The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Norman stood rooted in place, his hands still trembling from rage. His chest heaved, but he refused to let himself fall apart. Not here. Not in front of them.
His gaze swept the room, the same way a hawk scans a field before descending on prey. Most couldn’t meet his eyes. Some looked at their feet. One woman near the door clutched her pearls, visibly shaken.
“My apologies,” Norman said curtly. His voice was clipped, stripped of warmth. “That scene was not part of tonight’s entertainment.”
A few murmurs rose and died quickly.
“Lady Mulberry,” he said, without looking at her. “We’ll speak. Now.”
She was pale as a sheet, and shaking like a leaf in the wind. She nodded quickly and followed without a word as Norman turned and strode out of the room, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug crescent moons into his palms.
His footsteps rang through the halls. Cold marble, colder rage. He didn’t stop until he reached the door to his studio. The one place in the house untouched by farce.
The sound of Mulberry’s heels behind him confirmed she’d kept up. Good. She had some sense left in her.
Norman opened the door and entered the room, the familiar scent of leather-bound books and ink washing over him like a balm—but it did nothing to ease the fire still roaring in his gut. He stood at the center of the room, staring at the hearth without lighting it, his back to her.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
Let her sweat.
Let her realize just how deep she’d sunk them both.
The door clicked shut behind her with the quiet finality of a guillotine.
The room stood frigid, the hearth’s fire having long since surrendered to ashes—but Norman burned from within.
Before him, the table lay strewn with papers in chaotic disarray, exactly as he’d abandoned them during his earlier futile attempts to work. Inkwells stood uncorked, quills snapped mid-sentence, all evidence of a mind too agitated to focus on ledgers and correspondence when far more volatile matters demanded resolution.
He paced before it, his hands still trembling, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. Lady Mulberry stood by the door, frozen like a misbehaving child awaiting punishment, clutching her lace-trimmed shawl tightly across her chest as though it could shield her from what was coming.
“Sit,” Norman said, his voice gravel. Not loud, but dangerously low.
She scrambled for the nearest chair, the legs scraping sharply against the floor as she dragged it back. She sat with a rustling sweep of skirts, spine stiff, mouth tight.
Norman dragged his own chair opposite her and sat slowly, the act an effort in restraint. His hands balled into fists against his thighs. He stared at her. Not blinking.
With measured breaths, he attempted to master his rising temper.
A gentleman might overlook many slights, but to countenance such malice toward an innocent—and toward Kitty in particular—struck at his very foundation.
Lady Mulberry would learn. However silvered her hair, however frail her frame, she would learn that even a grandson’s patience had its limits.
“What,” he asked at last, his voice deceptively calm, “are youdoing?”
“I—I’m not doing anything,” she said too quickly, her voice a thin, brittle thread. “I only?—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped.
The room cracked with his voice. Lady Mulberry flinched so hard her hand flew to her chest, her eyes wide.
“Don’t youdarelie to me. Youinvitedhim. YouinvitedGrewin. Why?”
Lady Mulberry swallowed hard. Her lips moved before words formed, her gaze flickering to the bookshelves, the ceiling, anywhere but his face. “I simply… I thought it was odd, that’s all. That you hadn’t invited him yourself. He’s of our circle, our rank. It seemed…”
Norman surged from his chair.
