She felt everything. Every touch, every sound, every soft curse he breathed into her skin. She felt herself unraveling beneath him, piece by piece, until all that remained was the way he made her feel.
Seen. Desired. Loved.
When release finally erupted from her, it did so with startling force. Her back arched, a cry escaping her before she could stopit. He followed moments later, his body trembling against hers, her name on his lips like a vow.
They lay in silence after, bodies tangled, skin slick with sweat. Her heart beat wildly against his chest.
Norman shifted to prop himself on one elbow, brushing damp hair from her forehead. His gaze was soft now, the tension that so often shaped him entirely gone.
“Are you alright?”
Kitty nodded, dazed and dizzy in the best possible way.
“I don’t regret it,” she whispered.
His hand curled around hers as he gave her a soft smile. “Neither do I.”
And for a while, there was no world beyond the warm weight of his body beside hers, no storm outside the windows or fears waiting beyond the door. There was only the hush of breath between them, and the long-awaited peace that came when two people stopped pretending they didn’t belong to each other.
Twenty-One
The morning light filtered weakly through the tall windows of Wharton House, casting long slashes of pale gold across the stone floor. Outside, the guests had already begun their relentless stir—the clatter of hooves, the creak of wheels, the loud laughter that seemed to come from the gardens.
Inside his studio, however, silence reigned. It was a silence Norman had come to savor—it answered only to him.
He stood before the hearth, his back to the room, sleeves rolled to the forearm, a black waistcoat stretched taut over his broad frame. The fire had burned low, but he had not asked for more wood.
He had preferred the chill this morning. The cold bit at the edges of his skin, reminding him he was awake. Alive. Present.
The memory of what had happened last night between him and Kitty consumed him with burning fire—the silk of her skinbeneath his hands, the crush of her rosy lips, the way her body had trembled under his. The images played behind his eyelids on relentless repeat, seared into his mind. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t purge the ghost of her touch.
“Your Grace.” Norman turned slightly at the weak voice behind him, breaking him from his thoughts.
Rutledge, ever grave, stood in the doorway, chin inclined. “You have a visitor,” he continued. “He did not send a card.”
Norman’s brow lifted in confusion. Who else could it be? Surely no more visitors were coming—he’d already received everyone expected.
“Name?” he asked, his voice raspy.
“Brown, Your Grace. A Mr. Brown.”
Ah. Of course. It was inevitable. Brown had the persistence of a bloodhound and the patience of a spider—always waiting, always finding him, no matter where he fled.
Norman turned back to the fire, his jaw hardening.
“Send him in.”
Rutledge’s expression betrayed nothing, but Norman did not miss the brief pause before he inclined his head and disappeareddown the hall. The butler clearly disliked Brown. Well, that made two of them.
Norman did not move as footsteps echoed faintly against the marble floor, then grew louder. He knew the cadence of Brown’s walk—short, hurried steps, like a man always chasing something just out of reach. Money, mostly.
“Your Grace,” came the oily voice. “A pleasure to see you again. May I congratulate you on your most recent... success?”
Norman turned slowly, letting his gaze settle on the man now standing at the threshold like a rat who’d found a way into the pantry. Brown was dressed like a man who had only recently discovered tailoring, and his smile was thin and stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.
“Success?” Norman asked coolly, not moving from the hearth, studying him.
Brown stepped forward, emboldened. “Why, the engagement, of course. The lovely Miss McGowan. Or should I say the Duchess of Wharton now?”
