They stared at one another, the air between them heavy, thick with unspoken violence. Norman did not move. Did not blink.
“You came here thinking I would be weak. That this marriage makes me vulnerable. That I might yield to avoid embarrassment.” Norman’s voice dropped lower, more intimate now—deadly. “But let me be clear, Mr. Brown. I would sooner see this house burn to ash than allow a coward like you to profit from my wife’s name.”
Brown licked his lips. He had the look of a man calculating his odds and not liking the result.
“You think yourself untouchable now,” he muttered.
“I know what I am. You seem to forget who you are.”
Norman turned from him then, as though the matter were done. As though Brown no longer merited his attention.
“You may leave. I’ll not have your stench in this house longer than necessary.”
But Brown lingered. Of course he did. Parasites rarely left willingly.
“One way or another, Your Grace, youwillpay. Whether it’s in coin or consequence is up to you.”
Norman did not look back. He reached for the glass of scotch on the sideboard, poured with steady hands, and spoke as though discussing the weather.
“Rutledge.”
The butler appeared so swiftly, one might think he had been waiting.
“See Mr. Brown out.”
“With pleasure, Your Grace.”
Brown’s footsteps retreated, louder than before, like an echo running from its own sound. The door clicked shut a moment later.
Norman stared into his glass. The liquid caught the light, amber and still. He brought it to his lips, letting the fire lick down his throat.
He’d known it would come to this eventually. Men like Brown didn’t vanish. They circled. They waited. They fed on weakness, the way wolves stalked the wounded.
But Norman was no wounded heir. He had been forged differently.
Let the bastard come with papers, threats, whispers in the dark. Norman would meet them all the same way—with teeth.
He thought of Kitty then. Her clear, unflinching gaze. The quiet way she carried her grief. There was something about her that settled beneath his skin—an echo of pain he recognized far too well. She was not what he had expected.
But the girl had steel. And steel recognized its kind.
If Brown thought marrying her had softened him, he had sorely miscalculated.
Norman raised his glass in a silent toast to the flames crackling in the hearth.
Kitty was not one to linger idly, but she had promised herself she would find Norman before luncheon. They needed to rehearse their scene again—the turning point of the second act—and she had practiced her lines all morning in her room, waiting for an appropriate moment to approach him.
She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him after the previous night. She had even imagined him smiling at her, perhaps teasing her softly the way he had after...
But as she wandered through the west wing, her steps slowed. It was too quiet for that time of day. Her slippers padded soundlessly over the runner, her fingers grazing the wainscoted wall as she made her way toward his studio. She had only ever seen the room from the outside, always closed, always sacred. Today, the door was slightly ajar.
She paused. Voices. Low, male. Sharp.
Curiosity was her worst sin. Her mother had always said it when Kitty was simply a child, laughing. Kitty moved closer, wanting to know what was happening inside Norman’s studio.
Something in the tone of the voices kept her still, as though her heels had sunk into the floorboards.
“A woman like that comes with an impressive dowry,” said a voice she didn’t recognize—polite, but edged with menace. “In fact... I dare say I ought to be compensated for thedelayin payment. A duke dragging his heels—shocking business. I believe double the sum would be just enough.”
