entered. Then another servant. Then, gradually, the rest of the household began to trickle in. Eleanor offered her a gentle smile as she came in with a cluster of young ladies who chattered about the weather and breakfast. Mulberry swept in last, draped in pale green and smelling faintly of crushed mint.
But no Norman. Not yet.
Kitty sat still, her back straight, her face composed. But the tiny tremor in her hand betrayed her. Her chest felt like it had caved inward slightly, like her ribs had folded themselves tight around her heart.
She glanced at the clock. Rehearsals were meant to begin a quarter hour ago.
Still no sign of him.
She pressed her palms to her knees, willing herself not to look too often at the door. Her mind ran in cruel circles. Perhaps he had forgotten. Perhaps he had grown tired of her. Perhaps he regretted everything.
She didn’t see Mulberry approach until she was already at her side.
“How terribly unfortunate,” Mulberry said, with a voice wrapped in silk and something sharper beneath. “It seems His Grace must have had a change of heart.”
Kitty turned her head, slowly.
Mulberry gave her a smile so slight it was nearly invisible. “Or perhaps he simply finds this little farce too tedious to bother with. Not everyone is born for the stage, I suppose.”
There was laughter behind Mulberry’s eyes, though her lips remained demure. Kitty’s mouth went dry.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t trust herself to.
Mulberry stepped forward to address the room, her voice projecting effortlessly. “As it stands, it appears we are in need of a new leading man. A most dreadful inconvenience. But I took the liberty of inviting another gentleman who may yet save our humble production.”
Kitty blinked.
How convenient for Lady Mulberry.
Mulberry continued, her smile widening as she savored the moment. “You may all be pleased to hear that the Marquess of Grewin will be joining us shortly.”
The air left Kitty’s lungs in a rush. It was not visible, not audible, but she felt herself collapse inward. Like her body remained upright while everything inside recoiled violently.
Her skin prickled. Not from the chill in the air—but from memory. The gravel beneath her slippers. The scent of roses crushed underfoot. Grewin’s fingertip beneath her chin. The darkness of the courtyard closing in around her.
And Norman, arriving just in time. Just in time to stop him.
Where is he?
