“Leave her alone,” a strong voice demanded.
The duke.
Grewin looked up—and froze.
The duke stood a few paces away, broad-shouldered and rigid with fury, fists clenched at his sides. No drawl, no civility—only cold, contained violence.
Kitty barely had time to react before he closed the distance and seized Grewin by the front of his coat and yanked him back, hard enough to make the man stumble.
“She told you no,” the duke said through gritted teeth.
“Easy, Your Grace,” Grewin said, laughing without mirth as he straightened. “Must we play heroes now?”
His Grace answered with his fist.
It landed cleanly across Grewin’s jaw. The sound cracked through the garden like a snapped branch. Grewin staggered, one hand to his face. “Playing the knight, are we?”
“Don’t touch her again,” the duke growled, holding Grewin by the collar.
Grewin sneered through bloodied lips, but the fight had gone out of him. “Fine. Take your prize,” he spat, yanking himself free.
He straightened his coat with a wince and disappeared into the light of the ballroom, shoulders stiff, and one hand pressed to his side.
The garden fell silent again.
The duke turned to Kitty, chest rising with each breath.
Kitty pressed a trembling hand to her throat, heart still pounding. The scent of crushed roses and damp earth clung to the air. She looked up at him—at the man who had just defended her without hesitation—and something shifted in her chest, quiet but certain.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Kitty exhaled slowly, just then becoming aware she had been holding her breath.
He offered a slight bow, his voice low. “Norman Egerton, Duke of Wharton.”
Kitty blinked, dazed. She’d had quite enough introductions for one evening.
Norman repeated, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Are you alright?”
The question—so unexpectedly gentle—caught her off guard. Kitty looked up at him, her earlier indignation dissolving into something far more dangerous: warmth.
“I—yes,” she managed, suddenly hyperaware of how close he stood. “Thank you. For intervening.”
He studied her for a moment before his mouth quirked. “You’ve certainly made your presence known this evening.”
She should have bristled. Instead, her pulse fluttered. “Was that a compliment?”
“An observation,” he corrected, though his eyes held amusement. “What were you doing, setting out on your own? You were seconds from disaster.”
Disaster. The word should have chilled her. But with Norman’s steady attention on her, all she felt was an odd, giddy relief.
“I suppose I owe you a debt, then,” she said, tilting her chin up. “Though I was handling it.”
“Were you?” His smirk was infuriating. And unfairly handsome. “Because from where I stood, you were one misplaced step from scandal.”
She huffed, but there was no real heat in it. “And you’re an expert on scandal, Your Grace?”
He leaned in slightly, just enough that her breath hitched. “I’m an expert on recklessness. And you, Miss Katherine, are amenace.”
