It was Grewin’s audacity—his disgusting entitlement, his grip, his disgusting demeanor—that had set this entire engagement into motion.
The drawing-room doors swung open precisely as Lady Mulberry finished speaking.
A hush fell over the room. The butler had entered.
“The Marquess of Grewin, my lady.”
The butler stepped aside, revealing Grewin’s unmistakable silhouette framed in the threshold.
Kitty turned her face away. Her body had gone rigid.
She heard his voice. It slithered across the room like oil on water.
“What a charming morning. How delightful to see so many lovely faces.”
Kitty stared at the floral pattern on the carpet. It swam slightly.
She turned to glance at him.
That insufferable smirk—the very same that had curled his lips when last they’d met—still played about his mouth.
The tea in Kitty’s stomach threatened to rebel.
“Do forgive my tardiness, Lady Mulberry.” He advanced with the deliberate grace of a prowling cat, his boots clicking against the parquet.
Catching Mulberry’s gloved hand, he bowed with exaggerated gallantry, pressing his lips to the kid leather just a heartbeat too long. When he straightened, his gaze locked onto Mulberry’s with fox-like intensity. “I trust I’ve not missed anything of consequence?”
A sound escaped Mulberry—half-gasp, half-giggle—as her fan fluttered like the wings of a cornered sparrow. The blush spreading beneath her powder was unmistakable, staining her cheeks the exact shade of the overripe peaches on the sideboard.
Kitty’s grip tightened around her own fan until the mother-of-pearl sticks bit into her palm.
The ivory slats of her fan creaked in protest as her thumb found the sharp edge of a carved forget-me-not. One deliberate movement—just one—and she might draw blood from her own flesh. The sting would be preferable to this… this intolerable spectacle.
She wanted to stand. To throw the nearest chair. To scream.
Grewin’s gaze flicked to hers—just for a heartbeat—but it was enough.
That smirk. That wretched, nauseating smirk. The way his lips curled, as if he’d already won some unspoken game between them. A flash of teeth, too white, too sharp. Predatory.
A dull throb began at her temples, each pulse like the strike of a tiny hammer.
Once, she would have made a scene. Once, she would have risen with venom and made it absolutely, painfully clear that she would never, ever perform so much as a syllable opposite that man.
But her eyes flicked to Eleanor.
Sweet, bright-eyed Eleanor, who was now twisting a bit of ribbon in her fingers, casting nervous glances between Kitty and Mulberry.
Eleanor stood wholly unconnected to this wretched affair. Were Kitty to react, were she to indulge in unseemly displays, the damage would extend far beyond Norman’s standing and her own fragile reputation.
Eleanor’s good name would be tarnished by association, and this thought pierced Kitty more sharply than any personal slight. An innocent caught in the crossfire of society’s unforgiving gaze— the purest casualty in their tangled drama.
Kitty’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
A tight, invisible cord pulled between her ribs. She couldn’t breathe right. She couldn’t think. There were too many voices, too much brightness, the windows letting in too much light.
“Kitty?” Eleanor’s voice, gentle. Concerned.
Kitty turned toward her, and somehow managed a smile. It felt like a paper mask.
